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cinnxmxngxrl · 1 month ago

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“La Sirena”

Joel Miller x Stripper!Reader

Part 1/3 Read part 2 here

Joel’s Masterlist Join the tag list

Summary: Life as a stripper at La Sirena is routine. That is, until Joel Miller walks in. Quiet. Lonely. Heavy with guilt. He doesn’t ask for much, just a drink and your time. But night after night, he stays. And just like that—he becomes your regular.

WC:7.1k

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, dry humping, lap dance, oral (m!receiving) mentions of sex work, mention of drugs, lots of guilt, joel being lonely and touch starved.

The neon buzzed overhead like a bad omen. Joel Miller shifted on the barstool, fingers wrapped tight around the sweating glass of his bourbon. He hadn’t been in a place like this before, never had the need to, but now he was old and lonely, and desperate enough to walk through the doors of La Sirena.

The music was low and sultry, more for mood than show. The main stage was lit with a soft red glow, a dancer, barely wearing any clothes, lazily curling around the pole to a song Joel didn’t recognize. Everything smelled like alcohol, cheap perfume, and something sour underneath. It made his skin crawl. Still, he stayed.

He told himself it was curiosity, but truthfully, it was the silence at home, the way his bed felt too cold and too big. The way his phone never rang. Tommy had his own life now, and Sarah—well, she was grown, studying halfway across the country. Joel had nobody left.

He’d tried other things, nights at bars with awkward attempts to meet women, even downloading Tinder a few months back, hoping for some spark of connection, but every person he matched with felt like nothing of what he was looking for. Something was always missing, the chemistry, the spark he was desperately craving.

So here he was, a man out of place, gray in his beard, lines in his face, shoulders hunched like he’d rather vanish into the dark corner of the room than be seen.

He didn’t notice you at first.

You noticed him.

You’d clocked him the second he walked in. Tall, broad, clearly uncomfortable, not the type you were used to, most of the guys here were mouth-breathers, sweating through their shirts before you even got on top of them. Some were regulars, creepy ones who thought buying two dances a week made them your boyfriend. Some were cruel. Some were broken.

But he looked like he was just sad, you could smell it on him, the loneliness, the nostalgia hidden behind his eyes. He hadn’t touched anyone yet, hadn’t even looked at the stage, he just nursed his drink and stared into it like he was trying to drown in it.

You didn’t approach him right away, guys like him either bolted or got stuck in their heads until they were talked into a lap dance by a pushier girl, but after a while, when the floor thinned and the song changed, you slid into the bar stool next to him without asking.

“First time?”

Joel looked up, startled. His eyes were a soft greyish color, tired but kind, they flicked to your barely-there outfit—fishnets, leather, glitter—and then snapped away with a guilt that made your chest ache.

“That obvious?”

You smiled. “To someone with a trained eye like mine? yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Didn’t really plan on this.”

“You lost a bet or something?”

“No.” He took a sip of bourbon. “Just… tired of drinkin’ alone, I guess.”

That surprised you. “So you came to drink here? Alone?”

He half-laughed, rough and low. “Somethin’ like that.”

You studied him in the dark. He had the kind of body that came from hard labor—big hands, rough knuckles, shoulders like he could lift an engine block if he felt like it, but he looked tired. So tired.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” you said, softly. It wasn’t an insult, it was the truth.

He looked up at you, something sharp in his eyes. “No offense, darlin’, but neither do you.”

You tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That ’cause I don’t look like I’ve been doing meth since I was thirteen?”

Joel let out a low chuckle, the sound rough and warm in his chest. His eyes flicked over your face, lingering just a second too long. “Yeah,” he said, voice dipped in that familiar southern drawl. “You just look too damn good for a place like this.”

That almost made you laugh, if he only knew. “You’re sweet. But I’ve been here five years. I think I belong just fine.”

Joel went quiet for a while, the music faded into another slow beat and you saw the way he looked at you now, careful, not with hunger, byt in a respectful way, like he didn’t know what to do with you.

“You workin’ the floor?” he asked, finally.

You shrugged, voice light but eyes steady on his. “You could always book a booth. Find out more about me.”

Joel hesitated, his gaze flicking away for a beat. “I, uh… I’m not so sure.”

Booking a booth seemed too personal, too private. He wasn’t there for that, hell, he wasn’t even sure why he was there at all, but it certainly wasn’t to take advantage of some poor young girl who had no choice but to work there. That wasn’t the moral values he was raised with.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to lower your voice. “We could just talk. Nothing else.”

He studied you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw softening. Was it really so bad? It was just talking after all, he promised himself he’d make sure nothing else happened. Then he gave a small nod, quiet and a little unsure.

You stood up and gently guided him toward one of the many booths tucked away in the dim corners of the club. It was small and had a curtain to offer some privacy, lit low in red led lights, with a plush velvet-red couch stretched across the center. You sat first, leaning back with practiced ease, the same way you did every night for all the clients. Joel followed a beat later, his movements stiff, uncertain. He settled beside you, not quite close, not quite far, his hands restless in his lap, eyes flicking around the room like he was waiting for someone to catch him doing something wrong.

“So… uh… you said you’ve been here for five years?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

“Mhm,” you hummed, watching him. “Five and counting.”

“And you like it?”

You shrugged. “It’s not so bad. The pay’s good.”

“So you do it for the money, then?”

You huffed a soft laugh. “We all gotta pay rent and groceries, right?”

His eyes lingered on you a second too long, and you caught the shift in his expression, a flicker of pity softening his features. Fuck. He was doing exactly what he said he wouldn’t, taking advantage of a girl who needed money just to put a warm plate of food on the table. What kind of man had he become?

“It’s not like that,” you said, firmer now. “Not out of necessity. I could tend tables or some other shit if I wanted. I chose this. The pay’s better than any nine-to-five. I’ve got a nice car, nice clothes. I live comfortably.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, quiet. “Wouldn’t imagine someone voluntarily choosin’ this,” he said, almost to himself. Who would want to dance for pervy old guys every single day? Deal with touchy, nasty hands, with pushy men who thought paying for a booth meant buying a piece of you?

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a contractor,” he replied after a pause. “I like it. I’m good at it.” He looked down, voice lower now, more to himself than to you. “Sometimes feels like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“You definitely look like the type who knows how to build a house,” you said, lips curling into a sly smile.

That earned a quiet laugh from him—short, rough, but real. Okay, he was hot. Hot and capable. Looked relatively smart and polite, for what you’d seen so far. Yep, he was definitely the best client you’d gotten in a really long time.

He glanced over at you. “What is it that you uhh… exactly do here?”

You leaned back a little, voice casual. “Sometimes I dance on stage, but most of the time It’s lap dances.”

He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “And, uh… you do more than lap dances?”

You smiled at him, biting your lip just enough to make his eyes drop to your mouth. “Are you interested?”

Joel stiffened, his whole body tensing like you’d caught him in something. “No—no, not for me. I was just curious.”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “Depends on the tip. A few blowjobs here and there. Pretty much.”

He blinked, astonished by your bluntness. He looked like he didn’t quite know where to rest his eyes now. “I, uh… I thought it was illegal. For, y’know… that kind of thing to happen here.”

You laughed, low and warm. “Does this place strike you as the kind of establishment that follows the law? You wouldn’t believe the things that happen in the back rooms.”

“Fair,” he said softly, gaze dipping for a moment. “You… uh… must see a lot of men, then. I mean… you’re really pretty.”

“Mhm. I know all the types.”

“All the types?” he asked, eyebrow quirking slightly.

“Yep.” You stretched your legs out a little, relaxing into the couch. “You’ve got the young ones—virgins. They’re kinda adorable, all shy and nervous, hands in their laps, like they don’t even know where to look. Then there’s the drunks—not so adorable. They get handsy, pushy, sometimes try to walk out without paying. That’s always a fun scene.”

