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PEDRO PASCAL as EZRA
Prospect (2018) dir. Zeek Earl & Chris Caldwell
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reread my beloved vamp today and had just as much of a blast as the first time I read it all 😌
he is an INNOCENT BABY. a baby who is hundreds of years old, and forgot how to people along the way, but he is INNOCENT.
stay awake - vampire joel masterlist.
vampire!joel miller x f!reader, no schedule
WARNINGS: I8+, kidnapping, dubcon via captivity, a variety of erotic acts, dark fluff
official spotify playlist - i really like this one
main series
The special one
First few days (flashback, Joel POV)
Let me stay awake
Don't have to wait
Take me out
imagines, HCs, hypotheticals, misc.
not knowing how to care for you
if he gave you a collar
if he was an exorcist in the 1600s
if you got a nosebleed in public
joel inviting you to sleep in his room
librarian oc mood: misty quigley edits list
art, edits, etc.
academia style edit by @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog
vampyre gif collage by @iamasaddie
lock screen by @gasolinerainbowpuddles
text messages edit, alley edit, special one collage and brothel edits by gasolinerainbowpuddles
vampire's room by gasolinerainbowpuddles
text messages edit by puddles
collage by @iamasaddie
✨mood board by @milla-frenchy
✨mood board by @xdaddysprincessxx
tysm for your creations 🖤 if I've left something off, please shoot me the link or image.
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Cooper Howard | Sitting like a wh*re
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I can't be trusted to speak right now, it might come out as a scream.
all I can think about now is someone telling Dieter to go fuck himself and he takes it sincerely and says "thank you, I will 😌"
just a touch
Dieter Bravo (x afab!reader)
980 words
warnings: m masturbation, afab!reader mentioned, writer Dieter being horny af, unedited.
Does anyone else ever spend all their day thinking about...
Dieter Bravo jerking off.
About how he draws it out for hours because he loves to be teased, even if he's teasing himself. He'll watch something filthy (he's got a great selection of porn, some homemade) or look at those nudes you sent him. But he refuses to touch himself the whole time, as he gets harder and more desperate for it.
He likes the luxury of getting off in bed, on his expensive soft sheets, or in the shower with the warm water running all over his body. He gets really sensitive the longer he holds off, so he'll give it as long as he possibly can. If he really wants to drive himself crazy, he'll force himself to go do something else after getting all turned on from whatever he chose to watch - something super mundane like read his many emails, or tidy up whatever mess was left out last night.
Usually though, he'll go to the big full length mirror in his bedroom, slowly take his clothes off, appreciate his own body. He spent a long time struggling with his body image, but nowadays he loves what he sees. His broad chest, the softness of his tummy, and then the bulge in his pants before he slowly peels them off. He's never been anything but proud of his dick. As far as cocks go he's got a pretty one, everyone always says it. He's still not touching it, not now as he appreciates the view of it in the mirror. His hands might come close, as his fingers softly feel their way around his own body, mapping paths you've taken as you've explored him yourself. He'll play with his nipples, pinch at the sensitive parts of his torso and grasp his stomach, appreciate the soft feel of it. He wishes you were there right now, but he'll make do with what he's got. Himself.
Finally...oh finally he makes his way on to his bed, sat with his back against the headboard with his legs spread wide. The mirror is angled just right, so he has a good view of himself from there. He's a little flushed, cheeks reddened. He's leaking precum, made himself so fucking desperate for his own hand. He looks really good, and he knows it.
He'll use whatever is closest, spit or lube or lotion. He isn't picky. Sometimes he'll use a toy too, depending on what he wants to feel and how quick he wants to get off. He loves playing with things that vibrate but they tend to make him come quicker than he likes so he doesn't use them too often - better when you're trying to overstimulate him to tears. Usually he'll use a butt plug when he's on his own, he likes his ass nice and full as often as it can be.
Now he takes himself in his hand, and the moan he makes at that first touch is sinful. He starts off painfully slow, teeth gritted in concentration as he tries to zone in on every single thing he's feeling as his fists glides up and down his cock. He'll think of you now the most, of the drag of your cunt up his dick. Or the warmth of your mouth on him. He'll bring up every memory he has of you and him together, the way you look when he's in you. The way you cry out as he thrusts into you for the first time. God, he can't take it this slow anymore.
As he quickens his pace, the noises he makes would make anyone blush. Dieter is never quiet like this. He loves to be heard, even if it's only him who can hear it right now. More, and more, and more. His free hand is playing with his balls, gentle tugs and squeeze that makes him tense dangerously and groan in pleasure.
Will he slow down now, calm himself down before he starts up again? Well, he'll try but at this point he's possessed by the need to come. He tries to be good, he really does. The way you like it, every last drop teased out of him but holding off for as long as he possibly can You tell him to be good, but you're not here right now and he can't quite bring himself to be that good.
He'll confess later, you can punish him if you want.
He's gasping out, a needy thing, beautiful noises of absolute heady pleasure. Eyes zoning back in just enough to watch as he brings himself to the edge. His favourite part to watch, as his movements falter and his balls tighten and with a loud cry he's spilling ropes of his cum onto his lower belly, onto his fingers, wherever it goes. Messy, he loves it that way. He pulls out every last drop he can, until its too much.
His head falls back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut as he heaves out heavy breaths while his body trembles slightly from the climax. After a moment or two, he'll bring his hand up to his mouth and lick it clean. Dip his fingers into the mess he made and taste himself. It makes him groan, he tastes so fucking good. You always tell him the same, and he knows you're not lying.
In the time it takes him to regain his thoughts, he's laid himself down on the bed properly, sprawled out and a little dozy. He gets sleepy after he's come, but not enough to actually fall asleep. He just likes to bask in the feeling for a little while while he recovers. He bury his face in the pillow that still smells of you, and close his eyes and just enjoy the moment.
And if he really needs it today...he'll make it all happen again in a couple hours.
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oh we do love it when a man starts to get what he deserves 😌
stringing him up like that by his ankle for LITERAL HOURS was fucking genius and even better that everyone knows what the fuck he was doing because of it. you just know they're all there talking about how feeble and pathetic he is behind his back 😌🤭 OH HOW THE TURN TABLES JOEL. HOW THE TURN TABLES.
Devotion 🖤
II. Predator or Prey? (Ch 8)
CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader
Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?
Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.
*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*
PREVIOUS
II. Predator or Prey?
CH 8 (6.6k) | The Night You Left |
Joel barely sleeps, tossing and turning in his bed with his clothes on, knuckles bloody and burning, throat raw from screaming. He wakes up to hushed whispers outside his door and he throws it open, inexplicably hoping to see you out there. Instead he sees a sea of terrified faces, Sasha tucking Beth behind her, Tess peering out from the bathroom with Rosie holding a cold cloth over her swollen face. Kerri is further down the hall, sweeping up chunks of drywall and dust on the floor from the holes he’d punched into the wall hours earlier.
He looks back towards Tess. Fuck. She looks awful, already two swollen black eyes and a split lip. What kind of a monster does that to someone?
“Tess, I–”
“I’ll be alright Joel,” she reassures. “Why don’t you head over to the baths and get cleaned up?”
She knows he can’t be seen in the state he’s in. What would people think? They’d think he’d fuckin’ lost it is what they’d think. And they’d be right.
Joel heads to the old plaza, a ten minute walk down the street and around the corner, to the old salon now serving as the town bath house. This early in the morning he knows no one is going to be here so he lets himself in through the back door. He checks the tank of the town’s only working hot water heater and begins to fill one of the stock tank tubs, shucking his clothes off and climbing in. The water stings his raw knuckles as he scrubs at his body, washing away bits of dusty drywall and blood – his or Tess’, he can’t tell.
Fuck, he fucked up. He shouldn’t have reacted like that. He shouldn’t have done that to Tess. This is what you fucking do to him, this is the effect you have on him. You bring out the worst in him. All you ever did was distract him, tempt him, tease him, and reject him. He saved your life, fed you, clothed you, protected you, and put a roof over your head. And how did you repay him?
Resentment. Neglect. Defiance. Abandonment.
What did he even see in you? He thought you were brave, but you were so soft on the inside. He thought you were smart, but he watched you act like such a fucking fool. He thought you were beautiful, but you wouldn’t even let him say it. He thought you were wild, but he tamed you so easily. He was wrong about you. He tells himself that he’s glad you’re gone and that he’s better off without you around anyway.
