Are They Scouting For Their Next Victim???

4-0 THE AVS ARE SO FUCKING GOATED GOOD GOD

how do you feel about boot riding 🤭

────۶ৎ boot ridin’

joel lets you grind on his boot and watches you fall apart. slow, dirty, and all him.

warnings: smut, boot riding, clothed grinding, degradation (light), praise kink, dom!joel.

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

you plant yourself right there on his thigh, all needy and breathless, the heel of his boot solid under you. he's leaning back, forearm draped over the back of the worn-out couch, one brow cocked and that smirk playing on his lips like he already knows you’re about to fall apart just from grindin’ on him.

“boot ridin’, huh?” he drawls, voice all low and amused. “s’that what you’re callin’ it now, darlin’? looked more like beggin’ t’me.”

you whimper, rockin’ slow, the rough leather pressin’ right where you need it most. your panties are soaked, stickin’ to you, and you can feel every goddamn ridge of his boot sole with every shift of your hips.

he watches, hungry. doesn’t touch—not yet. just watches, one hand curled into a fist against his thigh like he’s holdin’ back.

“yeah, that’s it. make a mess on me, baby. all over my boot. fuckin’ filthy girl.”

you bite your lip, grind down harder, faster now, chasin’ that sharp edge that’s burnin’ hot in your belly. he leans in, finally, fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to feel him there, firm and grounding.

“feel good?” he murmurs, eyes flickin’ down between your thighs. “can feel that little cunt twitchin’. know you wanna cum.”

you nod, mouth open but no words, just pantin’ like he’s got you on a leash. his thumb brushes your jaw, rough and calloused.

“go on. cum for me, sugar. make it count. wanna see that pretty pussy flood my boot, ruin it.”

and fuck—you do. it hits like lightning, rippin’ through you as your thighs shake and you moan his name, louder than you meant to. he groans low, like he felt it too, and finally lets his hand slide up between your legs, fingers strokin’ through the mess you made.

“jesus,” he mutters, voice gone gravel. “you ride better’n a goddamn cowboy.”

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

james seeing remus start to transform: “uh oh. going beast mode.”

remus, actively in agony: “i am literally begging you to stop”

scarily sleep deprived and the concept of james potter unironically using the phrase ‘beast mode’ has reduced me to tears

no goggles mark likes being choked while you ride him. that’s it.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ he lets out these little giggles and has that stupid sadistic grin plastered on his face, and god he’s so impossibly hard. He keeps telling you to squeeze his neck harder, while your losing yourself on his cock.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ and although he knows you couldn’t harm him even if you tried and wanted to, he still gets off to it.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ to him, there’s literally no better feeling than your hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing as tightly as you possibly could, as urged you to squeeze tighter, until he struggled to breathe.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ he’s just a sick freak LMFAO.

MINORS DNI 18+

ANAKIN SKYWALKER has a bad habit of going all night. He’s aware of the values of rest, he knows he has responsibilities to attend to the next day that require a clear head, and yet he cannot refuse you. Not that there’s a request to be denied, but when you stand there in your long nightgown in the Coruscant apartment you share, how can he ponder anything other than tricking you out of it? He’ll sweet talk you, croon, hold you close and charm you out of your clothes. He’ll have you bare and riding him on the couch, toying with your pretty tits in his hands while you bounce on his every aching inch. He’ll consume you, intoxicate you with his scent and his desire, he’ll be your every thought while he slithers in and out of your mind, abusing the force to bend your wills and train you into ecstasy. You writhe on the bed you share with him, tangling a mess of sheets in your throes of passion. Your claws sink into the soft down of your comforter while his weight lays on your back, pinning you to the mattress as he soothes your hot insides, fucking you from behind tightly knitted while his hand brushes back your sweaty hair from your forehead. His lips murmur against your cheek as your delicate countenance twists in something akin to anguish. He would pity you, if only you were truly in pain. Instead, you cry out in the heat of your climax, the evidence pooling out from between your legs. How can he refuse the night hours, when this is his only chance to fully indulge in the pleasures of your exquisite beauty?