Joel gave a faint grunt, somewhere between amusement and concern.

“You’ve got the saviors too,” you said, voice tinged with amusement. “The ones who think they’re some kind of knight in shining armor. They want to rescue you from this life, take you away like they’re doing you a favor.”

You paused, letting the bitterness slip in.

“Of course, they get bored after a month. Stop showing up. Turns out saving someone isn’t as exciting as they thought.”

“You’ve got the bachelor party guys—loud, cocky, think they’re God’s gift. Bit of pricks, but mostly harmless. And then…”

You paused, a softer note slipping into your voice.

“Then you’ve got the widowers. Those are my favorite.”

Joel looked at you, quiet now.

“They book you because you remind them of their dead wife when she was young. They just want to talk. Maybe hold your hand. Give you a hug.”

“I thought I was the only loser who paid just to talk,” Joel said, his voice low, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, a gentle smile playing on your lips. “You’re not. It’s more common than you’d think.” Your eyes met his, softer now. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Everyone needs a little companionship.”

Joel looked down at his hands. His voice was low. Honest. Too honest.

“Don’t feel right. Payin’ someone just to pretend.”

You felt that in your chest. “Who says we’re pretending?”

You stayed in that booth for an hour. Maybe two. You didn’t dance for him, you didn’t grind on his lap, you just talked about nothing, about music, about Texas summers and his love for coffee. He told you more about his job, about his daughter Sarah. You told him about growing up in nowhere, Arkansas, and how you ended up here, in a city that never slept but never loved you back.

He came back a week later.

Didn’t say anything when he walked in, he just looked for you, and when he found you, he came up to you, still looking out of place, like he didn’t quite know where to put his hands or his eyes, like he’d wandered into the wrong world and wasn’t sure how to walk through it. There was something in his posture, in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, that made him look less like a man and more like a lost puppy trying to act like he wasn’t.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said.

Joel scratched his jaw. “Didn’t plan to.”

“Mhm, and yet here you are.”

“Can we, uh… can we go to a booth? Like last time? Just to talk.” Joel asked almost sheepishly.

You nodded. “Sure.”

Without a word, you turned and led him through the low-lit lounge, weaving past half-full tables and pulsing bass, until you reached the same booth you two had shared last week

“Felt like shit about last time,” he muttered as he sat down on the couch, his weight sinking into the velvet like it carried more than just his body, like guilt had settled on his shoulders and hadn’t left since.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

Joel sighed. “’Cause I liked talkin’ to ya. Too much.”

You smiled gently. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He looked at you like that word broke something in him.

“It was just talking, Joel,” you said gently, trying to reassure him. “It wasn’t anything bad. Nothing you should feel guilty about.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. “But I paid for it. That’s the difference. You didn’t talk to me because you wanted to.”

You tilted your head. “People pay therapists too.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s different. Therapists don’t show up in mini skirts and have their tits almost out.”

Your gaze dropped instinctively to your outfit, the little skirt riding high on your thighs, the thin straps of your top clinging tight to your chest. You tried not to smile or blush. Okay, so he wasn’t blind, he had noticed your tits. Good to know.

Joel dragged his hands over his face, then let them cover it completely, like he could hide the confession coming out of him.

“I just feel so goddamn lonely,” he said, voice rough and muffled. “I can barely stand bein’ home. The quiet… it’s too much. It’s insufferable.”

“Then let me help you feel good for a moment.”

Joel stiffened, instantly guarded.

“I ain’t gonna—” he started, but you cut him off softly.

“Just a dance, Joel. Clothes can stay on. You can keep your hands to yourself. That’s it.”

He hesitated, you could see it on his face, the war, the want, the shame. He was insanely attracted to you, fuck, he was convinced you were the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. And God, was he touch-starved, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept with a woman. And then there you were, all dolled up in your little sexy outfit, asking him to let you dance on his lap. But there was something holding him back, you weren’t asking him out of want, you weren’t doing it because you were attracted to him, because you desired him too, you were just doing your job. He was just another old dude for you.

“You wouldn’t be using me,” you said gently. “You’d just be letting yourself feel good.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Dunno if I can handle that.”

You leaned in close, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “We’ll stop if you want to.”

He exhaled shakily, letting his guard down long enough to make a stupid decision, to allow himself to feel your warmth for a even just a moment.

“…Okay.”

Joel was sitting there like he was about to be executed. Stiff, hands clasped in his lap, jeans already pulling tight over his thighs.

“You can touch on the sides,” you said smoothly, voice low and even. “Other parts come with a higher fee. But I won’t snitch on you if you want to touch.”

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded—a stiff, uncertain motion, like his body was reacting before his brain could catch up.

“Relax,” you murmured. “Just enjoy me.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded again, jerky.

You moved slow, like syrup, like you had all the time in the world. You let him watch the way your hips rolled, the slow arch of your spine, the way your breasts lifted when you leaned back.

Joel grunted barely audible, but loud enough for you to hear it. He was trying so hard not to move, not to want more than this, but you made it worse, or maybe better. Climbed into his lap with agonizing grace, your thighs spread over his, the soft skin of them brushing against his denim pants. Your chest was inches from his face, and he wouldn’t even dare to look at it.

You tilted his chin up with two fingers.

“Hey,” you whispered. “Don’t you hide from me.”

His eyes met yours, and there it was. The hunger. The ache. The raw loneliness. “I… uh… this is a lot,” he mumbled.

You leaned in closer, lips barely brushing his ear as you purred, “Nuh-uh. We’re only getting started, baby.”

You let your hands glide down your body, your fingertips trailing over the swell of your breasts, pausing just long enough to press into the soft flesh, a subtle squeeze that made your lips part. Your gaze never left his, it stayed locked on Joel’s, steady and hot, like a silent dare.

His eyes were half-lidded, as if every second that you stayed on his lap was agony, like you were hurting him, causing him actual psychical pain. The pain of wanting you so bad it was unbearable. And holy shit, you’d never seen such desperation in a man’s eyes before.

Your thighs parted just a little more as you sank lower with fluid movements, like a dance meant for one man only. You arched your back ever so slightly, ass jutting just enough to make his throat bob with a swallow. You were slowly unraveling him, taking him apart thread by thread, and you savored every single second of it.

You started to move more, every motion dripping with intent, enjoying way his body responded to yours. Your hips rolled in steady, grinding circles to the beat of the music, like you had all the time in the world, all the power in the room. It was just enough pressure to tease the bulge already straining beneath his jeans. You weren’t bouncing, you weren’t giving him those fake moans other guys ate up, there was no performance this time. Just that slow, obscene rhythm of your hips that said you knew exactly what he was feeling.

The heat of him pressed up against your core, hard and twitching, and you shifted your weight just slightly, dragging yourself over him in a way that made his breath stutter. You were moving in tighter little circles, grinding down like you were sculpted for this, like his cock was meant to sit right there under your cunt, throbbing and useless.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his hands still remained at his sides, digging into the couch’s fabric, like he was scared to touch you, scared to break the spell. But you saw it, the way his thighs tensed, the way his hips twitched beneath you, chasing more friction even if his brain was screaming “no”.

Grind. Pull back. Grind. Slow roll.

You worked your hips like a slow metronome, each motion dragging delicious pressure right over the thick line of his cock, trapped and straining in his jeans. It was hard —painfully, impossibly hard— and you could feel every twitch of him beneath you. The friction was brutal and perfect, layers of denim and lace catching just enough to make both of you ache. You shifted just slightly, angling your hips so the grind hit him right there, over and over.

“Feel good?” you whispered, breath hot against his ear.

He groaned, just a ragged, helpless sound that you interpreted as a yes.

“Let it happen,” you coaxed. “Nobody’s watching. Just me, baby. Just you and me.”