—
The first Thursday without you, Joel takes Beth to the meeting, despite complaining that he’d rather go alone. Beth had already gotten to work making clothes and this would be a good opportunity for her to give some out to the families that lived further out of town, at least that’s what Tess had said. He’d never admit it, but he held his breath when a group of people led by the tall and imposing Hank walked in the room, someone else trailing just behind. Several people shifted and Joel saw it was just Hank’s little girl, blushing bright red when she caught him looking at her.
Shit. He’s not sure why he let himself think it might be you. Hank hadn’t brought you to the church meeting on Sunday so why did he let that tightness grow in his stomach thinking he’d bring you to the Thursday meetings the way he used to bring Beth? Whatever. He doesn’t even want to see you. He continues to be in a foul mood all week and despite pleading with Tess for forgiveness – which she gives him – all the women in the house seem to avoid him.
The second Thursday he notices Hank’s young daughter, who’d introduced herself several times as Amber, following his every move, watching him, sitting next to him, hanging on his every word with rapt attention. The little girl must have a crush. How inconvenient. But wait, he might be able to use this to his advantage. He’d noticed you ducking behind Hank’s oversized frame at church the past Sunday, avoiding him like the plague, and decided he was going to give you a taste of your own medicine.
Fuck you, you little ingrate, he’s gonna ignore the shit out of you right back.
He purposely avoided looking in your direction during his speech and sat with his back to you during dinner. He made sure to act like the perfect leader, loving and gentle, graciously accepting people’s well wishes for Tess’ illness – the cover-up for why she’d been in the house for over a week while her face healed up. Within earshot of you he gives attention to every other female Valley member, even going so far as to bring people into his embrace, hugging them tight.
He’s like an oily politician – kissing babies and shaking hands – but he hopes you see it all. He hopes you feel sick over it, feel jealous, feel regret. He hopes you feel the loneliness rotting in your gut like he does. But how will he know? How will he know if he can’t see you, can’t talk to you? He needs access to you, someone for you to confide in, someone on the inside. Little Amber will do nicely.
He strikes up a conversation with her, bumping up the charm to an eleven. He opens with some mildly flirtatious banter, asks some questions about her – women love that shit – before getting to the point.
“Hear you got a new roommate over there,” he postures casually.
“Yeah, she’s great,” Amber beams.
“She is?”
“Oh– ummm,” her brow furrows. “Isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” he chuckles, “You tell me.”
“She’s alright, yeah… I mean, she– she’s fine.”
“Well you should let me know if she does anything to bother you.” His voice is smooth and buttery.
“I should?”
“Well yeah,” Joel touches his hand briefly to her chin, “I gotta make sure you’re happy, don’t I?”
“Oh,” she giggles, face flushing immediately.
“So make sure you tell me what’s goin’ on, okay?”
“Yeah I will,” she tries to suppress her smile. “I– I definitely will.”
“Anything at all, even if you think it might not be important.” He makes sure she’s looking at him and drops his voice an octave. “Anything at all, okay, sweetheart?” He winks to seal the deal.
It was almost too easy, turning little Amber into his own private mole. Every Thursday he gave her a couple minutes of attention and she folded, playing right into his hand and spilling everything you two had talked about over the past week. She told him where you went, what you did, who you talked to, and even what anyone else in the house said about you. Apparently Hank’s wife was missing Beth and Joel briefly thinks of telling Tess to make a switch back, but then gets angry at you again and changes his mind.
You don’t deserve his forgiveness, you’re not missing him enough, not even close to being as miserable as you could be. Amber had told him that you’d cried yourself to sleep almost every night the first week but then the other day after the church meeting he’d watched you hunch down behind little Amber – barely five feet tall – trying to hide from him. Your stubborn pride is gonna make it even more satisfying when you come crawling back to him, begging him to let you come back home.
Amber tells him when you’ve stopped crying at night but says you still spend a lot of time on your own, wandering the edges of the property. She catches you up in the hayloft all the time, or napping with the baby goats. She says you don’t spend any time with Danny or Diego, the ranch hands, so he resists his urges to take them by the collar and threaten to bury them alive if they so much as look at you.
—
Joel woke up in the mornings feeling empty, like his chest had been broken open and hollowed out, all of his internal organs scooped onto the ground. The only thing that remained inside him was a deep-seated ache. He tried to soothe it with conversation but Tess didn’t want to hear it, kept telling him it’s better this way and to move on. He tried to temper his loneliness with touch, but when he reached for Sasha’s hand after dinner one night she ripped it out of his grip. One evening, in a particularly weak moment, he nuzzled into Kerri’s neck while she was washing dishes, her hands occupied and covered in suds.
“Oh,” she squeaked, startled by his touch.
“Hey,” he said, muffled against her skin, twitching under the brush of his beard.
“I’m not really–” she started.
He didn’t let her finish. He was out of the room before she could even finish her sentence. How fucking pathetic was he? He didn’t even want her – not really – and she couldn’t even stand to be touched by him. This is what you’ve done to him, this is what you’ve made him. He’s been ruined by you.
When it's been just over a month since you left, things at the house finally get back to a sense of normalcy again. For a while, Tess was the only one speaking to him, and besides the Thursday meetings Beth was assigned to accompany him to, she avoided him like the plague. Kerri wouldn’t meet his eyes, Rosie shuffled away from him whenever he entered a room, and Sasha gave him dirty looks every time she passed him in the halls. But with time, things were improving. There was a low hum of conversations around the dinner table now – none of them involving him – but at least everyone else was happy.
The following Sunday Amber traps him in a corner and starts saying shit about coming to live with him. He has no idea where she got this idea in her head but she keeps trying to touch the buttons on his shirt and he’s doing everything in his power not to swat her little fucking hands away. He sees Tess giving him a look and he knows. He knows he needs to get away from her, that people can see him, that people will talk. What if you see him? You’re never gonna come back home if you think he’s messing around with this annoying child. He has to stop using her for information, he has to cut her off.
The following Thursday marks the end of February and Amber’s reports have gotten brief and repetitive. Walks alone along the pastures, always has her nose in a book at bedtime, late to every meal (much to her mother’s chagrin). She tells him that you only leave the farm on Sundays for church and on Wednesdays for your bath, having to settle for a weekly wash at the Covered Bridge Inn another mile down the road with some of the other farming families. He bets you’re missing your three soaks a week since you left town.
Joel decides to cut Amber off then and there, she’s not giving him anything he doesn’t already know and he needs more, he wants more. He needs to fill that emptiness inside him and you’re the only thing that can make him feel whole again. He’s barely looked at you in weeks, always avoiding watching you directly, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of thinking he gives a fuck. He doesn’t, not really. He just wants to soothe the hole you left. He convinces himself he just needs a taste, just needs a peek. He just needs to see if you’re missing him, to make sure you’re suffering the way he is, the way you should be. He wants to see it for himself. Then he can get over you – move on – like Tess says he should.
He waits until the following Wednesday and makes a trip out to the Mansfield’s farm when he knows you’ll be gone for your bath. Only Hank remains on the farm to greet him but is honored and excited by Joel’s presence. Joel makes up something about wanting to visit Hank because of how much he respects all of his hard work, but asks Hank to not spread the word lest the other farmers be jealous. Hank nods in agreement as he shows Joel around the property and then welcomes him into his humble home.
When Joel excuses himself to use the bathroom he takes a walk around the upstairs, checking each bedroom to find yours, recognizing it when he sees one of your old shirts on the bed. He lifts your pillow to his face, huffing in your familiar scent. Under your pillow is a book, paperback cover worn and tattered, Of Mice and Men by John Steinback. Joel stuffs it in his waistband and pulls his shirt back down, heading back downstairs to tell Hank he should get going.
There’s no mention of his visit by his little spy the next night so, he assumes Hank kept it a secret and you were none the wiser. He wants to go to the farm again, he wants to have another piece of you. Just one more taste, just one more. He waits until late in the day on the following Wednesday and, avoiding traps he and his patrols helped set, he rides out and sneaks onto the property from the neighboring fields. Hank is working out in the far pasture and doesn’t even notice Joel’s surreptitious arrival.
The house is unlocked and he goes straight to your room, this time laying down in your bed, letting himself soak in the scent of you wafting off the sheets. He thinks of you crawling in the bed every night at the end of a long day working your ass off on this farm, a big change from the cushy life you had back home. He knows you only get a bath once a week here, and he can smell your scent on the sheets strongly. He smells sweat, dirt, farm animals, and a trace of tangy milk. You must change the sheets when you get back from your bath. This must be the most pungent they smell all week.
He grabs his dick overtop his pants, he can feel it already hard and aching at the thought of you. He wishes he had more time to lie here, to really be able to enjoy himself, but he made up an excuse to Tess and she’ll be suspicious if he’s gone too long. He takes his hand away from the front of his pants and instead grabs your pillow, throwing it over his face to breathe it in a final time. He gets up, adjusting himself, and takes a step towards the door before he doubles back and snatches your pillowcase off the pillow, stuffing it down the front of his shirt.