"but i'm still me, he's still joel, and we-- and nothing's ever gonna change that. ever."

landoscar + txt posts = true 6.0

warm enough ⋆₊˚ ࿔⋆

pre-canon qz!joel miller x fem!reader | masterlist |

1.7k words | joel miller before ellie so he’s distant but not too bad, fwb to lovers, kissing, unprotected piv sex. — still trying to cope with his death:,((

summary- in the Boston QZ, survival comes first—but when you’re sharing smokes, running jobs, and ending up in each other’s beds more often than not, lines blur fast. Joel’s older, guarded, and dead set on keeping it casual. She’s younger yeah, but tired of pretending it’s nothing. It’s not love. Not exactly. But it’s warm.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

It never does.

But somehow you’d ended up tangled in his sheets anyway, your knees brushing his under the thin blanket, the air between your bodies too warm, too full. It was always like this—frenzied, wordless, fleeting. A way to survive the way the world pressed down on your chest like a loaded weapon.

But this time was different.

You hadn’t woken up alone.

Joel Miller, the man who never stayed, was still there.

You stirred first. Sunlight cut through the cracks in the boarded-up window, slicing across his bare shoulder. You studied the soft line of his jaw, the way his brows stayed furrowed even in sleep. Like he couldn’t let go of whatever ghosts lived behind his eyes, even when unconscious.

You turned over, pulling the blanket up. Hoping maybe he’d shift and mumble something. Maybe you’d pretend it didn’t feel real. But then—

Footsteps. The bed dipped. Joel sat up and rubbed a hand down his face.

He didn’t look at you.

Instead, he stood, tugged on his shirt, and wandered into the kitchen—if it could be called that. A hot plate. A kettle. Cans lined up like trophies. You listened to him move, the scrape of the metal lid opening, the glug of water.

And then… coffee.

You blinked.

Joel never made coffee after. Hell, he never let you stay long enough to see what he did after.

When he came back in, he was holding two chipped mugs. He didn’t meet your eyes as he handed you one. “Still hot,” he muttered.

You sat up, blinking at him like he’d handed you a map out of this place. “You made two.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

You cupped the mug in both hands, let the heat seep into your fingers. It smelled like burned grounds and survival. But something about it settled your heart a little.

Joel sat back on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, watching the floor like it had something to say.

You broke the quiet. “Feels kinda normal, huh?”

His shoulders tensed.

He didn’t answer for a long beat. Then:

“Don’t get used to it.”

His voice had been soft, but it cut through the quiet like a blade. Not sharp enough to draw blood—just enough to remind you where the lines were.

You didn’t say anything. Just wrapped your hands tighter around the chipped mug and took a slow sip. Bitter. Burned. Warm.

He stood across from you, back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest like he was bracing for something.

Maybe your silence.

Maybe the truth.

You glanced at him over the rim of your cup. His gaze was fixed on the space behind you—somewhere over your shoulder, like if he looked you in the eye he might not be able to keep the mask on.

So you tried to keep it simple. “It was good coffee.”

That earned you a flicker of something—wryness, maybe. A tiny twitch of his mouth. “Tastes like shit.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “but it’s warm.”

Another long silence passed between you. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… full. Like both of you were waiting for something else to rise to the surface.

You caught yourself wishing the moment would stretch out a little longer. That he’d lean back against the counter like he belonged there. That he’d ask you to stay—not just to kill time until the next run, but because he wanted you there.

But Joel didn’t ask for things.

And you didn’t know how to ask either.

So you drained the rest of your coffee, set the mug down gently on the counter, and stepped back toward the door. Your boots scuffed against the worn floorboards.

“I should go,” you said, quiet.

Joel nodded. Still not looking at you.

Your fingers brushed the doorknob, cool metal under your skin. You hesitated.

“Thanks for… letting me stay.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then, just as your hand started to turn the knob—

“Didn’t mind it.”

The words came out like they surprised him too. You turned halfway, your heart catching.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Didn’t mind you bein’ here,” he said again, slower this time. Like maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to admit.

You smiled, small and warm. “Okay.”

Then you opened the door and left.

But your chest felt lighter.

A Few Days Later

The next few days are back to normal.

At least, mostly.

You go on a few jobs—runners, small deliveries. Joel doesn’t say much, but he sticks close. Always just behind your shoulder, scanning rooftops, watching your back like it’s second nature.