Your words worked like gasoline. You moved faster, grinding harder now, faster movements against the already soaked in precum bulge in his jeans. His hips bucked up once, just once, helpless. His head fell forward to your shoulder, letting a muffled grunt slip past his lips like he was ashamed to make a sound at all.

“Ah—fuck,” he gasped. A hot flush crept up his neck. “Fuck—”

You felt it. The way his cock pulsed through his jeans, the heat... the damp that bloomed between you. He came in his pants from just your grinding.

Joel collapsed backward, hiding his face in his hands, breathing shakily and rough. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “M’sorry.”

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t be.”

You could obviously see the embarrassment he was feeling, he’d cum in his pants from a three-minute lap dance. He couldn’t believe it happened, like he was bracing for you to laugh or tease him, but you wanted to tell him there was nothing to be embarrassed about, that he shouldn’t feel ashamed of that huge wet cum stain spreading at the crotch of his jeans. That you thought it was sweet. That the way he’d come apart so fast, so helplessly, just from the way you moved over him... that was fucking hot.

He looked up at you, wide-eyed and ruined.

“I—I didn’t mean—That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You smiled. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my dancing in weeks.”

Joel barked a quiet laugh. Still red-faced, still stunned. You stayed there straddling him, with your arms loosely around his neck.

He shook his head against you. “I feel like a goddamn teenager.”

You smiled gently. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“Christ.” He groaned again. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think,” you said softly, “you needed that. And I’m glad you let me give it to you.”

“Next time,” you added, lips brushing his ear, “I’ll let you cum in my mouth instead.”

Joel groaned—actually whimpered.

He showed up on a Tuesday this time. Rain on his jacket, hat low over his brow. He looked like hell, like he hadn’t slept much, or if he had, it hadn’t helped. You spotted him before the door even closed behind him, he looked around the club like he didn’t know why he was here once again.

But you did. You didn’t rush over, you just gave him that small smile, the one you only gave him, and motioned to his usual booth.

He sat like he was embarrassed to breathe as you slid in beside him.

“Third time here, that makes you a regular now,” you said softly.

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t plan on comin’. Just… ended up here. Again. Had a shitty day at work, couldn’t stand being alone in the house.”

You nodded, not pushing, just letting him be. He looked down at his hands, thumb running over a callus on his palm to comfort himself.

“I ain’t here for a dance.”

“I figured.”

He exhaled. “Didn’t feel right. Last time. Even if it felt—good. Hell, maybe that’s why it don’t feel right.”

You rested your elbow on the back of the booth and turned to face him. “You’re allowed to feel good, Joel.”

“Then why do I feel like shit about last time? I—” he hesitated, jaw clenched. “That wasn’t meant to happen.” He felt like the worst kind of human crap. He had crossed a line he’d sworn he wouldn’t, he’d used you, no matter how good it felt or how much you’d seemed to enjoy it. It had been a mistake.

“Joel, please, we just had some fun,” you cut in gently. “Don’t feel sorry for it. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“But I do,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I feel like I took advantage of you. Like I… like I used you.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his, firm but soft.

“Joel,” you said gently, “if you had walked in here with your dick out, trying to shove it in something—you’d be one of those guys. But you didn’t.”

“I still came here.”

“To feel something,” you said. “Not to get off. That just happened. And it’s okay. Do you think I can’t tell the difference?”

Joel went quiet again. Then: “I ain’t been with anyone in years.”

You nodded. “I figured that too.”

“Can we just… sit and talk?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid you’d say no. “Nothin’ else?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Sure.”

And you did, for hours. No touching or teasing, just talking. Joel told you about his week at work, how the site was behind schedule, how his back was starting to remind him he wasn’t twenty anymore. You told him about your coworkers, the drama, the regulars. He listened like it mattered.

When he shifted beside you, his thigh brushed yours. He apologized but you told him not to.

“You always like this?” he asked, voice low.

“Like what?”

“So easy to talk to.”

You smiled. “Only with people who don’t try to grab my ass.”

That earned a real laugh from him, the kind that rumbled in his chest. You liked the sound of it, you wanted to press your hand over his heart just to feel it.

“I dunno what this is,” he said after a while, voice quieter. “I don’t wanna use you. I don’t wanna treat you like… like a product.”

“I don’t feel like one when I’m with you.”

Joel looked at you then, really looked. His gaze warm and aching. “I come here ‘cause it’s the only place that don’t feel empty lately,” he admitted. “But I think it’s just ‘cause you’re in it.”

That settled between you like a secret. You reached out, just enough to let your fingers brush his hand.

“I miss feelin’ like someone wants me,” he murmured holding your hand tight.

“I want you here,” you said.

“But you get paid to say that.”

You tugged his hair just a little, enough to tilt his head back so he’d look at you.

“I didn’t have to say it at all,” you said. “But I meant it.”

Joel searched your face. For doubt, for bullshit, for some sign you were playing him. But you let him look, let him take his time, and when he didn’t find what he feared, he let out a long, trembling breath and buried his face in your shoulder.

And so you sat, in a velvet booth in a club that smelled like liquor and sex and loneliness, but with Joel beside you—quiet, steady, hurting—it didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Not for either of you.

He came back on a Friday. You saw him the second he stepped inside—his hat low, shoulders tight, like he was walking into a confessional. He always looked like that when he came in, like he was sinning just by breathing the air.

You didn’t wait this time, he barely had time to sit before you slid into the booth beside him, the lights flickered red across his face, casting shadows under his eyes.

“Joel,” you said softly.

He nodded once. “Hey.”

“You look tired.”

He gave a breathless half-laugh. “I am.”

“Want the usual?” you teased.

He hesitated. “I dunno what the hell that means anymore.”

“Lots of deep, meaningful conversation about how much life sucks,” you joked, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

You watched him for a moment. The way his hands flexed, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth like he hated himself for it.

You leaned in, voice low and close. “Or even better, you can let me give you another dance.”

Joel shook his head. “Ain’t—can’t.”

You didn’t pull away. You were patient, steady.

“Why not?”

He exhaled hard. “Cause I don’t wanna want it.”

You tilted your head, fingertips tracing the inside of his wrist, featherlight. “Joel, wanting something isn’t a crime.”

“It is when you’re payin’ for it.” His voice was rough and bitter. “I don’t want you pretendin’. Feels wrong.”

After the other lap dance a couple weeks ago, he’d promised himself it had been a one-time thing. A moment of weakness, nothing more. Just a fluke, a low point after a long stretch of loneliness and stress and too many drinks. He swore he wouldn’t let it happen again, wouldn’t let the weight of his own needs drag him back into something that left him feeling like shit afterward.

“I’m not pretending,” you said softly. “Not with you.”

And you meant it, you actually liked Joel. You were smart enough to know better than to catch feelings for a client, you’d seen too many girls fall down that hole and not come back up—but Joel wasn’t like the others. He was hot, in that quiet, gruff, masculine way. Broad shoulders, tired eyes, a mouth that always looked like it had more to say than he let on. And he was a true gentleman, never pushy, never gross. Conversations with him were real and easy, you liked that. You liked him. It wasn’t the same as giving some beer-bellied drunk a lap dance and pretending to enjoy it. No, with Joel you didn’t have to pretend. You’d liked feeling him under you last time, liked the way his breath hitched when you’d moved just right, liked the way his cock had pressed hard beneath you.

And those low, broken grunts he’d let slip? Yeah, those turned you on.

He looked at you then, like he was trying to figure out if you meant it. If this—you—were real. You reached up, touched his jaw, thumb brushing just under his cheekbone.

“Let me take care of you. For you.”

Joel closed his eyes and nodded. “Fuckin’ hell, Joel. You weak man.” he thought.

You straddled his lap, slow and easy, your palms pressed flat against his chest.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded. Barely.

