𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓷 '𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽' 𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓮𝔂 Smut = ❤︎ Request = 𝜗𝜚

"pretty little provider" reupload from littlesoulshine

he comes home super nervous. you see it in the way he holds the box—tucked tight under one arm, like he’s scared you’ll tell him it’s too much. scared he’s too much. his other hand fiddles with his watch, knuckles pale. lily’s upstairs, the house is quiet, and your wine glass already half-full.

he crosses the threshold and you look up from the couch. silk robe, with bare legs crossed and with your lashes heavy. you don’t smile at him, just watching to see why his anxious energy has filled the room.

“hi, baby,” he murmurs, eyes hopeful. “i, uh…i got you something.”

you arch a brow, sipping your wine slow, then pating your lap. “come show me.”

his ears turn pink. you know he was hoping for approval first, a kiss maybe, a thank-you. he walks over fast, obedient, and when you uncross your legs and lean back as he comes closer to place the gift on your lap.

the box trembles slightly in his hand as you take it, nails grazing his wrist. a necklace, gaudy yet rare and seems imported. carrying disgusting price tag—you don’t even look surprised.

your free hand drags slowly up his spine, beneath the fabric of his button-up. he shudders, arching slightly. the heat of his back presses into your palm like he’s starving for it.

you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “my pretty little provider,” you whisper, voice low, syrupy.

he moans. God, that delicious moan.

your nails rake down his back, slow and sharp. his breath catches, his hands shifting to your lap. leaning over to his crotch, you feel the way he’s already getting hard, straining against his slacks.

“you like buying things for me?” you ask, words a little rougher now. your nails drag again. deeper. he gasps.

“yes—yes, princess. i love it. i want to—i just want to take care of you—”

“you do.” your hand cups the back of his neck, thumb stroking just under the hairline. “but you know what that makes you, don’t you?”

his lips part. “your…your provider?”

you smile against his jaw. “no, baby. that makes you mine.”

he melts. his head drops onto your shoulder, breath ragged. you feel him leaking through his pants already. your palm slides over his chest, fingers toying with the buttons.

you tug one open, and then another.

your lips brush his temple.

“how long were you hard in the store, hm?” you murmur, undoing each button like it’s a reward. “walking around all polite with your wallet in one hand and my name in your head, cock aching because you knew i’d call you good when you handed this to me?”

his hands clench on your thighs. his voice breaks.

“i was…i was throbbing. the whole time, i kept thinking about your voice.”

“and what voice is that?” you slide your hand down, palm resting right over his cock. he bucks against it.

“that voice,” he pants. “when you call me yours.” your fingers curl around the wet patch, displaying his thick bulge, slow pressure.

“say it again.”

“i’m yours. i’m yours, my love. i belong to you. i—i earn for you. i spend for you. i ache for you.”

your fingers tighten, making him whimper.

you unzip him, slow and deliberate. pulling his cock out without a word and let it sit against his belly, hard, flushed, and twitching. your other hand trails down his stomach, light touches, teasing.

“you want me to fuck you for it?” you ask. “or should i edge you all night while i wear your little gift and moan for someone else?”

he whimpers. “i want you to fuck me for it, baby.”

you nod, grabbing his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, yanking his face back to yours.“next time, get the earrings too.” before kissing him deeply, and climbing on him.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

𝓪𝓻𝓽'𝓼 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

meet her

late

good boy

pretty little provider

shower punishment

girly we need mike faist fluff or smut even… the lack of mike fics and blurbs on tumblr is insane

I KNOW what kinda stuff do you want to see??

meet art's new wife જ⁀➴ reupload from littlesoulshine

𖠁   housewife!reader who wears sheer satin robes, kitten heels, and a constant look of disapproval. art trails behind you like an obedient puppy, always trying to earn your praise. you never raise your voice—you don’t need to....all it takes is a disappointed sigh and he’s on his knees, begging for another chance to make you happy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who gives art the cold shoulder when he forgets something small, like taking the trash out or fluffing your pillows right. he sulks around the house, trailing you, murmuring “i’m sorry, baby” like a prayer. you finally give in and let him crawl between your legs with a smug little, “are you ready to be useful again?” and his eyes get all glassy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art sit in on your weekly girl lunches just so he can carry your purse and refill your wine. the other wives giggle behind their glasses, whispering about how “whipped” he is—but he doesn’t care. you let him rest his head on your thigh under the table and stroke his hair while talking over him. you’re his whole world. he just likes being near.