You try not to read into it.

But every time your eyes meet across a crowded alley, or in the back room of Tess’s hideout, there’s a flicker. A pause.

Like maybe something changed that morning, and neither of you knows what to do with it.

You hadn’t meant to end up there again.

You told yourself it was just muscle memory—your boots turning corners like they knew the way. That the pull in your chest wasn’t about him. That the ache wasn’t for him.

But the lights were out in your building. Your neighbor was crying again. And your bed was too cold, too quiet.

So you stood outside Joel’s door for almost a full minute, heart knocking against your ribs, before you lifted your hand.

You didn’t even knock.

He opened it before you could.

Joel stood there in a threadbare shirt and jeans, barefoot, with sleep-soft eyes and stubble smudged along his jaw. His brows furrowed, but not with surprise.

Like he’d been waiting.

A sixth sense.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded. “I didn’t wanna be alone.”

That was all you had to say.

He stepped aside.

Inside, the room was warm—barely. The radiator hissed. You shrugged off your jacket while he watched from the other side of the room, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Joel always looked tense. Even now, under the soft glow of the table lamp, he stood like someone expecting a fight.

Or a confession.

You took a slow step toward him. “You ever get tired of pretending this doesn’t mean anything?”

He didn’t move.

“‘Cause I do,” you whispered.

Joel’s eyes searched yours. There was something rough and unreadable in his face, like he was trying to swallow back something too big for words.

“I don’t know what to call it,” he admitted, voice low, thick. “I don’t even know what it is. But when you knock, I open the door. Every time.”

Your throat tightened.

“I keep tellin’ myself I ain’t got room for this. For you. But you show up and I—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I want you here. That’s the truth.”

The breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally left your lungs.

You stepped closer. Close enough to see the flicker of hesitation behind his eyes, the war he was fighting with himself.

“But you’re scared,” you said softly.

Joel’s jaw flexed. “Damn right I am.”

You reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “Then let me show you something good for once.”

And that broke him.

He kissed you like he needed it to stay alive.

Not hurried or rough like before—this was slow, devouring, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go too soon. His hands cradled your face, rough thumbs grazing your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you.

You slid your hands under his shirt, fingertips dragging over warm skin, the curve of old scars and hard muscle. Joel groaned into your mouth, deep and low, and pulled you closer by the hips.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he murmured against your lips. “Always walkin’ around like you don’t know what you do to me.”

You smiled into the kiss. “I know exactly what I do to you.”

He huffed a breath—half a laugh, half a growl—and walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

“Lie down,” he said, voice gone dark and soft and commanding.

You obeyed, heart racing.

Joel stripped his shirt off, slow and deliberate, like he wanted you to watch. Then he knelt over you, kissing a trail down your neck, your chest, your stomach—taking his time, learning every inch of you like it was something sacred.

“Y’know how many nights I think about this?” he murmured against your skin. “Think about you.”

You arched under his touch, eyes fluttering. “Then why don’t you let it be more?”

His hands stilled for a second. Just long enough for you to feel the weight of the question.

Then he leaned up, kissed you again—softer this time. Sadder.

“I’m tryin’,” he whispered. “I don’t know how, but I’m tryin’.”

When he finally sank into you, it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was slow, intense, real. His forehead rested against yours, breath hot against your lips as your bodies moved in rhythm, like this wasn’t something you stole—it was something you built.

Joel didn’t hide from it.

He kissed your knuckles when he held your hands above your head. He murmured your name like a promise. He stayed.

When you both fell apart together, it was quiet.

No words. Just warmth.

He didn’t let you go.

Later

You rested against his chest, legs tangled under the blanket, heartbeat slowly finding its way back to calm.

His hand moved gently along your arm, over and over, like he didn’t want to stop touching you even if he didn’t know what to say.

You turned your face up toward his.

“What now?”

Joel exhaled, thumb tracing the inside of your wrist.

“Now we sleep,” he said, voice husky.

“And tomorrow?”

There was a beat.

Then he kissed your forehead.