You started slow, your hips rolling with a deep and steady rhythm. You didn’t rush, just let the pressure build where he was already hard under you. Joel grunted low in his throat, hands gripping the couch tight.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

His head fell back as you ground down harder. You leaned into him, your lips ghosting along his jaw.

“You feel so good, baby,” you whispered. “You’re not doing anything wrong by letting me take care of you.”

He shuddered, he was trying hard to believe you, to convince himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong. His thighs were tensing under yours, his jeans were tight with how hard he was, his cock straining, twitching beneath you.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingertips brushing under his collar.

“Let me give you more than this.”

Joel’s eyes snapped open. “No—I don’t—”

“You want to.” You rocked your hips again and he moaned.

He shook his head, trying to convince you, but also trying to convince himself. "Don’t want it."

You kissed his throat. “Liar.”

He groaned, soft and strangled. “Please. I can’t—”

“I want to make you feel good,” you said. “Let me. Let me suck your cock, Joel. Just sit there and let me take care of you.”

He looked at you, wrecked and shaking. “Christ.”

“I’ll do it right here,” you murmured. “You don’t even have to move. Just a blowjob.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“You’re allowed to feel good, Joel.” You leaned forward, your breath ghosted over his ear. “Pretty please, Joel. I’m the one who’s asking”

He nodded this time, just a tiny and desperate nod. You slid off his lap and knelt between his thighs. He was breathing hard, watching you like it was the first time anyone had ever wanted him. You unzipped his jeans slowly, fingers brushing deliberately over the hard line of him, feeling the way his breath stuttered with each movement. The button popped open with a soft sound, then the zipper, each inch tugged down like unwrapping something forbidden.

You pulled his jeans and boxers just low enough to free him, and he sprang free—already dripping, flushed with a deep and aching red color, veins pulsing along his shaft. God, it was just like you had imagined, because yes, of course you had imagined it. More than once. Big and thick, the kind of cock that made your mouth water. And he looked like it hurt.

You leaned in, still not rushing, your eyes never leaving his, and when you’d built enough anticipation… you dragged your tongue slow and soft over the tip, lapping up the thick bead of precum that clung there like you were savoring something sweet.

Joel groaned, guttural and low, hips bucking forward before he caught himself, fingers fisting the edge of the couch to keep still.

“Sorry,” he rasped.

“Don’t be,” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

You pressed a kiss to his tip and smiled a little, mouth still so close to him that he could feel your breath on him.

“Didn’t even touch you properly yet,” you teased.

“Sorry.”

You chuckled, “stop apologizing.”

You wrapped your warm and wet lips around him, and took him deep, not too fast, but with enough purpose, letting him feel how snug your mouth was, how your tongue felt when it curled just right beneath the head as you sank down, inch by inch. His cock filled your mouth beautifully, the stretch was obscene, making you moaned low around him, just from feeling the way he twitched on your tongue.

“You’re so big, Joel.” Your voice came out in a breathy moan.

“Ngggh… You’re just sayin’ that,” he groaned.

“I don’t say it to anyone,” you looked him right in the eyes when you said it. “You’re huge, and you taste so good too.”

Joel’s thighs trembled under your hands, the muscles of his legs jumped as you braced yourself there, nails lightly dragging against his skin. You moved with slow, devastating rhythm, hollowing your cheeks on every pull back, then sinking down again, letting the head kiss the back of your throat with a wet little sound that made him curse under his breath.

You kept your eyes on his, on that ruined, overwhelmed expression of his, on his jaw clenched so tight, trying so hard not to fall apart. One of his hands found your hair, trembling but gentle, fingers sliding through. Joel wasn’t pushing your head down like most guys did, he was helping you, gently sweeping strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear like it mattered. Like you mattered.

“God,” he gasped. “Feels so fuckin’ good—Your mouth—”

You hummed around him, soft and deep, and the vibration rippled through his cock like a live wire, he shuddered, breath catching hard in his chest. His head fell back against the booth, mouth slack, eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t even look at you without coming undone.

You kept sucking gently, slow and wet, letting his tip rest heavy on your tongue before pulling back with a tight seal, spit slicking his length. Your tongue circled, teasing the sensitive ridge beneath the crown, flicking in slow, deliberate strokes that made his whole body jerk. Your hand worked the base in time with your mouth, twisting slightly on every downstroke, just enough pressure to make him grunt low in his throat.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “You can cum in my mouth. I want it.”

That broke him. Joel’s whole body locked up, muscles drawn tight like a bowstring. His cock throbbed hard against your tongue, a deep, urgent pulse, and then he came with a strangled moan, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You swallowed around him, taking him in like you’d been made for this, like his release belonged to you. It was so much, you tried to take it all, greedy for it, but a little of that warm and thick fluid spilled past your lips—,dripping down your chin, you felt it slide over your skin, obscene and perfect.

And when you looked up at him, with your mouth wet and your eyes shining, he looked like a man on the verge of ruin. His finger moved to wipe your chin, his touch careful and hesitant. “Shit, sorry,” he murmured.

You smiled as you licked your bottom lip, eager to taste every last drop of him. Your hands slowly tucked his cock away with gentleness, and then you climbed back into his lap, curling against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“M’sorry,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t’ve let you—”

You cut him off with a look, not cold a cold one, but steady.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Ruin it.”

Joel came back the next Thursday. He didn’t sit at the bar, didn’t find a table, didn’t even look around. He came straight to you.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping down from the side hallway, still in costume — heels, tight black dress, the hint of glitter across your cheekbones. “Booth?”

“No,” he said. “Can we… talk somewhere?”

You blinked. “I mean, we can talk in the booth.”

He shook his head, jaw tense. “Not there. Not in the damn dark with your ass in my lap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s one way to phrase it.”

Joel sighed, frustrated with himself. “I just—” He looked around, then leaned in. “I wanna see you. Outside of this place.”

His words hit like a jolt.

“You want to see me outside the club?”

He nodded. “No dance. No money. Just talk. Coffee, or dinner, or—I dunno.”

That blowjob from last week had changed something in him. Something he couldn’t turn off, no matter how hard he tried. Now he couldn’t stand to see you in that place again, dressed up for other men, forced to smile, to touch, to pretend. He needed more. Needed to feel like it was real.

You were quiet for a beat, you didn’t want to hurt him, but you had to be clear.

“Joel…” You stepped a little closer, voice lower. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Club rules. We’re not allowed to meet clients outside of work. Not for sex. Not for a date. Not even for a casual drink.”

He stared at you. “Even if it’s not for sex?”

You gave him a tight, apologetic smile. “Doesn’t matter. I could lose my job.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not—why the hell would they care if we’re just talkin’?”

You shrugged. “Because a lot of guys say they just wanna talk, Joel. And then suddenly it’s—‘just come to my place,’ or ‘I’ll pay you triple,’ or worse. They don’t want us catching feelings, and they don’t wanna lose customers.”

“I’m not like those other guys,” he said, too fast.

You softened. “I know. I know you’re not. But the rule isn’t about you, Joel. It’s about protecting me and the club.”

He swallowed hard. “So what, that’s it? This is the only way I ever get to see you?”

You didn’t answer right away. He looked crushed.

“I ain’t askin’ for sex,” he muttered. “I just—hell, I like talkin’ to you more than anythin’ else. That lap dance, or the… that other night—I didn’t even want that. I just… wanted someone who looked at me like you do.”

Your throat went tight. “I know,” you said. “And I like talking to you too. But I can’t pretend this job doesn’t have limits.”

He looked at you, his voice low and worn. “S’ just—I sit at home all week thinkin’ about talkin’ to you again. And when I’m finally here, it’s not enough.”

“Joel, you can come here every week. You can talk to me as long as you want. You don’t have to get a dance. You don’t have to touch me. You can just be here.”

“I don’t want it to be like this,” he said. “In a fuckin’ booth, like I gotta rent your time.”