—
He’s panting slightly as he makes his way in the back door of his house, having had to jog from the stables, cutting through the town park so he’d be back before Tess started wondering where he was. Kerri gives him a sideways glance and an empty smile, quickly turning her head back to her meal preparation. Tess and Sasha come up from the basement holding jars of preserved vegetables.
“Where you been?” Tess asks.
“I told you,” he tries to stifle his heavy breathing. “I had to help Peter out with his solar panel issue.”
“But Peter’s wife Georgia just came by here not even ten minutes ago and asked how you were doin’,” she says, looking confused.
“Yeah well it wasn’t at his house,” Joel thinks quickly. “He’s been tryin’ to get it fixed up for little old Miss Betty, out– umm… over there by the woods.” He picked the most remote, home-bound person he could think of, hoping it would cover his ass.
“Oh, she needs power? For what?” she asks, setting down the jars on the counter with Sasha, not giving Joel her full attention anymore. He uses the opportunity to move out of the kitchen towards his office.
“I dunno, just helpin’ out Peter,” he says and then ducks out of the room before she can question him further.
Once he closes his office door he pulls out your pillowcase from under his shirt and balls it up to his face, sniffing it more. He sticks it in the bottom desk drawer under the maps, where he keeps your lost pair of underwear, your rejected christmas gift, and the book he took from under your pillow on his previous visit. Something scratches at him from deep inside, something that might resemble guilt. He shakes it off. He has nothing to feel guilty for. If you want underwear, books, or your pillowcase so bad you can come back home and have them.
—
He can’t even wait until next Wednesday to go over to the farm. Sunday morning rolls around – he’s spent all weekend planning this moment – and he gives a well-rehearsed speech to Tess about being sick. He doubles over in his bed and clutches his middle, groaning until her face softens and she puts the back of her hand to his forehead the way his mom used to. She brings him some water and rice and tells him to get some rest before heading to the services with everyone else in the house.
Once he’s left alone he jumps out of bed, throwing the covers off like a child on Christmas morning. He knew that if he went to church he’d be able to see you, maybe fill a little bit of his craving. But since he doesn’t really look at you, how much of you can he actually see? Knowing that Hank would bring your entire household to the service meant the farmhouse would be empty. He can sneak over there while everyone is preoccupied and have his fill of your scent, of the ghost of your presence. He needs this, he tells himself, he needs a little bit more before he stops, before he gets over you.
He doesn’t want to take a horse this time, wants to leave no trace of where he’s going or risk anyone seeing him riding out. Most of the town is at the church service but he wants to be extra cautious. He heads out the back door and ducks into the trees beyond the yard, making the long way around the populated square to hit the fence-line. He finds a well-worn path through two fence sections and, avoiding the traps he knows are there, darts south towards the farm.
Joel’s knees are aching by the time he hits Hank’s property, heart pounding and feet throbbing, having set a brutal pace to make the trip in just about thirty minutes. His chest is heaving to catch his breath as he crosses over the creek and walks up the small hill to the old farmhouse standing like a silent monument above the pastures.
He takes his time on this visit, going through your side of the dresser, recognizing the clothes you had before, touching the fabric with his fingers that he would feel beneath his touch whenever he held you in the mornings. He looks in the closet – mostly Amber’s clothes – but sees a nice dress in there he assumes Hank intended for you to wear to church. Joel’s never seen you in a dress, maybe no one here has either, since you’ve certainly never worn this one.
He takes off his clothes and climbs in your bed, lying face flat on your pillow, and smells you. Not your soap or shampoo, but you, the real you. The you he used to smell when you were at home, when you were in his arms, when you were his. Before you left him, before you broke him, before he was empty. He slowly humps against the bed – his cock rubbing the worn, softened sheets – and thinks of you.
He imagines you coming back and catching him, throwing your arms and legs around him, crying how much you miss him and kissing him until he agrees to take you home. His come spills on your sheets and he throws the blanket back over top, leaving the mess for you to find. Part of him hopes you know it was him. He puts half his clothes on and then begins to get sleepy, having stayed up half the night going over and over in his head his plans for today. He lies down on top of the bed just to rest his eyes for a moment.
He doesn’t hear the horses pull up with the wagon outside, or the door opening and people entering the house downstairs. He doesn’t hear anything until there’s footsteps on the stairs coming towards where he’s still half naked and just awake. Shit. He jumps up and grabs the rest of his clothes off the floor, kicking his boots under your bed and jumping in the closet just as Amber bursts in the room, humming a hymn and babbling about how she wants to make soup to send to him. You hum in assent but otherwise say nothing.
He wishes he could see you, but he’s pushed himself into the closet and to the side as much as possible. He is half-covered by a mothball-smelling crocheted cardigan and a mildew-smelling old raincoat. He hears the soft sounds of fabric and the wooden creak of dresser drawers, then you both silently shuffle out of the room and down the stairs. He waits a long time until he's sure the coast is clear and manages to get himself dressed, pull on his shoes, and make it downstairs.
He hides in a closet for several hours, hearing Amber and her mother all around the first floor, cleaning and cooking and gossipping to each other. Where are you? Are you in the hayloft like Amber said you like to be? Are you feeding goats or milking cows? He wants to see you but he knows he has to go, knows he’s stayed too long. Everyone has been back at his house for hours and Tess will most definitely be wondering where the fuck he went to.
It’s mid-afternoon by now and he knows he can’t waste anymore time. He ducks out of the closet and runs for the closest patch of trees as quickly as he can. As soon as he’s in the cover of the woods he starts thinking of the shit show he’s gonna walk into. Tess is gonna give him the third degree. He left no note, no indication of where he would be. What excuse is he even gonna give? He played sick so convincingly and now what is he gonna do? What can he tell her that will be believable?
His mind is racing with a hundred different thoughts and he’s trying to ignore the sting of the cold air in his lungs and the burning of his thighs as he presses forward up another hill. He’s sure that’s why he misses the trap. Because he knows where they all are, he helped set almost every single one. He has a map in his office with all of them marked off, directs the patrols to check and maintain them. He knows better. But he’s distracted. You’ve distracted him. This is all your fault. That’s all he can think as he feels the trap clamping over his ankle and the biting pain shooting up his leg. This is all your fuckin’ fault.
Joel loses his balance quickly as the counterweight trips and yanks his leg out from under him. He sees the whole world flip and feels the fire of tearing flesh licking up his leg. He comes to rest with his shoulders on the ground, his head brushing against the fallen leaves, but the lower half of his body lifted up in the air, strung up in the tree by his ankle. Shit, this is a good trap, he was so proud when he thought of it and now he can confirm that it’s quite debilitating and extremely painful.
—
The sun has started setting when Joel hears a single step behind him and he whips his head around, facing a lone figure, light hair braided over her shoulder, pack on her back stuffed full. Sasha.
“Hey honey… I didn’t hear ya coming,” he groans, shifting uncomfortably.
“Yeah, Joel,” she looks him over quickly, “That’s kinda the point.”
She opens her mouth to ask a question – probably something akin to what the fuck are you doing out here – but then she looks southward, towards the still-visible fields of the dairy farm, and back at him. She closes her mouth, deciding not to ask something she already knows the answer to. Instead she looks him up and down, taking in the scene in the fading light.
“You uhh… you want me to get you down from there?”
“Well what’s the alternative, honey?” He motions around. “You gonna leave me here?”
“I could…” her face remains impassive, considering her options, “But Tess would probably miss you.”
Joel lets out a huff and gives her a partial smile, it’s as much as he can manage having been stuck like this for far too long. Sasha throws her pack down and fishes some bolt cutters out of the back, reaching them above Joel’s ankle and cutting a chain link rather easily. Joel's body unceremoniously slams down to the forest floor, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
“Jesus Christ, Joel,” she mutters, kneeling down to check him over. “What’d you think was gonna happen when I cut it?”
“I dunno honey but I’m not a fuckin’ gymnast. I’ve been hangin’ upside-down for hours, so I’m kinda at the whim of gravity right now.
“Well twinkle toes, good thing you’re not training for the olympics, because your leg looks absolutely fucked. We need to get you to the clinic ASAP.”
Yeah yeah yeah Joel grumbles, grunting and groaning as Sasha helps him to his feet, leaning into his side so she can support his weight on his bad side.
“Is your horse nearby?”
“Didn’t bring a horse,” he sighs.
“Joel, we’re still over a mile away from home and your leg–”
“Well we better get going then, huh?”
