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jesus-in-the-womb · 4 months
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SCREAMING OMFG
i know it when i see it - part 6
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series masterlist | part one | ao3
pairing:  pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader
rating: explicit 18+ minors dni
word count: 7.3k
warnings: sex work, exhibitionism, public-ish sex, a lot of feelings, more feelings than porn tbh, dirty talk, explicit p in v sex, angst
summary: you fuck joel off-camera for the first time. it makes everything worse.
a/n: thank you for being patient and loving this story even when i am a disaster. it means the world to me.
Joel drives you home after the diner.
And it’s easy. Too easy. The comfortable silence stretching between you, the blur of streetlights and breeze catching your hair. Sated and soft-limbed, a little sore between your legs and at your wrists where the rope chafed. And when he exits off the 405, there’s a small, stupid part of you that wishes you could just keep driving. Head down to the PCH, go up the coast — just stay in that truck with him forever.
You don’t linger when he pulls up in front of your apartment. You can’t. Not with your belly full of syrup and sugar and something else, something so soft it scares the shit out of you. 
The apartment is dark when you get in, the only light spilling in through the window. It’s warm and untidy, remnants of the night left scattered across the coffee table. A popped cork, a lime wedge. A little tin of tobacco with a fingerprint pinched out of it.
You’re too restless to sleep, skirting the blurry edge of a breakdown, so you climb out onto the fire escape. The night air is cool, but it does nothing to soothe the burn beneath your skin, the furious storm of feelings scalding your insides.
You are so fucked. 
You don’t know what this is. It’s so much more than stolen kisses in school hallways, breathless sex in the back seat of cars — all the things that came before. The fast-fading infatuations, the slowburn of affection left charred and smoking. The men that used to mean something, the ones with names you once wrote in your diary, faces now blurry and indistinct.
Nothing has ever felt like this. This want that has teeth and claws and could tear you apart. 
And it’s so embarrassing. To want like this, to feel the way you do about him. You’re supposed to be a sex symbol, for fuck’s sake. You’ve seen more dicks in the last month than most people do in their entire lives. But every time you’re around him you feel small and girlish and so tangled up with feeling that you can’t think straight. 
Porn isn’t real. The fucking isn’t even real most of the time. It’s all so calculated and precise, a veneer of sex over clumsy mechanics and awkward angles. Every touch rehearsed, every orgasm pre-planned. It doesn’t mean anything. You know that.
But when you’re with Joel, it’s so easy to believe the lie. To get caught up in the fantasy, the feeling. The stupid, desperate hope that maybe he’ll still want you when the cameras stop rolling.
You stub out your last cigarette, smearing ash on the windowsill before you climb back inside. 
The receipt with Joel’s number is still tucked into the book by your bedside. The creased edges are now smooth from your fingertips, the ink a little smudged. You’ve spent too many nights staring at it, willing yourself to find a reason to call.
Something always stops you.
The thing is — if he wanted you, he could have you. He must see it in your face every time you look at him. That open and obvious hunger, the desire that’s eating you alive. Sitting across from him at the diner, spilling your messy history between the salt shakers. It would have been so easy for him to take your hand if he wanted to.
But he hadn’t. 
Because he doesn’t want you, not like that.
Fuck.
It was so much easier when he was an asshole. When he kept you at arm's length, all frown lines and frustrating stoicism. At least then you knew where you stood. Now you’re not sure what he feels for you. If he likes you at all or if he just tolerates you because you’re good at making him come. 
You’re so sure of everything — this city, this business, all the bridges you burned to get here.
Everything except him. 
And that scares the shit out of you. 
x x x x x
Tess was right — people will pay good money to see you get tied up.
The bondage scene sells better than anything you’ve ever done before. And it’s not a surprise, not really. There’s an appetite for rough, for raw. Women writhing and whining, at the mercy of some big strong stud. The wet dream of every soft-boiled middle man across America, wheezing his way to a disappointing orgasm while his wife cooks him dinner.
You wonder if they could still get their rocks off if they knew how gentle Joel was with you after, how he rubbed the ache from your wrists and asked if you were hungry. Probably not. 
Soft doesn’t sell.
You’re getting more work, bigger roles. Your name is more than just small print. Not quite top billing, but you’re getting close. You always have your own dressing room on set, some tidy impersonal trailer, a vase of wilting flowers on the vanity.
It’s less of a mystery — this business, this world. The flashbulb and fantasy of it all. You know how to play the game now. Leveraging your looks, your little sliver of celebrity, that slight shimmer to the air around you. The way the world opens, unfolds, and all you have to do is lean a little.
Tess picks up a bag of fanmail from the production office and you spend an afternoon going through it. The envelopes spread across the kitchen table, a bottle of red airing out in the decanter. A record spins in the living room, the music drifting through the open doorway as you sift through the pile.
Each letter is worse than the last — all vaguely obscene, occasionally bordering on the obsessive. Clumsy declarations of devotion, promises to leave their wives. Fumbling, sweaty prose about all the ways they want to fuck you. Requests for a pair of panties, return addresses enclosed. A few polaroids of blunt and blurry erections.
Tess holds one of them up for you.
“This one says he’ll make you feel things you’ve never felt before.”
You raise an eyebrow at the picture. The sad, shriveled foreskin peeking out from coarse hair.
“Pretty sure I wouldn’t feel anything.”
Tess snorts, and tosses the picture into a pile with the other discarded dicks.
You have a stack of your own pictures in front of you, an assortment of headshots and pretty girls taken from different shoots. Your wrist is getting sore from signing them, a headache pinching between your eyes as you write love from Lucky for the millionth time. There’s a small collection of cheap perfume on the table, and you douse each picture before slipping it in its envelope.
It’s tedious and un-sexy, this part of the job. Selling the fantasy, the idea of access. You have to let them think they have a chance. That all their rutting and grunting is worthwhile. Every ticket they buy, every tape they slip into a discreet plastic sleeve brings them just a little bit closer to you. You’re the girl-next-door, the girlfriend they’ll get after the divorce. Utterly, eternally available. 
Their Lucky.
You know that it’s all part of the game, but you think you liked her best when she was just yours. This careful creation, the girlish monster made from glitter and wet dreams, gazing out from glossy pages. It’s a little less satisfying when you have to share her with everyone else.
“So,” Tess says casually, still rifling through the pile, “You and Joel.”
Your hand slips on the photo you’re signing, looping the y in Lucky into a figure-eight. Your heart flutters somewhere at the base of your throat, and you try to keep your voice level.
“I thought you weren’t getting involved.”
Tess shrugs, “Call it professional curiosity.”
You hesitate, staring down at your own picture, that soft-focus glow.
You could tell her — you know that you could. It’s not like there are any other secrets between you. She’s seen you through every shade of debauchery. Spunk in your hair, rug burns on your knees. She won’t judge you. Tease you a little, probably. That wry smile, the knowing glint in her eye, something like I fucking knew it on her lips.
But you can’t bring yourself to say it, to spill the messy contents of your heart onto her kitchen table. It feels too raw, too real. An exposed nerve, an ache you don’t want to draw attention to. 
“Nothing happened,” you tell her, which is only sort of a lie, “and nothing is going to happen.”