You let out a breath, it came out quieter than you meant it to. You were tired too. Of pretending this was normal, of seeing someone want you but not be allowed to have you, not without guilt, shame, and cash in between.

So this time, you pushed.

“What if,” you said carefully, “we go back to one of the back rooms. Just me. Just you. For an hour. I could…” You looked him in the eye. “I could take care of you. Make you feel real good. No games.”

He looked almost offended. You didn’t get it, he wasn’t just some guy throwing cash at you for ten minutes of skin. He was asking for your time, for something real, for the chance to take you somewhere nice and treat you like you deserved. And you thought a quick fuck in a back room would satisfy him? When he wanted so much more than that?

His jaw tensed. “Don’t do that.”

You leaned forward. “Do what?”

“Offer that like it don’t mean anythin’. I’m here askin’ you on a real date and you offer me that shit?”

“I’m not pretending it doesn’t mean anything,” you said. “I’m saying I want to do it. With you.”

He pulled his hand away, running it through his hair.

“You’d still be clocked in. Still be workin’. And I’d still be payin’ you to fuck me.”

You sat back a little. Hurt, but you didn’t let it show. Much.

“I’m not offering sex to get your money, Joel. I’m offering sex because I know it’s something I can give you. And I know you want it.”

He was quiet. You reached for his hand again, this time, he didn’t take it.

“I want to be close to you,” you said. “But this is the only way I can. I don’t get to go for coffee. Or dinner. Or dates.”

He looked down at the floor.

And then, barely audible:

“I don’t wanna fuck you.”

That one stung.

You nodded, letting your hand fall away. “Right.”

“No—I mean—” He sighed, leaning forward. “It’s not that I don’t wanna. Jesus, I do. Every goddamn second I look at you. But not like that. Not in some booth with a timer. Not leavin’ a tip on a nightstand like a piece of shit.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “You think you’re better than the other guys?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“You think just because you hate that you’re here, it makes you different?”

His mouth opened — then closed. Now you had really offended him.

You leaned in. “You’re not any different than all the others. You’re lonely. And you want to feel something. Just like they do. But you want to feel clean. Like if you feel enough or care enough, it’ll make this… better. But it doesn’t work like that, Joel.”

He looked stricken, like he couldn’t tell if you were being cruel or honest.

“So that’s what you think of me?” he said, voice low and rough, like it scraped its way up from his chest. “You think I’m the same as every other piece of shit who walks in here and buys your body like you’re some pair of shoes on display?”

“I think you’re allowed to want me. You’re even allowed to hate that you want me. But don’t act like you’re too noble for this, Joel. Not when you keep coming back.”

He looked away, you both stayed in silence.

You weren’t mad at him, not really. You were just tired. Tired of watching him beg for something that didn’t exist, a version of you without strings, without compromise. A version of you who could walk away from the club, slip into a nice dress, and meet him at some quiet diner for a real date.

And Joel?

He was tired of wanting something that didn’t fit inside the walls of this place. Tired of the guilt that came with paying for your time, the constant weight that whispered he was using you, even when all he wanted was to be close. Mostly, he was just tired of not having something real.

Maybe what you said had cut too deep. Maybe you were too hard on him. Too blunt. Too right.

Because Joel didn’t come back the next week.

Or the one after that.

READ PART 2 HERE

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A/N: I hope you liked this first part🫶🏻 Thank you sm to everyone who encouraged me to post it!!! (Sorry if I got your expectations up and this ended up being a bit of a letdown).

It’s a two part story, so next week i’ll be posting the second one. Thank you so much for your support, as always likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated🩷

@pillow-princess-69

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verricherri · 2 months ago

Note

Rhett Abbott one night stand vibes with accidental pregnancy? Surprise me with how the ending turns out please 🙏🏻✨

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A/N: I definitely went overboard with this one 😭 scrapped three drafts before landing here — so this version? she’s the chosen one. Warnings: soft, protective Rhett coming your way. you're not ready and neither am I. i melt for this Rhett — like full-on puddle. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The baby was asleep when he started talking.

Not that she’d understand a word of it — all curled up in her cotton wrap, her fingers twitching against his shirt, her breath warm and even where it ghosted over his collarbone. But Rhett liked to think she’d remember the sound of his voice. The shape of it. The safety.

He shifted in the old rocking chair, boots planted firm on the creaky wooden floor — though the nursery didn’t look quite finished. Shelves only half-installed. A mobile still waiting to be hung. There was a paint roller in the corner and a small pile of unopened baby books someone had dropped off weeks ago. Maybe him. Maybe you.

He looked down at her — all six pounds of her — and smiled without teeth.

“You wanna know how you got here?”

The room stayed quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere near the baseboard heater.

“Well,” Rhett said softly, adjusting her weight in his arms, “That’s a long story. And not the kind I ever thought I’d be tellin’.”

His thumb brushed over the soft edge of her ear. So small.

“So small,” he whispered. “Didn’t think somethin’ so tiny could turn my whole life upside down.” He smiled, barely. “Just like your mama did.”

He leaned his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan that never worked quite right.

“She wasn’t supposed to stay, you know. Not that night. Wasn’t even supposed to look at me, let alone... God.” He let out a breath “I don’t even remember what song was playin’. Just remember her laugh. It was like drinkin’ somethin’ too fast — made my head spin.”

The baby sighed in her sleep.

“I didn’t mean to let her go, kid. I just didn’t know how to make her stay.”

The memory tightened in his chest like a rope.

One night. That’s what it had been. One stupid, beautiful night. And in the morning — she’d left. Quiet as sunrise.

No note. No number.

Just the smell of her on his shirt and the shape of her still carved into the sheets.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I told myself not to chase her. Thought if I kept busy, if I stuck to riding and kept my head down, I’d forget.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I didn’t. Not once.”

He looked down again — at her tiny fists, her sleep-pink mouth.

“You’ve got her eyes,” he whispered. “Big and soft. Like you see more than you should.”

He kissed her forehead.

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

The chair creaked as it rocked. Outside, the sky was turning bright over the ridge.

“And if she won’t tell you how it happened,” he said, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I will.”

—

The music was loud. Too loud for the size of the room, too loud for how late it was, but no one seemed to care — not the old jukebox wheezing out another George Strait hit, not the drunk couple trying to two-step on scuffed wood floors, not the college kids tossing back shots they couldn’t afford. The Wabang bar hadn’t changed. Not in years. Probably never would.

Rhett didn’t come here much anymore.

He was nursing a beer in the farthest corner of the room, half in the shadows, half pretending to care about the pool game in front of him. Someone was shouting about a scratch, someone else laughing too loud. He felt the thud of bass more than he heard it. His boots tapped once. Twice. Then stilled.

And then he saw you.

Across the room. Laughing at something a friend said. Hair tied up, strands falling loose, cheeks warm with heat and liquor and the kind of confidence that made his throat tighten. You were wearing a denim jacket and a black tank top, and for a second — just a second — you looked right at him.

And smiled.

Rhett blinked.

That smile hadn’t been meant for him. Couldn’t’ve been. He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since school. Not since that awkward period where he’d liked you a little too much and you’d barely known his name. You ran with a different crowd. The smart ones. The ones who didn’t stay.

But you were here now. And walking toward him.

Shit.

“Rhett Abbott,” you said, dropping into the seat across from him without asking. Your voice was soft and surprised, like you weren’t entirely sure you were doing this. “I thought that was you.” He stared for half a beat too long. “Hey.”

That was all he could get out. Hey.

You laughed again. “Don’t sound too excited.” “No—I mean. Yeah. I just—didn’t expect…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doin’ here?” “Visiting. Friend’s birthday. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts.” You gestured to the room. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You look… the same.” “That good or bad?” You tilted your head. “That depends. You still ride?” His mouth quirked. “Sometimes.” “Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

You looked at him differently then. Like the game had changed. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

“I always thought you didn’t like me much,” you admitted, nursing your drink now. “You were kind of… intense.” “That mean I scared you?” You laughed. “A little.” He smirked, eyes drifting down and back up. “Still do?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him — like you were trying to decide if this was dangerous, or if you wanted it to be.