“But, Joel–”
“Time’s a wastin’ honey, let’s go.”
—
By the time the doctor finishes wrapping Joel’s ankle, he can already see the blood seeping through the bottom layers of the bandages. She’s given him some expired meds for the pain that are managing to take the edge off, but he’s still extremely uncomfortable. He’s not gonna tell her that though.
“I’m gonna need to see you tomorrow to clean and redress this wound.”
“I can come by after–”
“No,” she interrupts. “No, Joel, I’ll make a house call, you shouldn’t be walking on this at all. This needs to be elevated so the swelling can go down.” She wraps the second layer tighter and Joel bites back a noise. She notices. “That’s why it’s leaking like this, you didn’t elevate it,” she scolds, and then murmurs under her breath, “And you walked a mile on it.”
“Well I knew you made house calls but I didn’t think you’d make middle-of-the-forest calls.”
She makes a noise that sounds like hmmm, and grabs another roll of gauze to keep wrapping around. He’s not sure if she bought his story, that he and Sasha were scavenging together and he wasn’t looking where he was going, but she removed the trap from his ankle and gave him a tetanus shot and some antibiotics. He didn’t even realize she had all of that here but she opened a locked cabinet and there was a secret stash of medicines, just waiting for him.
Since he was hanging upside-down he didn’t lose much blood and the doctor told him she doubts there’s a broken bone, given that the trap clamped down above the ankle bones and more into the meat of his leg. She is worried about infection, of course, and said that the way it pulled on his leg could take a while for the muscles to heal. How long did Sasha leave you hanging there she kept asking and he kept explaining that they’d split up to cover more ground, and she’d found him when he missed their meet-up time.
“I think that’s enough, Doc, quit fussin’ over me,” he tells her as he shifts on the bed to get up. “Get Sasha for me and I’ll head home, and don’t worry, I’ll keep it elevated.”
“Sasha left after she dropped you off Joel,” she leans back and points to the doorway, where one of the clinic staff has rolled in a rusted wheelchair. “We’re gonna take you.”
“I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Oh cut it out, you already got your tetanus shot.”
—
He gets out of the chair and stumbles up the front steps, forbidding them from helping him through the door and promising to elevate his leg and keep it that way, trying to keep his voice in a whisper and not disturb the house. He hops inside and his fears are immediately realized when he sees Tess waiting for him at the dining room table. Their eyes meet and they stare at each other in silence for a long while before she rises out of her chair and points to an empty one.
“I’ll get you some ice,” she says, walking into the kitchen.
Joel sits in the chair and Tess comes back in, motioning for him to put his leg up on the bench next to him, setting a cloth ice pack gently on his injured leg. She slowly sits down and resumes looking at him. A long silence passes between them.
“You gonna make me ask?”
“Ask what?” he says casually, then she pins him with a look and he drops all pretense, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m sure Sasha already told you.”
“She didn’t tell me why.”
“Why? You already know that too.”
“I know you were out there at the farm, Joel, sneakin’ around, messin’ with her stuff, fuckin’ with her head, I don’t know what all you get up to. But why, Joel? Why?”
“What do you care, anyway?”
“Why can’t you leave her alone?” she hisses
“Why is that any of your fuckin’ business?”
Tess slams her hand down on the table and hisses, “You made it my business when you brought her into my house.”
“Your house, is it?”
“You’re goddamn right it’s my house, and I take care of everyone in it. I sent her to the farm to get some relief from you and your behavior, and you can’t show one ounce of self control? Who the fuck are you?”
“I don’t think–”
“No, you’re not thinkin’, that’s the problem,” she interrupts. He’s stunned into silence. “I’ve taken a lotta shit in my life, Joel, and I’ll keep taking it if it’s for the greater good. I’ve followed you around for years and I’m loyal, but I ain’t stupid. I see you slipping. Everyone does. Everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve sacrificed for you… you gotta play your role.”
“I’m tired of it,” he whispers.
“You’re not tired of everything it gets you.”
He grumbles at that and mutters something like it doesn’t get me what I really want, and she knows he means you. She knows he still wants you, even when he pretends like he doesn’t. She sees the way he purposely avoids you and looks the other way when you come near. It’s all bullshit bravado, and she fuckin’ knows it. She knows he’s sad, lonely, heartbroken without you. But she needs him to either put up or shut up. Admit it or move on. She can’t have him stuck in this loop of destruction.
“Leave her be, Joel. It’s done with her, it’s over.”
—
Two weeks go by in a blur, Joel doesn’t sneak away to the farm, he avoids Amber at the Thursday meetings, he steers clear of you at the Sunday service. He goes where Tess tells him to go, meets with who she tells him to meet with. His leg heals well and he’s back on his feet much sooner than the doctor expected him to be. He spends his days working with the gardeners in town to get ready for spring planting, and the evenings working in his office to schedule patrols and plan maintenance for sections of the perimeter fencing.
He keeps his head down and keeps his mind occupied. He starts to feel better, and then he’ll lie in bed at night and he’ll hear the door to the tiny room across the hall close and remember you’re not there. It cuts like a knife in his hollow chest, the slow thumping of his heart echoing in its empty chamber. He feels bad for going the whole day without missing you and his stomach gets tied up in knots over everything that happened.
He tries so hard not to think of you, to keep his mind busy with anything else… until he can’t. Until everyone stands up as he introduces Bianca’s baby to the community and then everyone sits back down and there you are. You’re standing in the middle of a pew halfway back, staring daggers through him. Looking at him like he just slapped you in the face. He can’t help but look at you – for the first time in over two months – and watch you come undone.
He sees you run out of the sanctuary and only Tess’ iron grip clawing at his elbow keeps him from running after you. After the service he tells her he’ll meet them in the hall for lunch and she reluctantly leaves him, mouthing behave yourself as she goes.
And then you’re in front of him again, the both of you looking into each other’s eyes. There’s so much fire in yours, he hasn’t seen you look like this since the first day he saw them, backed into a corner of the clinic like a trapped animal, teeth bared and ready to pounce. You start snapping at him, biting him with your words, and he can’t fucking help himself. He bites at you right back. Every sharp barb of your tongue, every click of your fangs, he’s spurred on to hiss and claw in response. You call him a liar and then tell him you don’t care when it couldn't be more obvious that you do.
Why won’t you just admit that you care? Why won’t you just admit that you miss him? Why are you so afraid of the truth?
You brush by him, purposely knocking his arm with your shoulder as you exit and when he turns to follow you he sees Tess in the doorway. She walks up to him and he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until her arms close around him and he’s sobbing into her shoulder.
“She hates me,” he heaves.
“She doesn’t hate you, Joel,” she hushes.
“She does. She thinks that was my baby.”
“Did you tell her it wasn’t?”
“No,” he sniffles.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Cause I’m incapable of doing the right thing. I just keep fucking up,” he sobs. “I keep doing the wrong thing every fucking time. I grab her, I hurt her, I say the wrong thing, I fuck it all up.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he wails.
“I do, I know why.”
“Why then?” Joel sniffles.
“It’s easier for you to push her away than it is to let her in.”
—
Joel is sitting in silence at the dinner table later that night, mindlessly picking at his plate, lost in his thoughts. The meal has long-since finished and the women are clearing the table, moving in and out of the kitchen and talking with each other. Beth is excitedly telling them about a barn cat who had kittens last year and everyone is gushing over the talk of adorable kittens.
Joel remembers Sarah finding two abandoned kittens after a soccer game one cloudy May afternoon, two flea-infested little rats hiding behind the practice field’s bathrooms. She’d carried them in her shirt back to him, all three of them crying, begging him to let her keep them. He said no a hundred times but still wound up driving all of them all the way across town to the only vet’s office open on a Saturday. Hundreds of dollars later they were stuffed full of medicine and food and were sleeping curled up in the crook of Sarah’s neck.
She told him she understood when he said they couldn’t keep them forever – allergies, he’d explained – but that didn’t stop big, fat tears from rolling down her face when she placed them into the arms of their new owners.
“You did such a good job taking care of them,” he’d told her, wiping away her tears. “You should be so proud. Look how big they got! You did that! You gave them a shot at a great life.”
“You did it too, dad,” she’d said, hugging him, telling him he also did a good job.
He didn’t do shit, he just couldn’t say no to her. And she thought he hung the moon. She thought he was some kind of a saint. Joel Miller, patron saint of disgusting, sickly little kittens. The man she thought he was… he could never be that man. Not then. Not now. Not after everything he’s done.
And then he realizes he’s sobbing again, at the dinner table, and everyone is staring at him.