The second part feels like the truth, even if it settles like lead in your stomach. Nothing is going to happen. He doesn’t want you the way that you want him. And you just have to deal with it.
Tess raises an eyebrow, “So that little stunt in my living room?”
You blush, although you wish you wouldn’t.
“We got a little carried away.”
“Is that all?”
You drop your gaze. Because you can’t look at her when you think about the other things. When he touched you outside of the bar, or at the party in the hills. That time in Bill’s office. All of the moments you’ve stolen off-camera, the little scraps of a nameless something that you wish meant something more.
You can’t tell her, because it’s embarrassing. A bit of flirtation, a few friendly smiles — that’s all it took. You don’t need her to know how easy you are. 
“It doesn’t mean anything,” you mutter.
It doesn’t. Not to him, anyways, and that’s sort of the important part. 
Tess tilts her head, “You sure about that?”
Her tone is still light, but her gaze is — sharp. Dissecting. Pulling apart every nerve and synapse, tugging at the tender flutter of truth beneath. She knows you’re lying, but she can’t figure out why.
You push back from the table, suddenly antsy, agitated. You need something stronger than wine. 
There’s a bottle of bourbon on the bar cart, and you give yourself a heavy pour. Tess’s eyes are on you, searing, but you don’t quite meet her gaze when you ask —
“You want some?”
Tess frowns, “Can we cut the bullshit?”
You glare at her.
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
Tess leans back, folding her arms over her chest, “Look, I just need to know if this thing is going to blow up in my face.”
Heat flares in your cheeks. 
“There is no thing.”
Tess gives you a look. Flat, unimpressed.
“I have eyes, kid.”
You drop your gaze, staring at the inch of bourbon in the glass. Fuck. There’s the awful burn of tears behind your eyes and blink hard, trying to keep them at bay. But you can feel the flimsy thing you call resolve starting to slip.
“Hey,” Tess leans across the table, softening, “Do I need to kick his ass?”
You laugh, a weak, watery sound. 
“He’s twice your size.”
“Yeah, but I fight dirty,” Tess smirks.
You scoff and scrub a hand across your face.
The thing is — Joel hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. And it twists uncomfortably in your stomach, the idea that you’ve made a mess of things between them. It’s not his fault that you can’t keep your feelings in check. That stupid fluttering want, growing arms and legs and getting out of control.
“I just got caught up,” you say.
“It happens,” she shrugs, “But if he’s fucking with your head—”
“He’s not.”
You think of what Joel told you at the bar, when you asked why he had kissing on his rider. Stops the lines from blurring. He told you where his line was. It’s your own stupid fault for thinking it meant something else.
“Look, I’m a big girl,” you sigh, “I'm not going to break.”
Tess gives you a warm look.
“Trust me, I know,” she says, lip curling, “Toughest slut around.”
You laugh and think — enough. 
This is enough.
You’re not starved for love. Most of the time you’re surrounded by it — in breathless laughter, dancing in the kitchen, piled together on the couch. Here, in the warm glow of the kitchen light, shuffling through a stack of smutty fan letters with the first person who looked at you like you meant something.
You don’t need anything else, anyone else.
You don’t need him.
And maybe, if you keep telling yourself that, it’ll start to feel true.
x x x x x
The season slips into winter, but the weather doesn’t change. Seventy-five and sunny, the Santa Anas coming down from the hills, catching at the ends of your hair and hem of your dress.
You’re going the tiniest bit crazy. Not thinking about Joel, not asking Tess about him when he calls. Tamping the feeling down, trying to starve it into submission. You have to find a way to shape it into something you understand, to tame the raw want inside of you into something a little more survivable. 
The other girls are just as bored, just as listless. Wearing silk robes and waifing around the apartment, waiting for the phone to ring. Drinking flat champagne before noon, chasing the stale taint of it with coffee. The afternoons are blurred and boring. Plucking at a six string someone left behind after a party, a tuneless buzzing chord. Only one of them can actually play, but she hasn’t been in the mood since that pianist broke her heart last month. 
You’re all itching to do something interesting, possibly illicit. 
You decide to go to The Daisy, with its velvet ropes and brick patio, the rotating crowd of up-and-comers, the membership fee you could never afford. But men with money don’t like to drink alone, and rules always bend for pretty girls. There’s a line out the door — stilettos and slacks curling around the corner of Rodeo — but the list has your names on it. 
You try to hide your smiles, your giddy laughter as you’re led to one of the shiny, upholstered booths. Inside, the air is heavy and sweet, cigar smoke spilling out over the crowded bar. The tables are packed, extra chairs pulled up to make room, overflowing ashtrays. Waiters weave between tables, trays held aloft. The whole place has a glossy, dreamlike quality. A bottle of champagne sweats in the bucket and the little row of waiting glasses catch the light.
The bottle pops and sprays, spilling over your fingers. The other girls cheer and hold their glasses aloft, faces flushed and smiling. You fill your own glass and settle back in the booth. The music is loud and terrible, but the alcohol helps, softening the edges of the room, filling your belly with a warm blur of feeling.
One of the girls nudges you.
“You caught one,” she whispers, nodding towards the bar.
You follow her gaze and find a guy at the bar watching you, his fingers gone slack on the neck of his beer. When your eyes meet his, he flushes and gives you a sheepish sort of grin. He’s handsome in a way that’s in fashion — the overlong shag of hair, a scruffy sort of softness. A little boyish for your liking, a little smooth. 
Not like Joel, an unhelpful part of your brain supplies, and you tell it to fuck off.
You smile back at him, fluttering your fingers in a wave that makes him go even redder.
More bottles arrive at your booth, and you don’t know who’s sending them but you don’t really care. Men come up to the table sometimes, stale with cologne and well-rehearsed lines. I saw you from across the room. I had to come say hello. You all hide your smiles behind sips of champagne and say things like that’s so sweet and maybe the next song.
One of the girls gets up to join a game of 8-ball, racking up alongside some Central Casting square-jaw who looks ready to lose his life savings. Another wanders away in search of acid, catching the wrist of one of the wide-eyed, too-young teenagers by the bathrooms.
“Excuse me?”
You look up.
It’s the guy from the bar. His shoulders sloping, his posture unsure as he offers his hand out for you to shake. He says his name — shouts it, actually — but it gets swallowed up by the music. He’s a little sweaty, a little breathless when he asks if he can buy you a drink. 
You’re not sure if it’s because you’re pretty or because of the porn. You decide it doesn’t really matter. He's looking at you with an open, earnest kind of interest. The attention is nice — overt. There’s no mystery to it.
You slide over, making room for him at the end of the booth. He doesn’t ask for your name, but you have a feeling he already knows. He flicks his hand for a waiter and orders a round of shots. You can tell he’s trying to impress you, and you don’t mind, really.
He tells you that he’s in a band — the one with the billboard on Vine and the album full of all those miserable little love songs. Trite and terrible and topping the charts anyways. There’s an eager sort of flush to his cheeks, a nervous twitch in his hand when he curls his arm around the back of the booth, like he’s itching to get even closer. 
“I’ve, uh, seen some of your films,” he says, and you can tell he’s been waiting to bring it up. You’re used to it by now, the way that men will trip over themselves to talk about sex. 