The jukebox whirred into a slower song. Something mournful. Something sweet.

You held out your hand. “Wanna dance?”

Rhett looked down at it, then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t think. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t play it safe.

He stood and took your hand.

—

The floor was sticky. The music was old. But the way you fit against him, the way your head dipped toward his chest — it felt brand new.

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

The dance slowed, the music fading into something else. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Outside, the air had cooled. You walked together, neither of you saying much. The kind of silence that buzzed between skin and breath. When you got to your car, you paused. Unlocked it. Didn’t open the door.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” you said. Rhett leaned against the passenger side. “You wanna ride?” You looked up at him. “Where?” He met your eyes. “Anywhere you want.”

—

The truck smelled like pine and leather. You didn’t turn on the radio. Just let the wind and gravel speak for you.

He didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Just drove.

And you didn’t stop him.

The motel was just outside of Wabang. Old sign flickering, vending machine humming near the front desk. Rhett didn’t even flinch when the clerk handed him a key — Room 6 — didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations. Just nodded, paid in cash, and led you up the crooked concrete steps.

The room smelled like stale AC and cheap soap.

One lamp. One bed. One heartbeat between yes and no.

You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand. “I don’t usually do this,” you said.

Rhett didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“Me neither.”

You turned to face him.

The light hit him just right — tired, tan, a little older than you remembered. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much and still chose softness anyway.

He didn’t touch you first. You did.

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

There were no loud declarations. No fumbling urgency.

Just a quiet look.

A question in your eyes.

An answer in his touch.

When he undressed you, it was careful. Slow. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

When you pulled his shirt off, he didn’t say a word. Just looked at you.

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust.

Something like hope.

—

The morning light hit too hard through the cheap motel curtains.

You were already dressed when Rhett stirred, still tangled in the sheets. He watched you pull your jacket on like you couldn’t get it done fast enough. Like if you moved quickly enough, you could leave the night behind entirely.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you said softly, eyes on the floor. “You leavin’?” You hesitated. Then nodded, “This doesn’t need to be anything.”

He sat up slower than he meant to, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold him up.

“Right,” he said, even though it didn’t feel right. Not at all.

You gave him the kind of smile people give at airports or funerals — polite, distant, already halfway gone.

“Take care, Rhett.”

You left without looking back.

—

He didn’t go home. Not right away.

Drove for a while. Long enough to burn through a quarter tank. The day felt dull around the edges, like sound underwater. By the time he pulled into the ranch yard, the sun had barely cleared the ridge.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something burning. Royal sat at the table, flipping through paperwork. Cecilia moved silently at the stove, frying eggs she wouldn’t eat.

Rhett stood in the doorway, unsure why he’d even come in.

“You’re late,” Royal said without looking up.

Rhett didn’t answer.

Royal glanced up, eyes sharp. “You hungover or just stupid?” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.”

That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Royal kept going. “Whatever it is, drop it. You’ve got a ride next week and I don’t need your head three counties away.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just nodded, slow.

Cecilia set a plate down in front of him. Toast. Eggs. The kind of comfort she never named.

She didn’t say a word — just looked at him, once, with something like knowing in her eyes.

Then she walked away.

—

He didn’t talk about it again.

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Instead, he trained harder. Rode more.

Got thrown off a bull in Sheridan and got back on like it didn’t matter.

Told himself it didn’t. Told himself it was better this way.

He hadn’t seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

—

It was the kind of day that didn’t ask much. Overcast sky, wind low and steady, that late-autumn chill sliding down the back of your neck like a warning. Rhett wasn’t even supposed to be in town — just running an errand for Perry, picking up horse feed and a new belt buckle he didn’t need.

He didn’t plan on seeing her.

Didn’t plan on freezing in the middle of the grocery aisle, one hand around a can of coffee he wasn’t sure he’d even grabbed.

But there she was. By the end cap near the bakery. Reaching for something on a high shelf.

She looked the same, but softer. Hair pulled back in a low knot. Jacket zipped halfway. She turned slightly as she adjusted her footing and—

His breath caught.

There it was.

Not obvious, not dramatic. But there. A soft curve beneath her coat.

A bump.

She didn’t see him at first. He should’ve walked away. Turned around. Left it alone.

But he didn’t.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then—

“You gonna tell me?”

She froze.

Didn’t turn right away. Just let the sound of his voice sink in like a stone.

When she did face him, her eyes flickered — surprise, guilt, something else he couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you,” you said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see this either.” His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back up. “You should’ve told me.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how.” “You could’ve called.” You shook your head. “And said what? That I left in the morning and came back months later with a bump?” Rhett didn’t flinch. “Would’ve been better than this.” You hugged your arms across your chest, suddenly very small in the wide-open aisle. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me at all if you thought that.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.”

He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.”

That stopped him. Softened him.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.” You flinched. “Her?” He shrugged, eyes never leaving yours. “Guessin’.” You blinked fast. “I wasn’t asking for anything, Rhett.” “Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

You stared at him — not sure if you were angry, relieved, or just stunned.

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing.

He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. Rhett took a breath like it hurt to let it out. “I like you.”

You blinked.

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

He looked down, then back up — eyes steady.

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.”

You were quiet. Breathing shallow.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said softly. “Even if I already cracked something that night.”

Then, lower now. Barely above a whisper, but it landed like thunder:

“I want to be responsible for this. For you. For them. I know it’s not simple. I know I messed up by not sayin’ it sooner. But I’m sayin’ it now.”

You swallowed hard, something in your chest twisting sharp and sudden.

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

—

The knock came just before dusk.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You stood at the window for a good ten seconds before opening the door.

Rhett stood on your porch, holding a brown paper bag and a half-flustered expression.

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

“I brought you dinner,” he said finally. You stared. “You’re serious?” He held up the bag like it was proof of intent. “You need help. And I didn’t think ‘I like you’ was gonna be enough if I didn’t show up again.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.

The kitchen was small, warm. Lived-in, but tired. Dishes drying by the sink. A plant you weren’t sure was dying. Mail on the table you hadn’t opened.

Rhett unpacked without asking where things went. Two frozen meals. A loaf of bread. Oranges. Ginger tea.

“You researched what pregnant people eat?” you asked dryly. He paused. Scratched the back of his neck. “Nah. Asked that lady at the checkout. The one with grandkids. Real loud voice.” You snorted. “Mrs. Henley?” “That’s the one,” he said, almost sheepish. “She said oranges help with heartburn. Scared the hell outta me, honestly.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

He glanced around, his fingers tapping the edge of your counter. “You got anything that needs fixin’? Leaky faucet? Broken hinge? Lights out?” “Why?” “Because I’m standin’ here and I wanna do somethin’ more than just breathe the same air as you.” You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, but not too close.

“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he said. “That I meant what I said. I want to be part of this. I don’t wanna watch you do it alone when I can stand beside you.” You blinked, throat tightening. “You make it sound simple.” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s hard as hell. But hard things are worth stayin’ for.”

The silence sat thick between you.

Then he said it. Soft. Unapologetic.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you after that night. You disappeared, and I told myself I’d imagined it all — that it was just one of those things. But now... now I know better. And I’m not walkin’ away from that twice.” Your voice cracked before you even meant to speak. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?” His eyes didn’t falter. “Then I wait. I show up. I do the dishes. I fix the porch. I buy groceries. I wait.” You laughed once — a shaky, wet sound. “That sounds stupid.” “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

—

You didn’t ask him to stay.

But you didn’t ask him to leave either.