“Y– You okay, Joel?” Beth asks.
“Yeah,” he sniffles. “I was just… thinkin’ about Sarah.”
“Who’s Sarah?” Kerri says.
“Can everyone give us a minute?” Tess says.
The room quickly clears and Joel is still sputtering and sniffling at the head of the table. Tess sits down next to him and he slides off his chair, kneeling on the floor and burying his head in her lap, tears rolling down his face and soaking her jeans. He’s muttering I can’t lose her too and sobbing and Tess thinks this might be it, he might finally be ready to face it.
“What’s wrong, Joel?” Tess asks gently.
“She left me, I fucked up and she left, I don’t deserve her, she hates me, I’m a monster and she hates me and I don’t do anything right and I just fail over and over and she can’t stand me and all I do is–” his cries, devolve into a blubbering mess.
—
It’s just before midnight and the house is dark and quiet. Only a lamp in the living room casts a glow on them – Tess and Joel on the couch – where they’ve been sitting and talking for hours. He’s finally calmed down, having talked through months-worth, if not years-worth, of feelings with her. Things they’ve already talked about, things she’s suspected but never had confirmed, and secrets they’ve kept even from each other. It felt cathartic, like a weight lifted from the both of them, and they sit in companionable silence before they head up to bed.
A loud, frantic knocking at the front door makes both of them jump. Tess goes to answer it and all Joel hears is a tandem of words, spilling out like a waterfall so quickly he can only catch some of them. Not in bed… looked everywhere… can’t find... He gets up from his seat and heads to the door, freezing when he sees Danny and Diego’s harrowed faces standing on his darkened porch.
“W– what’s goin’ on?” Joel asks, looking between the two men and Tess.
Tess grabs his arm, bracing him.
“She left.”
🖤
NEXT
As always, muchas gracias to my amazing editor, @papipascalispunk for sticking with me through my highs and my lows, my slumps, and my manic incessant babbling about CJ.
TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh @elegantduckturtle @koshkaj-blog
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Pedro as Max Phillips in Bloodsucking Bastards (2015)
#I would pay a lot of money to know what kind of direction he got for this performance#‘do it like if the looney tunes served cunt’#‘oh like if Hannibal Lector was made of rubber and snorted cocaine?’#<<<taylor these fucking tags are killing me 😭#also not to bring feet into this but these shoes make me feral
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NO this is so sweet, thank you 😭. I requested the moodboard from Sil just as a little fun thing and then it latched onto my brain and ran away. I so badly want endless, normal, everyday things for Joel and Sarah, and it actually pains me to think he was probably more concerned with her growing older than he ever could have been prepared for losing her so young and 😭 I am not strong enough.
💛 love to you
y2k
moodboard and fic inspo by @psychedelic-ink
main masterlist
rating: Teen (this is an 18+ blog)
warnings: fluff, Joel and Sarah being domestic and cute af, swearing, Sarah being a little shit. No outbreak.
word count: 876
summary: a morning in the Miller Household with our fave resident Girl Dad and his Daughter (who is a little shit affectionately).
A/N: @psychedelic-ink is having a cute lil joel miller birthday bash and i requested a silly y2k moodboard in honour of the occasion. This spawned from my brain before I could stop it. Happy Birthday, JM!
if my boss asks, i've been working super hard for the last hour and not writing this.
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Joel sat at the kitchen counter, nursing his morning coffee. It was a clear day, the heat of summer dwindling now that October was approaching. He relished these quiet moments in the mornings, just him and his world inside that house, safe and sound.
Even after 15 years though, the silence never lasted long. He was glad for it - he dreaded to think how quickly the days of silence would come and how much he would long for the noise.
As expected, footsteps thundered down the stairs.
One day that kid's goin' to bring this fuckin' house down.
"Hey Dad," Sarah says breathlessly as she sidles up to Joel. She's hiding something behind her back, and Joel well knows that look on her face by know. She's been up to something.
"Mornin' kid," he smiles. Whatever she's up to he doesn't care, seeing the best thing he ever did every morning always put a smile on his face. "What you got there?"
"I got something to show you," she bites her lip. "I made it."
Joel's heart wants to burst out of his chest. As a kid, he was always being gifted little drawings and creations - pictures of them in their house, a deranged looking cat with too many legs (a sign from Sarah that she really wanted a pet kitty - he wishes he could've said yes to her, but his allergies would never let it happen), a paper mache lump of something she'd made and painted. He kept it, but he still didn't know what it was. My babies first abstract art he'd joked at the time. It had been years since she'd made anything for him, she was more into playing with friends and sports than arts and crafts with her old man these days.
"Alright then, let's see it," he turns to face his daughter as she pulls her laptop from behind her back. It was a birthday gift this summer, and she was rarely off the damn thing - she said it made homework easier than having to use the family desktop computer, but he still didn't quite believe she didn't just use to to talk to her friends until the early hours of the morning. Still, he could never say no or be mad at her for much of anything for too long.
"And you ain't takin' that to school."
Sarah rolls her eyes. "I'm not. Look."
She points to the screen.
"I was up all night making it for you - Happy Birthday, Dad!"
It's... well. It's something else. Pictures of him (he recognized one as a picture she had taken 5 years ago) and the two of them together, all interspersed with a collection of other images he wasn't familiar with but somehow seemed to match. Joel's stomach dropped with it - if this is what his baby girl was into, maybe she'd changed more as a teen than he thought. Still, she'd made it for him. It was special.
"I... it's..." Joel was getting genuinely choked up. He didn't care what it was. He just loved that she made it for him.
"Don't you love it?" she prods his arm, grinning like a maniac.
"I do." And he did.
"The color pallette is so cute right, and this picture is my favorite." She points to a picture in the middle from a 4th of July last year - Her and Joel had gone to a neighbors house to celebrate. There'd been a bonfire. "I put filters on everything to make it more pink. It really gels it all together, don't you think?"
It was one of his favorites too. Even with... all the pink.
"It is uh, real pink, yeah," Joel says, scratching his neck. "It your new favorite color or somethin'? We need to paint your room again?"
Sarah's face drops. "I - I thought it was your favorite color, Dad." She looks devastated.
Joel is dumbstruck. What does he say. He flounders, stuttering, trying to find the words.
Suddenly, Sarah's face breaks into a shit eating grin big enough to rival Tommy's.
"I'm just fucking with you dad."
Joel's eyes snap to hers, a warning, and amusement, flashing across his face.
She holds her hands up in surrender. "Messing! I'm just messing with you."
"Well, I love it anyway. Even if you are just messin' with me," he kisses her temple and pushes her toward the door. "C'mon, lets get goin' or you're goin' to be late, and so am I."
Sarah rolls her eyes, gathers her school bag and heads for the door with Joel in tow. They both head for his truck, starting their day the same way they always do - together.
Joel stops before he reaches his truck, placing a large hand on the hood and looking over to his daughter. His - how did he get so lucky.
"Hey kid... can you send me that picture when you get home from school?"
Sarah smiles. It was a silly joke, but she's glad he loves it too. "Sure thing, Dad."
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they deserved so much more time together. I avoid angst and sad things as much as possible, but if I think about them too much it gets me so very teary. in another universe Joel gets to which his baby girl grow up and that's just everything 😭
thanks so much for reading, and I'm so sorry it took me so long to catch this 😅
y2k
moodboard and fic inspo by @psychedelic-ink
main masterlist
rating: Teen (this is an 18+ blog)
warnings: fluff, Joel and Sarah being domestic and cute af, swearing, Sarah being a little shit. No outbreak.
word count: 876
summary: a morning in the Miller Household with our fave resident Girl Dad and his Daughter (who is a little shit affectionately).
A/N: @psychedelic-ink is having a cute lil joel miller birthday bash and i requested a silly y2k moodboard in honour of the occasion. This spawned from my brain before I could stop it. Happy Birthday, JM!
if my boss asks, i've been working super hard for the last hour and not writing this.
follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work
Joel sat at the kitchen counter, nursing his morning coffee. It was a clear day, the heat of summer dwindling now that October was approaching. He relished these quiet moments in the mornings, just him and his world inside that house, safe and sound.
Even after 15 years though, the silence never lasted long. He was glad for it - he dreaded to think how quickly the days of silence would come and how much he would long for the noise.
As expected, footsteps thundered down the stairs.
One day that kid's goin' to bring this fuckin' house down.
"Hey Dad," Sarah says breathlessly as she sidles up to Joel. She's hiding something behind her back, and Joel well knows that look on her face by know. She's been up to something.
"Mornin' kid," he smiles. Whatever she's up to he doesn't care, seeing the best thing he ever did every morning always put a smile on his face. "What you got there?"