But that’s fine. Sex is easy. It's always been easy. You’re good at it — you have the proof in your scenes, in the ticking rise of your bank balance, the bills stuffed under the mattress, the messages scrawled on bar napkins. 
It’s everything else that gets complicated.
You lean in, and suddenly you’re her again. Lucky. Her curling lip, her fluttering lashes. His eyes drop to your necklines, the way the fabric drapes to expose the curve of your breasts.
“Which one’s your favorite?” you ask. 
It takes him a second to respond, to drag his eyes away from your chest. He flushes when he realizes you caught him staring.
“Uh, the bar one,” he stammers, “It was, I mean, you were good in it.”
You think of the bar scene. Joel on his knees in the back room, the heat of his mouth at your center. The teasing sort of smile on his lips when he realized you were close to coming, the low murmur of his voice in your ear. I’ll take care of you.
Shit. 
That was a mistake. You didn’t want to think about Joel right now.
You take another shot, feel the bitter slide of it down your throat. It helps a little. The burn searing the edges of the memory, blurring the details.
The musician’s hand slips a little lower on your waist, the fabric rippling beneath his smooth, uncalloused touch.
Maybe this is good. Maybe if you have a taste of something real, then your feelings for Joel won’t matter so much. You can’t keep waiting, can’t keep wanting. 
You curl your hand around the collar of the musician’s jacket, tugging him close enough to smell the gin on his breath, see the spark of excitement behind his glazed eyes.
“Kiss me,” you tell him.
Because someone should.
He leans in. The press of his lips against yours is eager, a little sloppy as he slides his tongue against yours. His hand slips down your waist, resting at the curve of your ass. His nose bumps against yours, his breath coming in frantic little pants. 
And it’s — well. It’s a kiss. 
But you feel nothing. Less than nothing. 
Maybe a little nauseous.
When you pull away, the musician grins at you, a boyish sort of eagerness in his expression. Best kiss of his life, probably. You try to smile back, but you don’t really want to be here anymore.
You don’t want some soapy upstart pawing at your dress. You don’t want his awful, ginny breath in your ear as he promises to write you a song. You don’t want to be the story he tells his friends tomorrow, bragging about the blue movie star he talked into bed. 
The other girls have disappeared. It’ll probably be a few hours before they’re ready to call it a night. You look past him, gaze drifting over the lilting crowd — 
And then you freeze. Lead settles in the pit of your stomach.
Because Joel is standing across the bar.
Watching you.
And you think, for a second, that you must be imagining it. He can’t be here, not really. You must have conjured him from your haze of frustrated feeling, placed him there amidst the smoky air and spinning bodies.
Except he looks — pissed.
Angrier than you’ve ever seen him, in a way that you would never imagine, would never want him to look at you.
And you’re suddenly aware of the musician’s hand on your hip, a stinging self-consciousness. It’s much less scandalous than most of the things that you do on camera. But suddenly it feels wrong. Unwelcome.
You shiver away from him slightly. He notices and pulls his arm back.
“Sorry,” you say, the apology tripping out. But you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at Joel.
Joel who is just — staring at you. Jaw tight, eyes dark. A brooding mass of a man, the rage rolling off of him in waves.
And then he’s turning away, melting back into the sea of strangers. 
He’s leaving. 
You sink back into the booth, your heart in your throat. The musician taps his fingers on the table, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands now that they’re not on you.
You stare at the spot where Joel was standing.
The low buzz of alcohol in your belly, the taste of some other man’s mouth on your tongue. And still all you can think about is him. Those rough hands, that grip he has on you. 
You shouldn’t go after him, you can’t. You’ve been trying to get over this, stomp on the embers of that stupid affection before you get burned even worse. You can’t let him ruin your night, he doesn’t get to have this, he doesn’t get to —
You’re out of the booth before you realize you’re even standing. 
The musician looks up at you in mild confusion, maybe a flash of contempt.
“I'll be right back,” you say, and then you’re slipping away through the crowd, following Joel.
You weave your way across the room, past the twist and spill of bodies from the dance floor, the anxious line for the bathroom, the smoke-dense patio door. You catch up to him in the front hall, with its brocade wallpaper and faded brown carpet. There’s the silhouette of the doorman through the door at the end, but otherwise you’re alone.
“Joel.”
He stops short. Muscles tensing, shoulders bunching beneath his shirt. When he turns to face you, that look from before is gone. He’s stony and stoic as ever, completely unreadable.
“I was just on my way out,” he says, voice tight.
You frown.
“And you weren’t going to say anything?”
His expression shifts, mask slipping. You catch a flash of anger, of irritation. 
“Seemed like you were busy.” 
There’s a bite to it, a snarl. 
Something like shame coils low in your stomach but it doesn’t last, because it’s not fucking fair. You were trying to get away from him. Drown out the memory of his touch with someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. And now you’re back to feeling as stupid and girlish as you always do around him. 
You fold your arms across your chest and glare up at him.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
The muscle in his jaw ticks.
“You want to climb all over some guy at a bar, be my guest.”
And it stings, even if it shouldn’t, even though you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
You glare at him.
“Fuck you.”
Joel’s gaze flashes over your shoulder. A few people linger at the mouth of the hallway, peering over their shoulders with interest. Goddamn fucking voyeurs.
Joel shakes his head, “We’re not doing this here.”
He wrenches a side door open, and jerks his head. Go on. You step inside, away from the curious eyes. An acidic sort of anger roiling in your stomach, seething.
It’s dark inside, the single overhead light coated in dust and the tarry smear of old cigarettes. The walls are lined with coat racks, the air heavy with stale perfume, the humid taint of weed. The door snaps shut behind you, muffling the music. 
You turn to face him and — shit.
He’s close. 
You can see the flecks of amber in the dark brown of his eyes, the little threads of gray through his beard. Heat radiates from him, warm and whisky-scented. Your stomach swoops low, and for a second you forget that you were arguing. It’s hard to hold your ground when he takes up so much fucking space, eats up all the air in the room.
“You come here with him?” he asks, jutting his chin back towards the main room. 
And you want to say no, I didn’t, but even if I did, it wouldn’t matter, because his tongue was down my throat and I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. 
But you can’t, obviously you can’t, so instead you settle on —
“I don’t even know him.”
Joel raises an eyebrow.
“Looked real cozy to me.”
You flush, anger and embarrassment roiling together in the pit of your stomach. 
“Since when do you care who I fuck?”
Joel scoffs, “I don’t.”
But it’s a lie. 
You can see it. The twitch in his jaw, the flex of his fingers at his side. There in the burning heat of his gaze — he’s jealous. And he’s doing a really shitty job at pretending otherwise.
The realization flickers through you like a flame, heat igniting low in your belly. That want, that hunger. The thing about him that makes you soft and unsure and so fucking needy. Because now you can see it reflected back at you.
And maybe you don’t know how he feels. Maybe you don’t know if this is real, if it means what you want it to mean, if anything changes after tonight. 
But right now you know he wants you just as bad as you want him. 
You take a step closer, and he goes still. Tense. Watching you, brow furrowed. Wary. Almost like he’s a little afraid of you, afraid of the line you’re about to cross.