The sun dipped low outside, turning the kitchen gold. Rhett stood awkwardly by the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that the groceries were unpacked and the speech was over.

You broke the silence first. “You hungry?” He blinked. “What?” “You brought food,” you said, softer this time. “Might as well eat it.” He nodded once, slow and cautious, like the offer might disappear if he moved too fast. “Yeah. Alright.”

You microwaved the meals he brought — chicken something for you, beef stew for him. He stood by the sink the whole time, watching the timer count down like it mattered. When it beeped, he jumped a little. You pretended not to notice.

You both sat at the table like strangers trying not to be.

Halfway through dinner, you said, “You always eat this quiet?” He looked up, eyes warm with the smallest flicker of something — relief, maybe. “Only when I’m nervous.” You paused mid-bite. “You’re nervous?” “‘Course I’m nervous,” he said, nudging his tray with his fork. “You’re smart. And strong. And pissed off. And pregnant. And sittin’ across from me after months of not speakin’. I’d be an idiot not to be nervous.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. But your lips curled, just slightly. Just enough.

After you both finished, Rhett grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the counter. Like it was his house. Like he belonged there.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

He threw the towel away. Then turned to face you again. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Still unsure.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you stood. Crossed the room. And leaned back against the counter next to him.

“Okay,” you said. Just that. No fanfare. His head turned, eyes searching yours. “Okay?” You nodded. “Okay. One step at a time.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I can do one step,” he said. “I’m good at steady.” You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re also good at falling off bulls.” He smirked. “Falling for difficult things is kind of my brand.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh.

And it felt like the first true thing between you since that night.

—

It started with the screen door.

You’d mentioned, offhand, that it creaked every time the wind hit it. Not as a complaint. Not even really expecting anything. Just one of those things people say when they’re tired and trying to ignore the things that bother them.

Two days later, it was fixed.

No note. No fuss. Just... fixed.

And then came the squeaky bathroom faucet. Then the broken fence post near the back gate. Then the step on the porch that’d always slanted left until suddenly, quietly, it didn’t.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did.

He stopped by every few days now. Always with a reason.

Brought extra milk once. Said he “accidentally bought two.” Dropped off a hammer the second time. Claimed he “forgot it last time,” even though you were pretty sure it hadn’t been there at all.

And once — just once — he showed up with a tupperware of stew and mumbled something about “Cecilia made too much.” You didn’t question it.

You started leaving the porch light on without thinking about it.

—

One night, you found him sitting on your steps, your dog curled up next to his boot, watching the wind move through the trees like it was a story worth hearing.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. Just sat there with the kind of quiet you didn’t mind.

You opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You’re just gonna sit there all night?” He looked up, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna bug you.” You gestured toward the couch. “You wanna come in or not?”

He smiled — small, crooked — and followed you inside.

—

The living room felt warmer with him in it. He didn’t say much. Just took off his boots, set his hat on the counter without thinking, and leaned back into your secondhand couch like it remembered him.

You brought two mugs of tea and sat beside him, knees almost touching.

“I didn’t think you’d keep coming,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to stop,” he replied, just as soft.

You looked at him — really looked.

At the faint scrape on his knuckles. At the way his shirt pulled at the shoulders from work. At the way he exhaled like he hadn’t had a quiet place to land in a while.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch.

“You always stare this much?” he asked, voice low. “Only when I’m trying to figure someone out.”

He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched over the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric.

“I’m not that complicated.” You raised a brow. “That’s what complicated people say.”

He smiled at that. Small. But real.

“I just like bein’ here,” he said. “That’s all.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked around the room — at the dim lamp, the mismatched throw pillows, the chipped mug on the table still holding yesterday’s tea bag. Then back at you.

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

That quiet landed deeper than you expected.

But before you could say anything, he added, softer:

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. He looked nervous now, like he’d gone too far.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. You just let your foot rest against his, and this time, you didn’t move it.

And he stayed.

—

It came out quiet.

Like most true things do.

You were sitting on the floor in the living room, sorting through the week’s mail, legs folded under you. Rhett was on the couch behind you, flipping through a hardware catalog he had no intention of ordering from. It was just background noise. Just a way to fill the silence between what had already been said and whatever was next.

You set an envelope down and said, “I found out on a Wednesday.” Rhett looked up. “Yeah?” You nodded, eyes still on your hands. “I didn’t feel right. Thought maybe I was just tired, maybe stress, maybe—hell, I don’t know. But something told me to go pick up a test.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t even wait until I got home. I used the gas station bathroom down by that old diner. Locked the door. Waited. Shook the whole damn time.” You let out a quiet breath. “Didn’t need to wait the full three minutes. It showed up quick.”

Rhett stayed quiet.

You looked down at your fingers. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either. I just... sat there. For a long time.”

Still nothing from him. Just presence. Just patience.

“I went home. Put the test in the trash. Took another one the next morning. Same result. And I just… kept going. Like it hadn’t happened.” You paused, trying to shape it right. Then: “I wasn’t scared of being a mom. I was scared of telling you.” Rhett’s voice came out low. “Why?” “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to blow up your life.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t want it to feel like some trap. Like you owed me something just because I kept it.”

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over.

Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave.

He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.”

That stopped you. Fully stopped you.

He glanced over. “If you hadn’t told me? If I’d never known? I’d be walking around not even realizing I had this chance. You.” You swallowed, throat tight. “It didn’t feel like a chance. It felt like a mess. And I was already halfway drowning in it.” Rhett nodded. Quiet. “I’m not afraid of mess.” “I am,” you said. He didn’t look away. “Then let me be the part that’s steady.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it.

—

You turned to him, slow. Careful.

“What if we tried?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.”

Silence. But not the bad kind.

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred.

“I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

You swallowed, suddenly breathless.

“And now you’re here,” he added, voice dropping. “Asking me what if. After everything. After the mess. After the one night I never stopped thinkin’ about.” He smiled — slow, soft, disbelieving. “This don’t feel real. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.” You shifted closer. “Well… what if it’s real?” He reached for your hand then. Fully, deliberately. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto it.”

Your fingers curled around his. Steady. Sure.

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

—

The house was quiet except for the sound of her breath.

Tiny, rhythmic. Almost like wind through cotton.

She was asleep against your chest, her body curled up like a comma, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. You hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Across the room, Rhett sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his work shirt, still dusted in hay and dirt from a day he didn’t complain about. His eyes were locked on her — your daughter — like she was the sun coming up over the ridge.

“She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. You looked down. “You think?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “That stubborn little pout? That’s you.” You smiled, exhausted but full. “She’s got your frown when she sleeps.” He chuckled. “Poor thing.”

The lamp threw soft amber light across the floorboards. Everything felt warm, lived-in, quiet in a way neither of you had known before.

Rhett shifted up onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle her. One arm draped behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck like a whisper.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

You looked down at her — at her sleep-heavy face, the rise and fall of her breath. You still couldn’t believe something so new could feel so right.

“She changed everything,” you said. Rhett let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And somehow made it all make sense.”

The baby shifted, sighing softly, and you both stilled — protective without speaking, already moving in tandem without having to try.

—

The baby in his arms stirred, bringing Rhett back to the now.

She was heavier these days. A little bigger. A little louder when she wanted something. But in that moment, cradled against his chest in the quiet, she was still. Warm. Safe.

The house around them was hushed — not the tense kind of silence he used to know, but the good kind. Familiar. A hum of peace under the floorboards.

The late morning light spilled through the window. Golden, soft-edged. It lit up the room in streaks — caught the dust in the air, glinted off the framed photo on the mantel, and landed square on his left hand where it curled around her tiny back.

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger.

He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

Steady.

Staying.

Rhett rocked slowly in the old chair, voice low and careful.

“And that,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her forehead, “is how you came to be.”

He looked down at her — same stubborn pout, same tiny fists — and smiled to himself.