"I got something to show you," she bites her lip. "I made it."
Joel's heart wants to burst out of his chest. As a kid, he was always being gifted little drawings and creations - pictures of them in their house, a deranged looking cat with too many legs (a sign from Sarah that she really wanted a pet kitty - he wishes he could've said yes to her, but his allergies would never let it happen), a paper mache lump of something she'd made and painted. He kept it, but he still didn't know what it was. My babies first abstract art he'd joked at the time. It had been years since she'd made anything for him, she was more into playing with friends and sports than arts and crafts with her old man these days.
"Alright then, let's see it," he turns to face his daughter as she pulls her laptop from behind her back. It was a birthday gift this summer, and she was rarely off the damn thing - she said it made homework easier than having to use the family desktop computer, but he still didn't quite believe she didn't just use to to talk to her friends until the early hours of the morning. Still, he could never say no or be mad at her for much of anything for too long.
"And you ain't takin' that to school."
Sarah rolls her eyes. "I'm not. Look."
She points to the screen.
"I was up all night making it for you - Happy Birthday, Dad!"
It's... well. It's something else. Pictures of him (he recognized one as a picture she had taken 5 years ago) and the two of them together, all interspersed with a collection of other images he wasn't familiar with but somehow seemed to match. Joel's stomach dropped with it - if this is what his baby girl was into, maybe she'd changed more as a teen than he thought. Still, she'd made it for him. It was special.
"I... it's..." Joel was getting genuinely choked up. He didn't care what it was. He just loved that she made it for him.
"Don't you love it?" she prods his arm, grinning like a maniac.
"I do." And he did.
"The color pallette is so cute right, and this picture is my favorite." She points to a picture in the middle from a 4th of July last year - Her and Joel had gone to a neighbors house to celebrate. There'd been a bonfire. "I put filters on everything to make it more pink. It really gels it all together, don't you think?"
It was one of his favorites too. Even with... all the pink.
"It is uh, real pink, yeah," Joel says, scratching his neck. "It your new favorite color or somethin'? We need to paint your room again?"
Sarah's face drops. "I - I thought it was your favorite color, Dad." She looks devastated.
Joel is dumbstruck. What does he say. He flounders, stuttering, trying to find the words.
Suddenly, Sarah's face breaks into a shit eating grin big enough to rival Tommy's.
"I'm just fucking with you dad."
Joel's eyes snap to hers, a warning, and amusement, flashing across his face.
She holds her hands up in surrender. "Messing! I'm just messing with you."
"Well, I love it anyway. Even if you are just messin' with me," he kisses her temple and pushes her toward the door. "C'mon, lets get goin' or you're goin' to be late, and so am I."
Sarah rolls her eyes, gathers her school bag and heads for the door with Joel in tow. They both head for his truck, starting their day the same way they always do - together.
Joel stops before he reaches his truck, placing a large hand on the hood and looking over to his daughter. His - how did he get so lucky.
"Hey kid... can you send me that picture when you get home from school?"
Sarah smiles. It was a silly joke, but she's glad he loves it too. "Sure thing, Dad."
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MISS CONGENIALITY | 2000
bonus:
#its even funnier because i did indeed wear a light jacket out today#i even thought “i think I'll just wear a light jacket”
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I love this so much, and I love even more that I can throw on my rose tinted glasses and pretend like everything is totally okay at the end.
Given a Name
Oberyn Martell x Fat!Female Reader x Ellaria Sand
Rating: T
Word Count: 1127
Summary: "This would be your greatest indulgence?" He asks, the edges of his beautiful mouth curling into a pleased grin.
How like a man to inflate his importance. It’s a pity that he isn’t wrong.
This will be my greatest selfishness.
Contents: Angst. Mentions of canon character deaths. Allusions to Greek mythology cos I'm a nerd. Reader chooses a name for herself.
A/N: this fic is part of @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble challenge! I was given the prompt of "To Someone From a Warm Climate” + Oberyn.
(I know the prompt was just for Oberyn, but I could never exclude Ellaria. 😔)
Thanks for putting this together, Gin! It was a lot of fun to puzzle over.
I love Isekais.
Not beta read; all errors are my own.
General Interest Tags: @oonajaeadira @perotovar @psychedelic-ink @prolix-yuy @covetyou @morallyinept @undercoverpena @janaispunk
You've failed.
There are two nights and three days left until Oberyn Martell will meet his end at the hands of Gregor Clegane. When his hubris finally gets the best of him and stills his quick feet.
The knowledge has been a heavy weight in the pit of your stomach all night.
You managed to survive the long, dark nights until the sun of the Dornish banner broke over the horizon and filled you with something that felt like hope.
You thought that the hardest thing you’d have to do when you found yourself in the Seven Kingdoms was to secure safety and shelter. Ironically, the excess fat on your body is something out of the ordinary in a world where the people starve regularly and weight is seen as a luxury only the wealthy can afford.
It wasn’t hard to catch Oberyn’s eye, but it was difficult to prove your worth with your mind instead of your body. You can only thank whatever gods are listening that events are unfolding along plot lines you’re familiar with. Foreknowledge is a weapon you’ve learned to wield well.
Ever since joining the Prince’s retinue on the road to King’s Landing and the dark fate that waited there, you’ve been trying to find a way to change his mind on the matter. But as the days went by and as each suggestion was batted away, you accepted the grim truth that Oberyn is not a man to be lured away from his convictions. Any thoughts of changing this destiny have been abandoned. The wound was too deep and scarred his poet's heart irreparably.
"May I join you tonight, my prince?" You ask when the plates are taken away and more wine is set out.
Oberyn gives you his full attention, interest sparking the banked lust that’s always glowing in his eyes. His languid body perks up, sitting straight in his seat for a moment before he gets to his feet to refill his goblet.
“Oh? Are you finally accepting our invitation?”
“If it is still offered, I would like nothing more.” The lie tastes bitter on your tongue. There are things you’d like more: his acceptance of your council of his duel with the Mountain, indoor plumbing, antibiotics, and a safe way home to name a few.
Tomorrow night will be for Oberyn and Ellaria, but tonight… you can ask for tonight for yourself.
“Of course. But I cannot continue to call you by title only if we are to be lovers, my soothsayer.”
The true intention of filling his own goblet is clear: he has halved the distance between you by moving to the sideboard. It only takes two of his long strides to reach you, and his hand suddenly trailing over the back of your chair makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle with awareness.
"Cassandra." You offer him the name and he latches on to it.
“Cassandra.” He says.
Oberyn runs a finger over the exposed skin of your shoulder, and you feel the line as clearly as if he had drawn it with a quill. His touches before had been kept to what politeness allowed: brushes of his fingers against yours and the fleeting press of his mouth to the back of your hand. But now at your request he’s testing you, seeing if the boundaries have truly moved or if this is another of your tactics.
His eyes watch your face as that finger follows the neckline of your dress, pausing just at the swell of your breast before turning, going down your arm to take your hand, and gently commanding you to stand.
“Cassandra,” He repeats the name, rolling it over his tongue and changing the pronunciation with his accent. He pulls it apart, putting the syllables back together in a Dornish fashion, and you wish it was that easy to relieve the name of its burden.
Every time he says it is another press on the bruise of your heart. He catches your flinch and tilts his head.
How can a man blinded by his revenge see you so clearly?
"That is not your given name."
"It's as true a name for me as any of the things I have told you." You say, trying to keep the frustration from your voice.
He has taken your council about the events leading up to the death of King Joffrey, but the opportunity to finally avenge Elia has presented itself at his feet, deafening him to any suggestion that would turn him from that doomed path.
The conversation about his quest for revenge has been hashed out many times at this point. Oberyn is so close to one ending that he cannot, or will not, see the paths to other options.
“I’ve decided to finally give in to your temptations, Oberyn. To indulge in my desires.” You say, feeling a little relieved when he smiles. He likes the idea, the stroke to his ego, as you knew he would. You’re just glad the allure of a body like yours hasn’t lessened over the time you’ve spent together.
"This would be your greatest indulgence?" He asks, the edges of his beautiful mouth curling into a pleased grin.
How like a man to inflate his importance. It’s a pity that he isn’t wrong.
This will be my greatest selfishness.
"Yes. It would be even greater if Ellaria joined us." It’s daring, to demand them both like this, but he would never deny Ellaria anything she wished. You both turn to her for an answer.
Just like the Prince, it has been too easy to fall under the charms of his paramour. She is his equal in every way that matters, including your regard.