𖠁   housewife!reader who dresses like a dream and argues like a demon. pink nails tapping on the counter, voice like poisoned honey. art doesn’t even flinch—he thrives in the submission. you call him an idiot, and he smiles. you roll your eyes at his affection, and he kisses your cheek anyway. he likes being your punching bag, especially when he knows you’ll reward him after.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art wait at the door like a sad little puppy when he comes home late. you don’t even yell. you just raise an eyebrow, fold your arms, and he immediately starts rambling—“i swear, baby, traffic was—please don’t be mad—i missed you—i love you—” and you just hum, already walking away. he follows like the lovesick fool he is.

𖠁   housewife!reader who loves him, but refuses to let him forget who’s in charge. and he doesn’t want to. he likes being reminded. he likes the leash. likes how you tug it gently with your tone, your look, your hands in his hair. tashi made him feel small in the wrong ways. you make him feel small in the right ones. safe. loved. and completely yours.

𖠁   housewife!reader who lets lily paint her nails and put curlers in her hair while art makes you both lunch. she babbles about school, and when she says, “i wanna be a wife just like you,” you glance at art—who’s smiling like he’s won the lottery—and say, “then pick someone who knows how to serve a woman, honey.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

notes: thank you to my baby @rafesplaymate for inspiring me to write this!

who do i write for? pedro pascal.  the last of us.  jensen ackles.  art donaldson. patrick zwieg. challengers. dodge mason. panic.  mike faist. harry castillo. the materialists jon bernthal. shane walsh. mikey berzatto. frank castle. hayden christensen. anakin skywalker. clay beresford.

“ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴ ᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ’ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ”

one - shot is inspired by ethel cain’s song “crush”

smuggler!joel miller x fem!reader

you're the last friendly checkpoint before the edge of the Boston QZ. a safehouse disguised as a run-down gas station turned supply pit-stop. you’re not a Firefly, not FEDRA, not quite neutral either. you're your own authority, and people respect that. smugglers pass through, barter, rest. joel is one of them. comes and goes like a storm—gruff, practical, unreadable. you assume he’s only here because it’s convenient. you try not to care. but every time he returns, it gets harder not to.

masterlist | 5k words | YEARNING, reader falls hard and Joel falls harder, pov switches, mentions of blood and patching wounds, violence!!, neglecting wounds (they're horny stfu) kissing, PRAISE, riding, unprotected sex & aftercare

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person. 

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag. 

 When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows. 

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard. 

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…” 

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet

divider by @cursed-carmine

ᥫ᭡ about me — mari (friends call me mar), 21 (my b-day is march 23), aries, black/native, sentimental, hopeless romantic, flower child, lover, old soul, avid dreamer, spiritual!

ᥫ᭡ i love — reading, drawing, sleeping, vanilla and cherry, milkshakes, silk pjs, dark and milk chocolate, wedged heels, jensen ackles, fruits, lace clothing, tea, fries, walking, pinterest, necklaces, dramas, posters, driving with the windows down, drew starkey, nature, wellness, learning random and new things, meeting new people, pizza, new and different cultures from my own, learning new languages.

ᥫ᭡ tv shows/films — supernatural, new girl, monte carlo, uptown girls, coyete ugly, burlesque, outerbanks, rebelde, friends, wildfire, girls next door, girlfriends, gossip girl, one tree hill, the o.c., i love lucy, revenge, h2o: just add water, saved by the bell, found, fresh prince, i dream of jeannie, virgin river,…etc (will be adding to this!).

ᥫ᭡ music — anything lana, tyla, pop, xtina, tate mcrae, marina, sabrina carpenter, FKA twigs, no doubt, hailey knox, janet jackson, nessa barrett, SZA, leon bridges, ALT, kacey mustgraves, leAnn rimes, indie, madison beer, jennie, JMSN, newjeans, leigton meester, aaliyah, sarina, britney spears, beadoobee!

𝓳𝓸𝓮𝓵 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻 smut = ❤︎ request = 𝜗𝜚

well hello 𝜗𝜚 ❤︎

sweet treat 𝜗𝜚 ❤︎

insecure 𝜗𝜚

bad girls get punished ❤︎

accidents ❤︎

𝓻𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓼

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