And it makes you bold, makes you reckless. 
You raise your hand to his chest, laying your hand over his heart, feeling the rhythm stutter and then double beneath your touch. 
“I don’t believe you,” you say quietly.
That line between his brows deepens, the muscle in his jaw twitching. 
But he doesn’t stop you.
Not when you drag your hand down his chest, over the tense muscles of his stomach. Not when your fingertips catch on his belt. Not even when you go lower, sliding over the front of his jeans, cupping the thick shape of him through the denim. 
He hisses a breath through his teeth, and you tilt your head up at him.
“Feels like you care a lot,” you murmur.
Joel’s hand darts out and catches your wrist, holding you fast. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide they edge out any of the brown.
“You are treading on some mighty thin ice here,” he says, voice so low and edged in warning, the threat heavy on every syllable.
And maybe that would make you back off — if he wasn’t so hard for you.
You lean in even closer, your pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips where he holds your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise, but not enough to stop you.
“If you want to fuck me so bad, you can just say so,” you tell him.
Then you tilt your head. 
A challenge. 
A dare.
“Unless you want me to go back out there and let him do it.”
Joel moves fast. An angry, animal sound tearing from his chest as he turns you, presses you up against the wall. Your breath catches in your throat, stuck somewhere in the thrum of your pulse, the rush of blood that makes you dizzy. You feel the heat of his body at your back, crowding up against you, trapping you there against the wall. 
“Not goin’ anywhere,” he grunts.
And you can’t help the smile that curls at your lip, the little spark of vindication that is smothered by a surge of arousal as his mouth drags over your pulse.
“Fuck — Joel,” you gasp. 
His breath is hot on your neck, beard scraping against your cheek as he bites at your jaw. Your breath catches in your throat, and you press back against him. Wanting more, needing more, more of him, always. 
And it’s like he knows, like he can feel it. He slides his hand around to your waist, pulling you up and back, angling your hips so you can feel — oh. 
“This what you need?” he mutters, grinding the weight of his cock against you.
And maybe he’s not looking for an answer, but you give him one anyways, a slur of fuck and yes and Joel, please. He grunts and grips you tighter, pulls you even closer, dragging his nose down your neck, biting at the curve of your shoulder.
“Need to get fucked so bad you’d let that asshole touch you?”
His hand slides up over your stomach to cup your breast in his palm, kneading it roughly beneath his palm. He thumbs at your nipple, raising it to a peak, and a little whine slips through your lips.
Joel makes a satisfied sound against your throat.
“He wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with you, baby.”
He rucks up the front of your dress and slides his hand down to the wet heat between your legs. He strokes at the damp fabric of your panties, fingertips teasing over your leaking center. 
“And what about this, huh?” he murmurs, nipping at your throat, “All this for me or for him?”
You keen, nails scraping against the wall as you try to arch further into him.
“For — fuck. For you, Joel.”
He hums against your skin. 
“That's what I thought.”
He slides his hand up your trembling thigh, the scrape of his callouses leaving a trail of goosebumps. There’s a tug and a tear, the thin lace of your underwear ripping easily under his hands. 
His fingers slide through your slick, the sticky mess between your legs. You’re so wet for him, arousal dripping down the inside of your thigh in a way that would be embarrassing if you could think about anything other than the weight of his cock against you. His fingers brush against your clit and your stomach twists, insides empty and aching, desperate to be filled.
And then two thick fingers slide into you, punching the breath from your lungs. Joel grunts, biting at your shoulder, the bruising scrape of his teeth over your pulse. 
“Fucking tight.”
His wrist flexes, fingers driving deep into you, brushing up against that spot that makes you see stars. Your breath hitches, and you grind back down against his hand. It’s not enough, not when you’re this wound up, when you want him so badly you can barely breathe.
“More,” you whine, “I need — shit. More, please.”
“I know,” he murmurs, “I know what you need.”
He drags his hand back, leaving a trail of slick between your thighs.
You hear the soft clink of metal behind you, his belt coming undone. He shoves your dress up, tangling it in his fist and holding it against your hip. You feel the brush of his knuckles against your ass as he works his cock, slicking it with your arousal.
You're almost dizzy with pleasure, the need overwhelming, when he nudges at your entrance, the heat of him parting your folds. And you feel the scrape of his beard against your cheek, his hot breath on the back of your neck.
“Is this what you want?”
“Fuck — yes,” you pant, “Want it, want you.”
He fills you in one thrust. The weight of him inside you smothering that emptiness, filling the lonely spaces. Your eyes sting at the stretch — because it still is, even now, even after you’ve taken him so many times, it still feels like he’s splitting you in two. 
You gasp, his name breaking between your lips, “Joel —”
He doesn’t give you a second to breathe, to think. He rocks his hips against yours, driving even deeper, pressing up into that almost painful pleasure, that ache low in your belly. 
He swears under his breath, his grip on your hips tightening. 
“So good at taking this cock,” he grunts, his thrusts coming hard, “So goddamn good.”
You brace yourself against the wall, letting him fuck you the way he wants, the way you need. His one hand at your hip, fisting the fabric of your dress, the other across your chest, keeping you tight against him. His cock driving deeper and deeper, stoking the heat inside your core, that spring that coils tighter and tighter. 
And then you hear voices outside. 
Joel stills, fingers flexing on your hips. 
You can hear them, just beyond the door, a low murmur of conversation. Soft and slurred, the words misshapen. And you can imagine them there, dawdling in the hallway, cocktail glasses dangling from fingertips, perfume fogging the air.
Joel scrapes his teeth along your jaw.
“Gotta be quiet for me, baby.”
He starts fucking you again. Slow, grinding thrusts. His cock dragging against your walls, barely leaving your wet heat before he pushes back in. It nudges up against that spot and you gasp.
The voices outside pause.
Joel presses his damp fingers over your mouth.
“What’d I say about being quiet?” 
He keeps you like that, his hand tight over your mouth as he fucks you. 
It’s all dizzying touch and quiet, panting breaths. The steady drive of his cock inside you, the moans tearing at your throat, fighting to get out. Heat builds and builds until you’re right on the edge, right on the shivering precipice. And you know Joel can feel it, the soft spasm of your muscles.
“That's it,” Joel grunts, “Come on my cock.”
And you do, breaking apart under his hands, the pleasure ripping through you in a white-hot wave until you’re a trembling, gasping mess. The world narrows and blurs until all you can feel is Joel filling you, fucking the last few, hazy thoughts from your head. 
Until it’s just him.
There you go, he’s saying, his voice low in your ear, all rumbling softness, all desperate hunger. Just like that. A sharp bite right beneath your jaw, his stubble brushing against your cheek. His grip bruising, his voice wrecked. So good for me.
He drops his head to your shoulder and you can feel the furrow of his brow, his breath hot and heavy as he pants against your skin. His hips stutter as he spills inside you, a heavy warmth that spreads like a fever, sticky and messy and good.
You stay like that, the wall cool beneath your cheek. The heat of Joel’s body pressed against you in the dark, the space between your bodies damp with sweat. Your breaths come ragged and raw, the air humid. You feel the soft press of his lips against your shoulder. 
And then the door opens. 