Ellaria watches you with dark worried eyes, and you have to steel yourself against the urge to weep. You want to beg for her forgiveness. Apologize for not being able to give more warning than the dread she already feels. Will you turn from me, when all is said and done? When he’s nothing but a broken corpse on the stadium floor, will you leave me behind? Will you forget me in the chaos of the aftermath?
You hold your other hand out to her in invitation, and try to keep your face steady when she makes a soft noise of delight.
Oberyn’s mouth is warm on your temple. He only turns your head away from Ellaria when he cannot wait any longer to take your mouth in a searing kiss.
You will give them the pleasure of your body, allow yourself to rest your mind in a tangle of limbs, and let this memory be the last golden rays of your Dornish sunset as the uncertain night waits beyond the windows.
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fuck ME, these two. I knew where this was going the moment the drilling puns started. and yknow they do always say things get messy before they get clean and tidy again 😌
also I loooove the idea of smutty oneshots in addition to the main fic, a you can kind of choose your own spice level as you read.
10. cranberry cocktail
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter ten of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3k
chapter warnings: SMUT. 18+. jo's bad use and knowledge of DIY. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n.
an: this one is called jo made herself horny. see author note at the end.
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It’s difficult not to smile as you approach.
His voice, mid-singing—almost competing with the radio that lingers under his voice—had been travelling out as you walked up to the building. Louder when you pulled open the door, sliding the sunglasses from your face.
A few blinks and your eyes capture his, singing dying out, leaving the original artist blaring around in the background.
Still, you're unable to stifle the smile. Not as you walk closer or as he puts down the tool in hand; least of all when you realise he's looking only half as abashed as you would be if he caught you mid-rendition, watching him dial down the volume on the radio as the door closes behind you.
Frankie had shown you this place once before. Your voice, light, teasing, hand in his: “You’re showing me where the magic happens?”
“I’ve shown you where that happens.”
“Not that magic—or, well, I hope you’re not about to tell me there are even more videos on a different site I need to watch. I’ve been forced to rewatch things lately.”
He’d explained, with a soft smile and a twinkle in his eye, how he’d turned the garage into a workshop. The hours, the pieces he’d started with and the things he’s managed to build, find or bargain for along the way. Even lingered his thumb over the height chart for Luca, the one he told you he began when he first bought the run-down house he made a home.
It was impressive then, but you hadn’t appreciated it as much as you do stepping in today.
You'd been too busy then, watching, studying him. Spotting the way he trailed his thumb across his bottom lip, eyes widening as they tried to smile before his lips as he pointed out highlights he knew you’d have seen from certain videos you’d mentioned.
Now, it's all lit by soft, mid-morning sunlight, looking homely, loved, worn in and appreciated—everything you’d expect from him.
Even if things are out, such as plasterboard and wood leaning against odd edges, everything else has a place. Just like the scent that wanders around and flows as if there’s a constant candle burning, one which includes notes of freshly applied paint, the essence of sawdust and leather. A blended aroma that subtlety clings to his clothes—and then lingers inside your own. A thing which brings comfort, until it seeps in sadness upon the realisation that it's faded from a sweater, bedsheets or your throw after a few days of not seeing him in person.
"Hi, handsome."
He grins, a hello escaping out as his knuckle tips your chin up, your smile back presses to his mouth. Tasting his lips, how they’re tinged with coffee. Frankie planting it more intently as your hands find their way around his waist, heightening it, fingers grasping your cheek.
You swear you could kiss him forever. A thought you know you have continuously, almost every time his mouth finds yours. But you mean it.
Completely. Utterly.
Your palms sliding around, fingers brushing over dry, hard paint specks buried into the soft, beloved cotton of his tee.
“So,” you say when you pull away, teeth biting your lip—finding yourself staring at him, as though his face alone answers everything.
In some ways, you're adamant it does. In others, you know it will.
A feeling that thrums more and more intensely as weeks rack up into months, as your heart flutters in your chest when his eyes hold yours for a second longer than normal.
“What has prompted this little requested visit?”
Grinning, he traces his thumb along your jaw. “Thought you could drill some holes—for your cupboards?”
Smirking, dragging your tongue in a sweeping motion across your lip, you tap your fingers on his waist. “Drill, ay? I didn’t… exactly come dressed to be in your workshop.”
“Wait,” he says, eyes widening, mouth pulled into a line as he brushes his fingers down the fabric of your summer dress that rests along your collarbone. “This isn’t an everyday DIY outfit?”
Grinning, you nudge into him, head shaking—hand grasping a handful of his tee. “No.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, voice dropping, charm encasing each letter as his hands find a home on your hips, “I’ll make sure you don’t get messy.”
A soft laugh escapes you, feeling the way his thumb continues its gentle circling on your cheekbone.
“You on cleanup duty, then?” you reply, the words muffled against his lips. He hums in response, a sound of agreement that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.
Without pulling away, he gently guides you towards the bench—hands on your side as his chin rests on your shoulder.
One glance at him, and he offers you a comforting smile. Before it comes over him, that voice—the one from the videos. All lightly, but sternly instructing you. Talking you through the steps, before he tells you to pick up the black and orange drill from in front of you.
A lick of warmth slides up your spine, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you press closer to him, your body beginning to buzz from the way he’s pressed against you—his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your waist.
“We’re going to begin with drilling the holes for the handles.”
Rolling your lips, you rest your head against his. “Okay.”
“What you’re gonna do is lightly ease the drill in.”
“Is that so?”
Clearing his throat, you swear you hear your name, it followed quickly by a “Stop.”
“Stop what, Frankie?”
It’s a grunt. A thing buried in his throat before he takes a measured sigh. His hand rises, gripping the top of the power tool before lining the drill bit with the marked wood.
“Being a tease—now, lightly pull the trigger.”
Blanking your face, staring at him with confusion. “So, push it in and out?”
You watch it hit him—slowly. It washes over him in a few blinks, your hips wiggling against his before he groans again. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m very innocent, Morales.”
“Mierda. You’re the opposite of innocent. And no, it’s straight down. Not in and out—we’re not… we’re not fucking it.”
Giggling, you bite the inside of your cheek, adjusting your stance as you swear his groin pushes into your ass on purpose. Finding a way to mumble an okay, you shift your shoulders in preparation. Asking, finger hovering over the trigger of the drill, if you squeeze it lightly as you feel him nod.
Swallowing, you give it a test. A little click. Hearing it, before you see thin crinkles of wood coming away from the pressure.
“Like that?”
Somehow, all beyond you, you manage to keep your voice steady. It all unwilling to tremble—even though his breath is dancing over your neck. Even though his hold on your hip is tightening.
Then there’s the heat pulsating through your dress—the warmth settling into your bones, skin and muscle from his touch. Your body remembering, recalling—able to know just from his presence what he can do, what he has done, how he can unravel you and make you become a mess all from his fingers, mouth and—
“Bit more pressure this time, baby.”
“You can’t say that.”
Snorting, the air dances over your skin as you swear you feel him smirk. “Oh, Rainy. I can.”
You swear his voice drops an octave.
Sweeping the words over you, making your body tense, muscles twisting in on themselves as you try to focus on the drill in your hand. Stare down at the piece of wood he’s set up for you until it’s a blur. Nodding. Finger over the button, knowing you just need to squeeze—
Perfect, he whispers.
And fuck it makes your thighs press together. Makes something rumble inside of you at the same time as the drill fires to life.
The noise is all loud, alarming—deafening. A hole deepening in the wood.
“That's it, just like that. Perfecto, hermosa.”
Even with how loud it is, you can only hear him.
How he layers so much emphasis on the P, the letter is still skating over your skin by the time the rest that follows it has left his tongue.
You can only swallow. Remaining aware, and yet focused in, on how his hand slides down, fingers teasing the end of your dress—a quickly thrown-on thing, an easy option that meant you could arrive here sooner.
“You’re perfect,” he says, kissing it against your neck as his hand slides under your dress, palm flat to your thigh, dragging it up, and up.
Some part of you, all distant, feels him take the drill, hears a click, before it’s out of sight, out of fucking mind.
Then it’s just thick fingers you focus on, how they slide, rub, torture over your underwear—feeling like minutes, hours, days before he manoeuvres. Before he’s forcing elastic to cut into your skin, before you feel him trace along the places you need him desperately.
“Frankie…”
He drags his nose against the side of your face, feeling the exhale flutter against your jaw before he makes you gasp before it grows into a shameless whine.
“This not what you wanted?”
Swallowing, your eyelids quiver. Some part of you, a present part of you that isn’t lost in the way he’s stroking up and down your slick folds, occasionally catching your clit, that he isn’t going to let you come like this.
