multi-fandom-hoebag

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Hello, I love your writing and Stardew fics sm, finding your account is the best thing that happened to me 🫶🏻

Could you write a sequel to a one shot you already did, "The Brat and the Farmer"? Where Farmer actually caught Haley in the act 👀

Bonus points if Haley is wearing a farmer's shirt she left at her home during a sleepover or something.

Again, I love your fics, hope you're having a good day <3

So sorry this so long, hope you enjoy!

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The sun was sinking low over Pelican Town, painting the fields in hues of gold and amber. The farmer, a woman with a swagger in her step and a smirk that could charm the bark off a tree, had spent the morning at Emily and Haley’s house, helping Emily fix a temperamental loom. Her hands, rough from years of taming the land, had made quick work of the task, and she’d left Emily beaming with gratitude. In the heat of the work, the farmer had shed her favorite red flannel, leaving it slung over a chair in the living room. She’d realized her mistake halfway home and doubled back, figuring she’d grab it before Emily or Haley noticed.

Haley, with her golden curls and a wardrobe that screamed high maintenance, had been lurking during the repair, pretending to scroll through her phone while stealing glances at the farmer. The way the farmer’s muscles flexed under her tank top, the casual confidence in her movements; it drove Haley up the wall. That cocky grin, the way she’d wink at Emily like she owned the place, it was infuriating. And yet, Haley couldn’t stop thinking about her. The farmer was everything Haley wasn’t: rugged, unbothered, and annoyingly magnetic.

When the farmer left, Haley lingered in the living room, her gaze snagging on the forgotten flannel. She snatched it up, fingers curling into the worn fabric. It smelled like earth, cedar, and that maddening hint of the farmer’s sweat; raw, unapologetic. Emily was out running errands, the house dead quiet, and Haley felt a spark ignite. She headed upstairs to her bedroom, flannel in hand, her pulse thrumming with something she refused to name.

Her room was a pastel fortress: pink walls, a vanity drowning in high-end makeup, and a bed with sheets like liquid silk. She left the door half-open, Emily wouldn’t be back for ages, and Haley wasn’t expecting interruptions. Stripping off her designer tank and shorts, she stood in her lacy black bra and panties, then pulled on the farmer’s flannel. It was too big, sleeves dangling, but it felt like slipping into a dare, the fabric brushing her skin like a taunt.

Haley sprawled on her bed, the flannel’s scent wrapping around her. She closed her eyes, picturing that infuriating smirk, those calloused hands that could fix anything but somehow made her want to break something. Her fingers trailed down her stomach, slipping under her panties, and she bit her lip as she found herself slick, her body betraying her. “You’re such an ass,” she muttered, imagining the farmer’s low chuckle, that cocky tilt of her head. Her fingers circled her clit, slow then faster, her hips twitching as she leaned into the fantasy of wiping that smirk off the farmer’s face. Preferably with her mouth.

The farmer, true to form, hadn’t bothered knocking. She’d called out a lazy “Just grabbing my shirt!” but got no answer. Hearing faint noises from upstairs, her curiosity piqued, she climbed the steps, her steps quiet on the carpet. When she reached Haley’s door, slightly ajar, she stopped dead. The sight hit her like a punch: Haley, sprawled on her bed, wearing her flannel, unbuttoned to show off that lacy bra, one hand working between her thighs. The farmer’s name spilled from Haley’s lips, raw and desperate, and a slow, wicked grin spread across the farmer’s face.

The farmer leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her grin pure arrogance. She let herself watch, savoring the way Haley’s hips bucked, the flush on her cheeks. It was a power trip, knowing she’d gotten under Haley’s skin like this. She waited a moment, then another, until Haley’s eyes flicked open and locked on her.

Haley froze, hand stilling, her face flashing from pleasure to fury. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she snapped, yanking the flannel closed and sitting up. Her voice was all venom, but her blush betrayed her, and the farmer’s smirk only widened.

“Came for my shirt,” the farmer drawled, nodding at the flannel. “Didn’t expect you to be… breaking it in.” She tilted her head, eyes raking over Haley with shameless heat.

Haley’s jaw clenched, her embarrassment fueling her fire. “You’re such an arrogant pain in the ass,” she spat, clutching the shirt tighter. “Get out!”

The farmer didn’t budge, her grin sharpening. “Oh, come on, Haley. You’re the one getting off in my shirt. Seems like you’re more into me than you let on.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping low. “Kinda makes me wonder what else you’re hiding under all that attitude.”

Haley’s eyes narrowed, but the heat in them wasn’t just anger. The farmer’s cockiness was like gasoline on a fire. She wanted to slap that grin off her face, but she also wanted to pull her closer. “You’re delusional,” she shot back, but her voice wavered, and the farmer caught it.