Light from the hall spills over you, exposing the tangle of your bodies together. There’s a gasp and an embarrassed sorry! before it snaps shut again.
There’s a moment of quiet tension. 
And then you start laughing. Because — fuck. 
“Goddamnit it,” Joel mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice. 
He pulls out of you, and you can feel the little spill of semen dripping down your thighs. But you’re used to it by now. Most of your life is spent covered in sweat and come.
You turn, leaning against the wall, grinning up at him in the dark. 
“So much for being quiet.”
He grimaces.
“Reckon the whole bar will be hearing about it now.”
You shrug, “Nothing they haven’t seen before.”
He looks down at you. All the anger is gone from his gaze now, and there’s that soft tinge of fondness you recognize from the diner. The way he looked when you poured too much sugar in your coffee, too much syrup on the pancakes. It’s warm, and it makes everything inside you fuzz.
He brushes a sweaty strand of hair off your face. 
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I'm good.”
His thumb strokes along your neck, the tender skin there. You wonder if he left a mark. You sort of hope he did.
“I was rough on you.”
You smile, “I can handle rough.”
“Yeah,” he nods, “Know you can.”
His hand lingers there, at the base of your neck. His gaze is heavy even as his touch stays soft, and you suppress a shiver. His hand trails down, grazing the side of your breast, stroking over your hip. Your breath catches when you feel him tug up your dress again, knuckles brushing the tender skin of your inner thigh.
You start to shake your head, “We shouldn’t —“
You cut off in a moan as his hand slides between your legs, cupping your sticky wet sex. 
“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs, his fingers dragging through your damp folds.
He ducks face into your neck, scrapes his teeth over your collarbones, tasting the sweat that’s gathered there. He pushes your dress down, mouth closing around your nipple.  Your hands dart up to clutch at his shoulders.
“Joel,” you gasp, “People need their — fuck — coats.”
“Fucking seventy degrees out,” he mutters, “Nobody needs a goddamn coat.”
His fingers find your clit. Slow, steady strokes, a pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. Your hips twitch, chasing the scrape of his callouses, that almost too much touch. His fingers slide down to tease at your entrance, catching his own come as it drips from your slit.  
You can still feel the low build of arousal deep in your core, that ache that somehow hasn’t been satisfied. It’s not enough, you think, maybe it won’t ever be enough. Maybe you’ll always want more of him.
His mouth is hot against your chest, teeth and tongue sliding from one breast to the other. You shudder at the feeling, your cunt clenching down on his fingers, and his groan vibrates against your sternum.
You feel dizzy, weak-kneed and too hot, but he holds you steady. One arm around your waist, the other steady between your legs. The feeling flickers through you. The heat of his mouth, the slow rub of his fingers.
It’s different this time, a syrup-thick drip of pleasure that tips and spills, burning low in your belly. You tilt your face up towards Joel and he watches as you come, dissolving under his touch, breaking into a million soft, shivering pieces.
When he pulls his hand from between your legs, his fingers shine with your combined release. He slips them between your lips. His come and yours, sticky sweet and heady. You hold his gaze as you lick them clean, tongue sliding in the space between his fingers. 
He lets them linger there for a moment, fingertips on the swell of your bottom lip. 
You look up at him, at those dark eyes tinged with amber, and for once, you can read him. You can see all the things he’s so good at hiding. There’s still that hunger, that heat. But there’s something else too, something so tender that it makes your stomach clench.
His eyes flicker down to your mouth, and your heart stutters. For a second, you think he might kiss you. It’s against the rules, his rules, but still. He’s so close, so warm and solid against you. You want him to rip you open, to eat you raw. 
Then something shifts in his gaze. That warmth, that softness flickers and dies.
He takes a step back. Drops his gaze, clears his throat.
“I, uh — I should go.”
Your stomach sinks. Just drops, straight through the dirty carpet, through cement, down to the fucking fault lines below. The places where his hands held you turn cold, a chill catching on your skin.
“Oh.”
His throat works, fighting for the right words.
“I mean, I don’t do — this.”
You don’t know what this is, but you suspect he might mean you. And it aches, it stings, burning in your chest and behind your eyes. But you can’t fall apart, you won’t. Not in front of him.
“It's fine,” you say, “It’s just sex, right?” 
Joel looks at you for a moment. Then nods.
“Yeah.”
You swallow and it hurts, but you keep your expression even. You smooth down your dress, the places where it wrinkled beneath his hand.
“I guess I’ll see you around then,” you say.
Because you need him to go now. The air feels thick, too heavy with the smell of sex and heat and him. Your skin feels a little too tight, achy in the wrong ways.
“Right,” he says.
He turns, headed for the door. He stops with his hand on the doorknob, hesitates for just a second. But then he’s pulling it open, stepping out in the hallway. And then he’s gone.
Leaving you alone in the dark with that gnawing want, the aching bruise of unreciprocated affection. And something else.
A hungry, hopeful little thing that wonders if maybe it’s not all in your head.
​​x x x x x
You make it home, eventually. Finding your friends in the darkness of the bar, piling into a sweaty cab, pressed between them. You’re quiet, but they’re loud, still buzzing from the night's adventure, talking over each other, laughing and asking the driver to turn up the radio.
You don’t want to be alone, so you crawl into bed with one of the girls.
Her sheets are warm and her hands are gentle when they find you, patting over the sheets until her fingers tangle in yours. She pulls you close, wrapping her arms around you and tucking you into the soft shell of her body.
You lay like that for a moment, the glow of the streetlight slating across the room, spilling tepid light across dirty laundry and last night's heels.
“You smell like sex,” she mumbles against your hair.
And you want to laugh, but you also sort of want to cry, so the sound that comes out is sort of strangled, a sob and a scoff all at once. She pulls back, brow furrowed, and studies you for a long moment.
“What happened?”
You don't know what to say, where to begin. How to unriddle the mess of feeling that lives inside you. But she must read something in your face — that desperate obviousness, the disease of feeling. She can tell, the way that girls can always tell, can see it in each other. 
“You okay?” she whispers.
And honestly — you don’t know. 
Coming here was supposed to solve things, answer the impossible riddle of yourself. You wanted to be like the girls in the magazines, and now you are. But it hasn’t answered anything. The future still stretches uncertain and strange, a haze of half-hopes. 
You bury your face in the pillow and feel the slip of angry, exhausted tears.
You’re older than you’ve ever been and still feel so young, so unsure of so many things. You thought things would be different if you made people see you.
But you’re starting to realize you only care if one person is looking. 