Even if he's told you he likes the way you sound, has confessed that he likes watching you unravel; his favourite pastime, his favourite movie and soundtrack.
“Need to hear you, Rainy?”
“Want you,” you pant, breathless.
He fans hot breath on your skin. “Want me to fuck you here, baby? On my bench. Hmm?”
You’re fluttering, desperately to squeeze him—fingers or cock, you’re not in a frame of mind to be fussy.
Mind changing, singing, practically bellowing: please, please, fucking, please. Body thrumming, vibrating, legs desperate to shake—if not for the fact they’re keeping you upright. Your fingers find a place on his bench, digging, barely making a mark against the rest on his workbench. But it’s stable, rigid.
“Tell me, baby,” he says, softer, dripping it into your ear like honey—all encased in air that seeps inside of you and makes you forced to chase his lips.
It’s against them you say please. Kissing a y, an e and a s against his mouth, licking past his teeth, hips rocking into his fingers as he circles and circles and circles—
Then, nothing.
Retraction, emptiness. A desperate whine emerges, rising from the back of your throat until it fuses with the air.
An explanation almost demanded, but his belt buckle undoing silences you. His clothed cock presses against you, feeling how hard he is, the size of him making you clench your thighs as cool air kisses the back of your legs when he grabs a fist full of your dress.
“Gonna get rid of these.”
It’s deft, his finger—hooking in the band of your panties as he drags the soaked fabric down your thighs, letting it fall the rest of the way as the fabric finds a home around your ankles. For a moment they just remain there, not entirely confident you can step out of them until he holds you steady, talks you through it:
One foot, then the other. That's it, baby.
Because your body is on auto-pilot, doing things for you, for him. Like parting your thighs as his hand rests on your back as he softly urges you down. Your forearms find the bench, hingeing at the waist, lying your chest flat on his bench, sawdust filling your nose and stitching itself into the upper part of your dress as you turn your head, flakes sticking to your cheek.
And for a moment, an expanse of time, you forget how to breathe, how to be, where you are as you stare at him.
This man, this person who one day you didn’t know and the next you did—is now yours, all yours. Mine, he’d said in bedsheets after the conversation in the kitchen. Like that you’re mine, Rainy. A man you trust, like, lov—
Frankie, who is all handsome, broad and fucking kind, is now looking at you as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to devour in his life. Do it, you silently plead, beg, metaphorically getting on your knees as he washes you in almond-brown eyes.
He’s a sight you couldn’t have ever made up, least of all this one. Fingers, thick—one wrapped in a bandaid—pulling down on the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes, casting half of him in a shadow that makes you almost moan. There’s just the tip of his nose, just his mouth on show, lips spread and curled into a smirk as he lines his cock at your entrance.
You sure? He asks, fingers brushing over your hip, keeping the fabric back, as you smile, nod, and whisper for him to make you feel good before he eases the head of his cock in. It's then your mouth parts around a silent cry of his name, pussy welcoming each inch of him, opening, as you let him slide all he wants to give.
“Know you can take me,” he hushes, “I’m good at measurements, calculations—“
“Fuck.”
“Fuck, you like that.”
Whining his name, he smirks. Because both the feel of him and the act is something you couldn’t have ever concocted. Fuck, a year ago you wouldn’t believe the person you are either. Not this confident being almost laid down on his workbench, feeling this good, this attractive, all bold—asking for this, for what you want. No flicker of shyness or nervousness.
Then there’s him. A sight your mind is struggling to process. Frankie with his teeth glistening with spit as he stares down at you, as he sweeps that burning gaze over you and grunts at the feel of you. One hand, large, slightly calloused, finding meaning on your waist, the other holding your dress up your spine, pressing down, light, but firm—don’t move, baby, stay still.
As if you ever would.
The stretch is welcomed, a dull ache answered, all buried to the hilt. Remaining there, still.
“Move, please—fuck, Frankie, I beg of you.”
He chuckles. A low laugh.
But he does, pulling out before driving back in, making your vision swim, blur. It all overwhelming. Both the sensation and everything else—scents, sounds and touch. His hips slowly moving, his belt buckle clanging and it’s easier to find yourself draped over the bench, cheeks on the wood, inhaling it—the scent that lives in his clothes, in his fingers and aura.
Frankie, just Frankie. Your Frankie—
“So g—fuck—good for me.”
Your fingers dig, grasp—his cock kissing that spot inside of you that forces your toes to curl in your shoes, your mouth managing half of his name before it fades to a moan. All breathy, doused in whimpers and yes’s falling in a verse that leads to a chorus.
“Feel so—oh, good, Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
“Perfect. Feel perfect.”
He moans—low, tinged in a grunt, a hiss, your name etched somewhere in the sound—as he pulls almost all the way out, drawn out, an emptiness beginning to register before he thrusts in. Somehow deeper, somehow filling you more perfectly as you squeeze your grip on the bench.
And you’re close, all light and boneless—but heavy and alive, so alive you feel like fire courses in your veins and you could become more flame than a person.
“Come for me, baby. Right on my bench—fuck, you feel good, so tight—need y’to come. Right here.”
And it crashes against you, all of it. Suddenly unable to smell a thing, hear a thing—you just feel. Feel the sensation of just him and the tip of him hitting that spot which makes you arch as pleasure, all blinding and molten lava rushes through your blood, and flows into your muscles.
All numb and yet tingly.
It takes a moment, but your senses come back one by one, panting, breathless—muscles tired and depleted—as you feel his hips stuttering, the strained noises from behind forcing your eyes open.
He’s a picture, a work of art—a statue that should be carved by someone with talent. Sun streaks in and basks him in a golden hue, illuminating that heart patch on his jaw—the way his tongue is pinned between pearly white teeth, and the vein in his neck throbs angrily as he reaches his own climax.
You clench, aware of it, ogling and admiring pushing him over the edge as he curses, tensing, rigid, pace lost as he spills inside of you, happily taking it all, wishing to wring him dry and ensure he’s empty. Greedy, desperate and fucking needy.
Before his body finds refuge on top of yours, heart hammering against your spine—hat falling, tumbling off onto the floor as the two of you catch your breaths. His hand finds your cheek, stroking his thumb against it.
“Never… I’ve never done that before.”
Smiling, you gaze at him as best as you can. “I like how you drill,” you say, playfully, feeling his laugh rumble through him before he kisses your hairline.
It’s light—perfect.
Feeling the laugh bounce from bone to bone inside of you before he turns and eases you up, chest to chest, murmuring against your lips about a shower, about cleaning you up. And you keep smiling, even more so when he checks your chin and cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing over and over.
“You promised me I wouldn’t get messy.”
Thumb pausing on your cheek, he smirks. “I can clean you up, baby?”
Smirking, you shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “How are you planning on doing that?”
He tilts his head, before slowly grasping the bench, descending to his knees. Your mouth unable to stop itself from falling open, all wide, surprised as he presses a kiss to your knee.
“Might want to hold onto something, baby,” he says, writing it against your inner thigh. “Might take me a minute to make sure you’re all cleaned up.”
NEXT CHAPTER ->
an: while we still have some more chapters of these two, I've been experimenting with a few things and while it won't have any bearing on the main series, there will be some smutty-one-shots that can be read as and when, and if so people wish. they won't require reading of the series, but rather allow anyone to enjoy two people who are becoming comfortable with one another, exploring a few different things. i'm not sure on when the first will be out, but it won't replace normal uploads for them. but rather just be small little things i'd love to include but would feel shoe-horned into my plan. also if there's anything you'd love a bit more of, whether it's a bit more on rainy/frankie or their relationship, my inbox is always open. thank you for letting these pair into your heart.
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last line tag game
rules: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic/original/anything) and tag as many people as their are words.
ty for the tag @wintrwinchestr 💛
I've been flip flopping between 5 different fics over the last few weeks (this is what happens when I don't have a planned next release - I just work on everything all at once and it's a nightmare), but today inspo struck for part 2 of some good friend
this may or may not make the final cut, but I like the idea of it. smut below.
“I think you needed that more than usual, didn't you?” is all you mutter between his legs a moment later, and he whines, desperate to stop the heat of shame rising in his chest, making his cock twitch again between his legs. But then your fingers are easing out of him, swirling their way through the mess he'd made of himself before gently pressing back in - just one this time - to coat his insides with his own release.
gentle lil whispery tags to these bbs
@undercoverpena @sp00kymulderr @freelancearsonist @noxturnalpascal @theywhowriteandknowthings
@perotovar @corazondebeskar @missredherring
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i love y'all so have this heartbreaking moment as a gift
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Pedro Pascal - TUWOMT (2022) Deleted Scene "Chit Chat"
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