“Tomorrow, there’s coffee.”

yeah yeah im feeding yall ik

imagine fucking clark kent... mid air.

this probably—most definitely—wasn't your brightest idea.

but it's not everyday you get to fuck and fly with superman now, do you?

you had to convince him to do it. he loved you, and loved being intimate with you, but this was—and he was sure of it—one hell of a bad idea. so it took you weeks, actual weeks, of begging and convincing, talking about it, mapping out every reason why you thought this was genius.

"please, kent, please! it'll be so fun and refreshing!" you sat on his lap while he was laying down on the bed, looking up at you, shaking his head. "people will notice and see us, sweetie." you ran your hands up his chest, "if you go high up enough, they won't even see a thing!"

finally, after two weeks of not touching you (because you refused to let him do so unless it was to take you mid air), he agreed.

you were tightening your silk robe around your waist, waiting for him by the balcony. you obviously weren't wearing anything underneath it, considering the main goal was intimacy. he arrived, in his own black robe, and grabbed you firmly yet delicately by the waist.

"are you ready, pretty?" he asked, voice low and protective. your knees buckled a bit, but you nodded. "of course." and he tightened his grip around your waist before jumping up in the air, and holy shit-

you were flying.

then, you noticed his hand wonder. the hand that he hadn't used to grip you was snaking its way inside your robe, brushing against your boobs and hardened nipples, before migrating all the way down to your cunt.

"f-foreplay? mid-flight?" and he chuckled, his eyes darkening with lust. "when did we think we were gonna do it?" and before you even has half the mind to answer, you felt two of his thick fingers press against your entrance, sliding inside.

he pumped inside you and your legs felt like pudding—half from the whole flying thing, and the other half from the fact he was fingering you mercilessly just like he knows you like. his palm is slapping against your clit and your legs tremble at every impact.

"w-when are we stopping?" and he paused for a second, before giving you that grin that tells you you're knees deep in this mess. "when you cum."

the simple sentence made a moan bloom from your chest, walls clenching down on his fingers. "y'wanna cum for me, baby?" you nod, "yeah? yeah? wanna give me one before the real thing?" and his dirty talking is throwing you off the edge, white droplets of cream dribbling down to his hand as she moaned his name as loud as she could. who cares? they're in the sky.

finally, the movement comes to an alt. they stop flying, stop moving.

you're still delirious, but smiling victoriously when he undoes his robes, hard cock revealing itself for you.

you salivate and bite your lip, feeling his dick rub against your sticky folds, jumping a bit when his mushroom top bumps into your clit. "this is so..." he trails off and you finish, "filthy?" and he hums while nodding, eyes closing while he loses himself at the sensation of your wet pussy.

finally, finally, he starts pushing himself in. it's scary and surreal, the thought of fucking in mid air turning you on more than it should. you love how you can see the birds flying next to you guys and feel his big veins hitting all the right spots inside you. he's so focused, focused on not letting you fall, focused on not being too rough, focused on making you feel good.

and fuck, the adrenaline rush heightened your senses and you could feel every fucking thing.

the way his vein bulged everytime you moaned in his ear, how tightly he was holding onto you, the cold breeze caressing you exposed skin, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against you..

you were close. dangerously close.

your own hand snaked down between your legs and you rubbed your clit softly, making yourself twitch in pleasure. "f-fuck, clark!" your voice got louder and louder with every string of sweet sounds getting pulled out of between your plush lips and he couldn't get enough.

your orgasm hit you like a train.

the adrenaline and stress of falling made everything feel ten times more intense, your walls clenching rapidly around him. cream started dribbling down your hole, forming a ring around his girthy base. "oh my fucking-" was really all you could coherently say in such a situation, every other word melting with eachother.

"baby- baby, shit- yes-" you had the man of steel stuttering and drooling, the sensation of your mushy walls clamping down on him too much for the poor man. he quickly let himself go, his cum coating your insides in a thick, white and milky layer.

he gasped, breath hitching when he felt the warmth of his cum fill you up. he pulled out slowly, your name slipping out of his mouth, while still catching his breath.

the flight back home was full of panting and quick dirty jokes you threw at him to fluster him.

bonus : bruce wayne noticed superman flying up in the sky.. up.. and up... and then stopping? wait.. he's with someone.. what are those movements–oh. they're fucking. this is officially none of his business anymore.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ༉‧₊˚.

*:･ﾟ༉‧₊˚.