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jesus-in-the-womb · 9 months
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^ real
When I find me some fucks I'm going to give them to you. Until then I have no fucks to give
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jesus-in-the-womb · 9 months
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hehe🤭🤭
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jesus-in-the-womb · 9 months
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I hope you bitches are ready for this work of art im making right now. So much smut and angst... ugh im a menace to society, someone stop me. <3
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jesus-in-the-womb · 9 months
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me and my sleep paralysis demon looking at my monitor while i write a new pedro pascal one shot…. hehehe i’m back bitchesssss
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jesus-in-the-womb · 9 months
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me and my sleep paralysis demon looking at my monitor as i write a whole new pedro pascal one shot… i’m back bitchessss
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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SEND ME PROMPTS PLEASE
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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Hello, my darlings, I apologize for my lack of activity recently, I had left my MacBook charger at a friend's house so I was computerless for a few days lol. But, the charge is back in my possession and I cannot wait to continue writing more things for you all!!! stay tune thoties <3
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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Gilded Lily ~ 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈 JOEL MILLER
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Summary: You and Joel have spent the last few months caring for Ellie as you escort her to the fireflies. Over the course of these months, the two of you have grown strong feelings for one another. Joel begins to grow fearful of failing Ellie, alongside you. This fear leads to him fighting with the two of you, ignoring his love for you and ignoring his parental instincts for Ellie. Will he force the two of you to continue on without him? Or will he man up and accept his feelings?
Warnings: Nothing too naughty in this chapter, just a few swear words and angsty comments. So really, just Angst and Fluff. :) "Emotionless" Joel NO USE OF Y/N
Word Count: 2,248
“I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to say, Joel,” you spoke, your brows furrowing as his body language became agitated.
“I’m saying that I can’t do this anymore,” he spits, the venom dripping from his tongue like a sickly sweet honey coating a serpent’s fangs.
“Okay, but can’t what? Walk up this hill?” Ellie was absolutely perplexed, her eyes flighting between the two adults who stood before her with knowing looks on their faces and standoffish stances.
“No, Ellie, I can’t walk anymore. I can’t smuggle you anymore,” he turned to you, his gaze growing cold, “and I can’t stand your fucking face anymore.”
To say you felt your heart crumble into a million pieces was an understatement. It felt as though Joel plunged his heavy fist into your chest, ripping out your heart and stomping it beneath his mud-coated boots. You’d known the man for a concise amount of time, only a handful of months. But, months felt like years in this world, each day a fucking blessing from whatever god there was. You felt like you’d known Joel for years, Ellie too. You grew an attachment to both of them, feelings obviously varying from each other. Ellie felt like a younger sister, due to your somewhat close age proximity, seeing her as a daughter was far from your mental capacity. Joel, however, had this immense hold over you. It didn’t matter that he was in his mid to late 50s and you were at your ripe age of 28. You couldn’t deny the absolute love you held for him. Yes, love. You hadn’t realized you loved him until just now, but the feeling was very prominent these last few weeks. The truth hidden within the emotion burying itself behind the metal bars of your imprisoned brain. So, for the man you’d realized you loved to just stomp your heart into the dusty field you stood in, it fucking hurt.
“W-What?” you questioned, tears brimming your eyes and threatening to boil over the layer of lashes that protected your glossy eyes. 
“I said I can’t,” he spoke your name with distaste, clearly trying his best to get you to hate him. It wasn’t working, but it sure was hurting you, “you’re both very capable of handling yourselves, you’ll be fine.”
He stated this as if he himself believed it. Sure, you and Ellie had enough basic survival instincts and fiery hearts to pass between the two of you, but it wasn’t enough to keep you alive. Not just yet, at least. 
“Joel, you’re not fucking funny.” Ellie visibly deflated, her hands dropping from the straps of her backpack, fists clenching in either fear or anger, you couldn’t tell.
“I’m not joking, Ellie.” 
You took a few steps back from the man in front of you. Not in fear, but in defeat. If he wanted to leave, he could. You were going to try to stop him, but you sure as hell weren’t gonna let him see how much his sudden promise of departure affected you. Joel watched as you stepped away, silently pleading for you to look him in the eye, and see how much this pained him too. But, you refused. Your eyes turned to Ellie, jutting your hand out for her to grab.
“Come on, Ells, we’re clearly not wanted.” your words were like daggers, piercing Joel’s heart and digging their way through his concrete walls. He was so close to taking it all back, so fucking close. He couldn’t decipher if his guilt was coming from the look on your face or Ellie’s, or both. Either way, you two girls were surely killing him where he stood.
“Haven’t I given enough?” Ellie’s words cut through the tension harshly, her voice quivering and bordering on a sob. 
You felt your chest contract, eyes squeezing shut at her shattered state. You felt heartbroken for the girl, itching to pull her small form into a bone-crushing hug. Wishing you could hush her tears and whisper nothing but promises and declarations of your never-ending presence at her side. But, you couldn’t. You couldn’t move. Your feet buried themselves in the grass beneath the soles of your boots, planting you in place. Joel mirrored your horror and heartbreak. His fists clenched and unclenched with nerves, his chest shaking on a very breathy inhale.
“Ellie-” Joel could barely speak, watching the two girls he felt nothing but love for, cry because of him.
“Always the fool with the slowest heart.” you made sure you punctuated your words, cutting him off and making your insult known. It was obvious to everyone that stumbled across the three of you that Joel would die for either of you girls. But, it was entirely too obvious how head over heels in love he was with you. So, after reaching Jackson and being confronted about his feelings for you by his little brother, he thought too much about losing you. Either of you. He’d decided the night before that he’d make you go on your own, make you carry the not-so-much of a burden of escorting Ellie to the fireflies. When the sun woke with a tired yawn, ready to start the day, he lead you and Ellie outside the safe walls of the settlement. He briefly mentioned teaching you and Ellie how to hunt, but after killing only a few squirrels, his anxiousness caused you to poke. After poking the bear, his thoughts were released tenfold without a thought as to how it would make all three of you feel and react.
“What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?” his words were harsh, his hip jutting out as he placed both of his hands on them. His entire aura exuded pissed off, his chest heaving from unspoken thoughts.
“It means that you’re an asshole, who can’t accept his own emotions.” Ellie spat for you, siding with you quickly, noticing how much this all affected you too.
“I am not an asshole.” 
“Yes, Joel, you are an asshole. We’ll go, but just know that you did this.” you weren’t mean with this delivery. Your words came out soft, nearly a whisper. Ellie moved to stand beside you, wrapping her hand around your own quickly. Her fingers desperately chased some form of comfort. You offered that comfort easily. You squeezed her hand lightly before hiding your conjoined fingers behind your back, knowing how hard it was for the girl to show any form of sentiment.
“I did this, yes. But, I’m doing it to protect you,” his words confused the both of you, but he continued before either of you could question him, “I don’t want to get either of you hurt, I’m not as strong or agile as I used to be.”
Quickly realizing why he was choosing to push the two of you away, your face mirrored the image of a kicked puppy, not entirely what Joel was wishing to see right now.
“Is this because of that one guy’s comment?” you questioned, remembering a very small encounter from the night prior vividly.
You’d only been in Jackson for a few hours, but you were quickly falling in love with the town and everyone in it. You spent your last few hours of freedom in the packed makeshift bar, ordering your second beer of the night from Tommy, Joel’s little brother. Speaking of Joel, he was nowhere to be found. You had hoped to find the man in the stuffy crowd, but you turned up empty after observing every single face from your seat at the bar. Although you couldn’t find your travel companion and recently discovered love of your life, you still found yourself enjoying the solitude.