“Wasn’t part of the plan, sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re the best thing I never saw comin’.”

She shifted, one arm flopping up against his chest like she knew she was being talked about.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad,” he went on. “Didn’t even know if I was gonna be good at any of this. I still don’t, some days. But then you cry, or smile, or fall asleep on me like this, and I figure... maybe I don’t have to know everything. Maybe just bein’ here is enough.”

A beat.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

His thumb brushed gently over her back. She sighed in her sleep. Like she already believed him.

Rhett leaned back a little further, gaze catching again on the wedding band. It felt heavier in the sunlight. Not in a burdensome way — just real. Earned.

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

Another pause. No rush.

“You were a happy accident, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

His voice dipped even lower, almost a promise.

“You’re ours. All the way.”

And outside, the wind moved through the trees, steady and light — as the sun kept shining.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott x y/n #lewis pullman #verricherriask🍒

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snail-day · 23 days ago

Text

TW: Soft Yandere, Captivity, Reader is a little freak, brief smut, choking, unedited, mdni

Now imagine asking your yandere! outlaw to put you in a chokehold.

You must be ovulating or the heat is finally getting to your head because what other reason could there be for you to look at your kidnapper and think, yeah, I wanna see if he can squeeze the breath right outta me.

But Lord help you, there’s just something about the way he moves.

You’ve been following him all morning, trailing behind like a pup in heat while he does his rounds. And it ain’t like there’s much else for you to do. Not when you’re tucked away out here in the middle of nowhere, ranch-bound and leashed to him in every way that matters.

So you watch. You sit in the dry grass, chin propped in your hands, trying not to squirm while your outlaw works shirtless in the sun, haulin’ hay bales with thick, roped forearms, shoulders flexing beneath sun-slick skin, veins standing up along his hands like the roots of an old tree. Every time he bends over to fix a latch or check a hoof, his jeans pull tight across his thighs and your breath catches. You can feel your body reacting, core clenching, nipples brushing against the inside of your dress, needy for friction and attention he hasn't given you since sunrise.

He doesn’t even notice at first. Just tips his hat back, all casual-like, and tosses you a look over his shoulder. “You doin’ alright, sugar?”

You nod too quickly. “Mhm,” you hum, legs crossed tight, voice nearly a whimper. Not really. You’re hot and itchy and aching, and watching him do ranch work is somehow worse than any teasing he’s ever done.

Once he finishes, before noon, like always, he stalks toward you, knife in one hand and a ripe peach in the other. You sit up straighter, mouth already watering. But not for the fruit, no, you want that giant thing tucked in his pants.

But a good girl like you shouldn't be thinkin' like that.

He slices it without a word, just a grunt when he sits beside you, juices dripping down the blade, and feeds you the first bite right off the tip of his knife. Fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face just so as he slides it past your lips. You suck the juice off his fingers, and his brows twitch, jaw ticking when you press your tongue against the pad of his thumb.

You look up at him, sunlight glinting off his pretty eyes, scruff shadowing his sharp jaw, that cold-eyed gunslinger stare softened just a little, and you can’t help it.

“Can you…” your voice comes out breathy, almost shy, “put me in a chokehold?”

He stills for a moment, all you can hear is the buzz of cicadas and the wet, juicy drip of peach onto the grass. And finally in a gravely tone laced with heat, “…What the hell did you just say?”

“I said…” you crawl into his lap, thighs brushing his, heat pooling low in your belly, all sweet like candy, “Can you put your hand around my throat?”

He stares. Long. Hard. “You feelin’ alright?” he mutters, voice low and rough, “Ain’t been drinkin’ the shine, have you?”

“No,” you whimper, fingers curling into the rough denim of his jeans, pressing your mouth to the stubble along his jaw. “I just… want it. Please.”

He grunts, more sound than word, like it physically pains him to admit how much he likes you beggin’. That’s what finally cracks him.

“Alright then,” he drawls, shifting beneath you until your back hits the dirt, doesn't pay any mind to the way you’re looking at him.

Knowing better than to trust easy sweetness. Knows you’ve been quiet lately. Been watchin’ him too close while he works. Legs crossed tight in that little dress he bought you, eyes all glassy and lips all pouty. He ain’t stupid. He sees it. The heat clingin’ to your skin, the squirm in your seat when he flexes just right.

And when you crawled into his lap and ask, so soft and sugar-slick, for him to put a hand around your throat?

Oh, he don’t trust that one bit.

“What’re you plannin’, darlin’?” he mutters, even as his hand curls just beneath your jaw, his thumb brushing your pulse like he’s takin’ inventory of every thought racin’ through that pretty head. “Tryin’ to distract me? Make me soft on you so you can slip off when I ain’t lookin’?”

You shake your head, whimperin’ no. But that only makes him more suspicious. More obsessed.

Because he knows how smart you are. He’s seen the way you eye the fence line. The way your fingers twitch when you hear the sound of boots approachin’ like maybe you’re still hopin’ someone’ll come for you.

You’re still tryin’ to run.

That pisses him off.

So when he grabs you, strong hands locking under your thighs and tossin’ you over his shoulder, it’s not gentle. He storms into the barn like a thunderhead rollin’ in, muttering under his breath the whole time, “Think I don’t see what this is? Think I don’t know what you’re doin’, sugar? Tryin’ to make me come undone so you can sneak out while my seed is still buried inside you? You forget who you're dealin’ with?”

The barn door slams behind him, and next thing you know you’re flat on a pile of hay, the skirt of your dress hiked up, lips trembling. His hat’s discarded on the floor, eyes burning wild above you, like some rabid dog ready to sink his teeth in.

He yanks his belt free with a harsh snap, looming over you like a stormcloud during monsoon season.

“You wanna be choked?” he growls, hand gripping your jaw, “You wanna be roughened up a little?”

Then he’s between your legs, nudging them apart with his knee, shoving your pretty white panties aside, dragging two rough fingers along your slick folds and groaning at how wet you are. “Goddamn, you’re drippin’. What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl like you? You’re not right in the head.”

His hand returns to your throat. This time, a little tighter, claiming your breath. Feeling your pulse quicken as he lines himself up, his thick head already breaching past your fluttering lips. You've never been this sweet to him before.

So when he finally thrusts into you, hard enough to make the hay rustle and the air leave your lungs, it’s not just lust. It’s punishment.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he snarls against your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise, for your screams to echo against the walls. “You don’t get to play me. You don’t get to fuckin’ leave.”

You cry out, not sure if it’s from the force of the bite or the way he’s splitting you open like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, and he laughs wicked in your ear as he pounds into your slick cunt. Perhaps you shouldn't have tempted the bull just because you were feeling a little needy.

“You thought you could use this? Thought you could get me so pussy-drunk I’d forget to lock the door behind me? I’ll make sure you can’t walk by the time I’m done,” he hisses, voice trembling at the edge, slick obscene sounds bouncing off the walls in the barn. His pace quickens even more while his words come out in a hushed groan, “I’ll fuck the thoughts right outta that schemin’ little head.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re babbling, hands weak against his chest, legs twitching around his waist, your voice raw from cryin’ his name and beggin’ for more, for less, for anything. And even then…he doesn’t let go of your throat.

Not until he’s sure.

Not until he’s pressed so deep inside you that he swears he can feel your heartbeat around his cock that's pressed right up against your womb.

Only then does he lean down, kiss the corner of your mouth, and whisper, too soft to be safe: “You’re mine now, sugar. You don’t get to make me love you just to run off. Not ever. Now be a good lil' filly and take what I give you.”

#Red dead redemption really did something to my brain #We need more cowboy content in the world #Yandere #yandere scenarios #Yandere imagines #Yandere x reader #Yandere cowboy #Yandere outlaw #Yandere outlaw x reader #Male yandere x reader #Yandere drabbles

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