That solitude, however, was short-lived. The feeling of a warm calloused hand on your bare shoulder startled you. Living in the apocalypse brought on the terrible lack of human interaction, let alone the physical touch of a body that wasn’t trying to tear you apart with teeth or steel. So, when this hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your elbow you froze. Without even caring to look, you pretended it was your favorite little cowboy, slightly leaning into the touch.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?” The nasally voice broke you from your fantasy, pulling a frown onto your features before you hid it.
“Enjoying my beer,” you turned your head over your shoulder, eyes meeting a broad chest before shooting up to capture his gaze. He wasn’t bad looking, nor was he far from your age. But, he wasn’t Joel, “how about you handsome?”
You were never very good at flirting, so your sad attempt at capturing his attention was laughed off, his chest bouncing in joy. You began to flush, out of embarrassment. Not the kind of embarrassment that brings a smile to your face, but the kind that settles in the bottom of your belly. The kind that makes you second-guess yourself and confidence you just barely had a grasp on.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a man attached to those hips tonight, I know I’d be.” his words honestly grossed you out. Especially when his hand on your elbow fell to squeeze your hip.
Before you could speak out about how uncomfortable you were, the man you so desperately attempted to seek out tonight swept right in. Under the cold breeze of the early spring night, you felt his arm wrap around your shoulders, caging your grateful form in his warmth.
“She’s got a man.” although you knew it was just his way of helping you out of this entirely awkward situation, you couldn’t help but feel the butterflies erupt in your lower belly.
“My bad man, didn’t know your daughter was spoken for.” his words were venomous, surely affecting Joel as his fingers slowly dug into your shoulder and curled around the fabric of your tanktop strap. As the creep walked away, you heard his sharp jab at Joel’s age, choosing to ignore the ageist word and turn to check up on your savior.
“He’s an asshole, ignore him, Joel.” you placed a hand softly on one of his pecks. Your friendly advances were shot down quickly, his own free hand wrapping around yours and pulling it from his body to rest at your side. You followed his lead, letting out a soft huff of air as his fingers lingered around your own.
“Yea, asshole.” with that he walked away, leaving the bar nearly as soon as he entered. Not only did he leave behind his all-encompassing scent, but he also left behind your worried stare. 
“Joel,” you called out his name when he didn’t answer, dipping your head down to attempt to meet his lost gaze, “don’t seriously tell me that’s what this is all about.”
“Yes, it is,” he finally spoke up, forgoing his embarrassment, “I’m too old for this shit, we all know it. You’ve seen it.”
“Joel, you are the most able-bodied person I’ve ever met. If anyone can get us there, it’s you. It’ll always be you.” Your words rang true, for everyone in the small circle of three. 
It didn’t take long for Joel to feel the tears in his eyes, didn’t take much longer for him to viciously swipe at his cheeks in order to hide them. He was barely okay with expressing how he felt, he wasn’t about to openly cry in front of the two of you. Your confident words were running through his mind, eating away at his tired brain and filling him with nothing but admiration. Leave it to you to change his mind, change the way he allows himself to feel.
“What if something happens to one of you, and I can’t get there in time to save you because I’m too fucking slow?” he asks, his face stoic but eyes swirling with emotion.
“Then we’ll handle it ourselves, Joel. Plus, I’m literally not gonna leave either of your sides, its fucking cold out here.” Ellie spoke, pulling a chuckle from the older man and a quiet giggle from you. Although he came after both of you when trying to escape his feelings, you began to feel the undying need to leave the two of them alone. No matter the bond you had with Ellie or Joel separately, it wasn’t anything like the bond the two of them were building. You knew Ellie had things she wanted to say, to Joel and Joel only. So, with a heavy but not disappointed heart, you finally dropped the girl’s hand. Stepping away from the two was easy, convincing the two of them that they’d be fine on their own was the difficult part.
“I’ll be over there, call out when you’re ready to go.” With a smile, you confidently mentioned the decision you knew Joel had finally made. He’d stay with you guys, it was practically smeared across his forehead in bright red ink, tattooing his skin and filling you with relief. Joel nodded, turning his back to you begrudgingly and offering a broken smile to the young girl before him. Ellie didn’t wait for you to get far enough before she started yelling at him like an upset teenage daughter would typically do, your ears catching the beginning of a rant that brought a smile to your face.
“You can’t leave us.”
Before she could finish her sentence, Joel quickly cut her off.
“I don’t plan to.”
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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beautiful <3
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Sam 😭
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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SNEAK PEAK AT PART 1 OF THE MISS YOU SERIES
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Summary: Eria Stark is facing the obstacle of marriage, arranged marriage. Leofric is a handsome Lannister boy, but not someone Eira sees herself loving unconditionally. Another man catches her eye at the courting event, can he convince her to run from her duties and towards a life of passion?
Warning: Smut (detailed warning per part), Angst, Fluff, arranged marriage, violence, alcohol consumption, Oberyn x OC, OC x OC.
Marriage was never something Eira Stark had considered a possibility for the life she led. Although her family ruled all of North Westeros, she never fully appreciated the royal life. The young girl spent most of her years locked away in her room, scribbling down words that portrayed a world. A place to which she wished to escape to. Her family didn’t understand her, the eldest of the Stark children, an unwilling heir. She never indulged in power, never rubbed it in the faces of people around her. Although Eddard Stark wished she was more involved in being her father’s successor, he couldn’t help but admire her stubbornness. Which, is why he felt terrible as he knocked on his eldest daughter’s chamber doors.
“Eira, it’s your father,” he paused, “may I enter?”. He waited a few seconds, listening closely for any sign that she was inside, but instead was met with utter silence. 
As he pushed the door open, his eyes drank in the state of the girl’s room. It was perfectly pristine, like herself. It quickly dawned on the aged man that in all the years of raising her, he’d never once stepped foot in her room, how odd.
Her back was turned to him as she worked tirelessly at her desk, arms moving vigorously as her hands etched out words to the story she wrote. The parchment crinkled under her tired fingers, a huff of hot air leaving the young woman’s chest in frustration.
“Eira?” Eddard spoke again, quietly approaching the girl from behind, never straying too far from the door.
“Yes, father?” she questioned, not turning to meet him in the middle. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on her work.
“I need to speak with you.” He was being short, and it was irking her to no end.
“Then speak.” she snapped softly, an edge to her voice that her father picked up quickly.
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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Miss You ~ Oberyn Martell
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Summary: Eria Stark is facing the obstacle of marriage, arranged marriage. Leofric is a handsome Lannister boy, but not someone Eira sees herself loving unconditionally. Another man catches her eye at the courting event, can he convince her to run from her duties and towards a life of passion?
Warning: Smut (detailed warning per part), Angst, Fluff, arranged marriage, violence, alcohol consumption, Oberyn x OC, OC x OC.
This will be a multiple-part series so stay tuned for updates!!
~ Cast List ~
~ Part one ~
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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✎ Stranger Things Wreks
ᰔᩚ- Fluff ☾- smut ☁︎︎- angst 𖠋- crack ⭒- my favorites!
Steve Harrington
Series
Cherry Bomb - 1 2 ᰔᩚ ☁︎︎ ☾
╰┈➤ innocence is a virtue, or isn't that what they say? Steve knows nothing of purity, yet that's all she was. Can he crack her stone-cold covers?
OneShots
B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets - post ᰔᩚ ☁︎
╰┈➤ You've been best friends with Steve Harrington for years, last summer you finally realized that you were madly in love with the man. Upon meeting his friend Robin, you wallow in the fact that Steve will never be yours. Or will he?
HeadCanons
Soft Stevie x gn!reader HCS - post ᰔᩚ 𖠋
╰┈➤ "Hey!! Can u write hcs of Steve Harrington taking care of reader after she falls off of her skateboard and hurts herself "
Steve Comforting stressed!reader HCS - post ᰔᩚ
╰┈➤ Stressed/upset!reader, our resident softie caring/comforting them :)
Drabbles
Requests
A Helping Hand - post ᰔᩚ ☁︎(slight)
╰┈➤ "Can you write some Steve Harrington fluff where the reader notices how rattled he is after Eddie held a broken bottle to his throat/Upside Down drama is back despite his hiding it so his girlfriend maintains some form of physical contact on him afterwards to help him calm down until they can get a quiet moment alone which Steve is forever grateful for?"
Henderson Sibling Fun Night - post ᰔᩚ 𖠋(slight) ☾
╰┈➤ "How about Steve Harrington soft smut where he's dating Dustin's older sister and she kisses the pout off Steve's lips and leaves him dazed after their sex when she tells him that he isn't invited to the Henderson sibling hang out (I love the idea of Dustin being best friend with his older sister)?"
hustle - post ᰔᩚ ☁︎(heavy) ☾(basically porn, oops)
╰┈➤ "Can I request a Steve Harrington teaching his girlfriend how to play basketball one shot ? Love your writings btw &lt;3"
Eddie Munson
OneShots
Anything For You - post ᰔᩚ☁︎︎
╰┈➤ Eddie tries to comfort you in the wake of your abusive relationship with his lifelong enemy.
Drabbles
Requests
Well-needed rest - post ᰔᩚ
╰┈➤ "Eddie rubbing your feet after a long stressful day 🥺"
All I See Is Beauty - post ᰔᩚ☁︎︎ (barely there ☾)
╰┈➤ "Fat reader x Eddie helping her w insecurity"
Safe Haven - post ᰔᩚ☁︎︎☾(implied)
╰┈➤ "Eddie x reader w PTSD from childhood SA and him comforting her during an attack ALSO WOULD LOVE TO SEE THIS WITH STEVE"
So Simple As ABC - prequel to Safe Haven - post ᰔᩚ☁︎︎
╰┈➤ "In response to your comforting from SA flashback for Eddie, I would like to ask if you could write a prequel (if you’re comfortable doing so) where the reader tells him about her trauma? If not, I understand, I’m just in the situation where I might have to tell someone in a situation like that soon and it would be comforting to know someone (Eddie) would be accepting and kind."
Perfect - post ᰔᩚ☁︎︎(slight)⭒
╰┈➤ "Eddie finding out reader has an eating disorder (established relationship maybe?)"
Love Me Tender - post ᰔᩚ
╰┈➤"Chronically Ill reader x Eddie Munson, bad pain day"
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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you deserve to hear something like that more often, and not just from me.. you're gorgeous and super sweet. I wish you good luck with everything coming your way and send lots of love!! <3
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LONG TIME COMING...
Jesus, it's been a while and a half huh? I apologize once again for my lack of production and lack of appearances. I have been so caught up in my own life it's genuinely insane. I mean it when I say, I'd like to formally apologize for being MIA. I know a lot of you have been waiting for me to post your requests and chapter two of cherry bomb. I regret to inform you that I have just barely finished writing out chapter two, so it's nowhere near finished.
But on a positive note, I think I'll be back nearly full-time! I'm in the process of writing another novel, and no it's not fanfiction. It's a plot I came up with in 30 minutes approximately 2 days ago, and Jesus is it good. I want to stay faithful to this project and the others I plan on giving you guys over the course of the coming year. Bear with me while I attempt to satisfy all of you and myself over the next few months. I can't promise I'll have a proper uploading schedule, but I'll try my best.
I'd like to bring to light that I'll also be incorporating a few more celebrities. I recently got into reading fanfiction about Pedro Pascal and his characters. I'll be honest when I say, I've always found him attractive, but I'd never written about him nor read about him up until I started watching the last of us. As a prominent gamer and avid The Last of Us fan/player, I'm truly enthralled with the show and HBO's casting director, lol.
Along with Pedro, I'll be writing some fic about a few other people/characters. I will also be taking requests for literally any character/celeb that you might find worthy of my writing process. As long as they're a legal adult. Gender, religion, and race, will not be deciding factors when I pick who I'll write about.
I want my page to be friendly and a safe place for people to come together and share their love for certain celebs/characters. With that being said, you will be seeing POC characters, gender-neutral characters, and LGBTQ+ friendly fics (M/M, F/F, M/M/F, F/F/M, etc).
Thank you so much if you read all the way through, it means a lot lol, much love to you guys!!! <3
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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Miss You ~ Oberyn Martell series cast
Eria Stark ~ Played by Nina Dobrev
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Oberyn Martell ~ Played by Pedro Pascal
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Leofric Lannister ~ Played by Alex Pettyfer
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The rest of the GOT cast as themselves.
I plan to get part one of the series out within the next week. I haven't watched GOT yet so I'm trying to speed-watch seasons 1-4 in the next few days, lol bear with me, please.
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘 ~ 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎 18+ MINORS DNI
Heart To Heart ~ Pedro Pascal (Fluff, Angst)
You and Pedro have been on the outs for weeks, constantly arguing and leaving nothing to the imagination with your words. An apology is in store, which one of you will go first?
Miss You ~ Oberyn Martell (Smut, Fluff, Angst)
Eria Stark is facing the obstacle of marriage, arranged marriage. Leofric is a handsome Lannister boy, but not someone Eira sees herself loving unconditionally. Another man catches her eye at the courting event, can he convince her to run from her duties and towards a life of passion?
Maneater ~ Joel Miller
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Mount Everest ~ Oberyn Martell (Smut, Fluff)
The beautiful Ellaria Sand offers you the chance to be her handmaiden. Unbeknownst to you, it was her paramour Oberyn who held the idea. Will you accept her offer?
Somewhat Damaged ~ Joel Miller (Angst)
As the niece of Kathleen Coghlan, you'd think your safety would be a high priority. To Kathleen, you were just a sad reminder of her dead brother. When your wandering soul stumbles across the small group of 4, you become the centerpiece of Joel's interrogation.
Transgender ~ Oberyn Martell (Angst)
THIS HAS GAME OF THRONES SPOILERS, CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK. Summary through the link ^
Gilded Lily ~ Joel Miller (Angst, Fluff)
You and Joel have spent the last few months caring for Ellie as you escort her to the fireflies. Over the course of these months, the two of you have grown strong feelings for one another. Joel begins to grow fearful of failing Ellie, alongside you. This fear leads to him fighting with the two of you, ignoring his love for you and ignoring his parental instincts for Ellie. Will he force the two of you to continue on without him? Or will he man up and accept his feelings?
I will be adding more songs to this masterlist as time goes on. I listened to these few and came up with short plots that I'm excited to bring to life. Stay tuned for updates!!
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jesus-in-the-womb · 1 year
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