“Am I?” The farmer sauntered to the bed, sitting on the edge, close enough that Haley could smell the faint cedar on her skin. “Tell me to leave then.”

Haley’s breath hitched, her pride warring with the ache between her thighs. The farmer’s gaze was a challenge, daring her to back down, and Haley hated losing. “You’re so fucking smug,” she muttered, her voice sharp but thick with want. “Fine. You wanna play? Prove you’re not all talk.”

The farmer’s laugh was low, triumphant.

“Thought you’d never ask.” She closed the gap, kissing Haley with a hunger that matched their sparring, hard, messy, like they were fighting for control. Haley kissed back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in the farmer’s tank top, nails digging in. The farmer’s hands roamed, slipping under the flannel to grip Haley’s hips, her touch rough and sure.

They broke apart, both breathing hard, eyes locked in a standoff. “Hurry up,” Haley said, her voice a dare, and the farmer’s grin was all teeth.

“Bossy,” she teased, but she was already moving, pushing Haley back onto the bed. Haley didn’t resist, her legs falling open as the farmer settled between them.

The sight of Haley, flushed, half-naked in her flannel, panties shoved aside,was a victory the farmer savored. She tugged the lace off, tossing it aside, and Haley’s sharp intake of breath was music.

The farmer’s breath ghosted over Haley’s thighs, making her squirm. “Look at you, all worked up,” she murmured, her voice smug but laced with heat. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” Before Haley could snap back, the farmer’s tongue flicked against her clit, sharp and deliberate, and Haley’s retort became a choked moan.

The farmer didn’t rush, her tongue tracing slow, maddening circles, savoring Haley’s taste; sweet, with a hint of salt. Haley’s hips jerked, her hands gripping the sheets as the farmer teased her, alternating between light flicks and deeper strokes. “God, you’re—ugh,” Haley gasped, her usual polish crumbling. The farmer’s hands pinned her thighs, spreading her wider, and she sucked gently on her clit, drawing a sharp cry.

“What, nothing to say?” the farmer mumbled against her, the vibration making Haley shudder.

Haley’s only response was a moan, her pride no match for the pleasure coiling tight in her core. The farmer slipped a finger inside, curling it just right, and Haley’s walls clenched, her breath hitching. A second finger followed, thrusting slow and deep, matching the rhythm of her tongue.

Haley’s moans grew louder, her hips rocking, and the farmer pushed harder, her fingers hitting that sweet spot with ruthless precision. “Come on,” the farmer taunted, her voice low. “Let go, princess.” The nickname was a jab, but it tipped Haley over the edge. Her orgasm hit like a storm, her body arching, a raw cry tearing from her throat as she shuddered, thighs clamping around the farmer’s head.

The farmer didn’t stop until Haley’s moans softened, her body slumping against the bed. She kissed her way up Haley’s thighs, her stomach, then claimed her lips in a slow, smug kiss. Haley tasted herself, and it sent a lazy spark through her.

“You’re still an arrogant pain in the ass,” Haley panted, but her smirk matched the farmer’s, her eyes glinting with challenge.

“And you’re still into it,” the farmer shot back, brushing a curl from Haley’s face. “Keep the shirt. Looks better on you.”

Haley scoffed, but her fingers lingered on the farmer’s arm. “Don’t get cocky. This doesn’t mean I like you.”

The farmer’s laugh was pure arrogance. “Sure, princess. Keep telling yourself that.”

As the last light faded over Pelican Town, they stayed tangled in Haley’s bed, the flannel discarded, their banter sharp but their touches softer. Haley would never admit the farmer had won this round, but the way she pulled her closer said enough.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Your gentle dom Haley fic was a masterpiece!

Thank you so much! I had a lot of fun with it!

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

I LOVE YOUR FICS SM, BEST CONTENT INVOLVING STARDEW VALLEY ISTG :DD

I was wondering if you could do one where Haley has a nightmare where farmer dies, like that earlier oneshot of farmer actually dying, because she is convinced herself that nothing good in Haley's life remains, then Haley wakes up and sees farmer sleeping completely unaware of the nightmare Haley had, what happens after is up to you ^^

Omg, I love you and I hope your pillow is always cool and you get a perfect avocado every time

Thank you friend! Hope you enjoy 🥹

The valley was wrong. The vibrant greens of Stardew Valley were leached to gray, the air thick with an acrid, choking fog. Haley stood in the middle of the farmer’s fields, her heart pounding in her chest, her camera dangling uselessly from her neck. The crops were wilted, blackened husks, and the ground beneath her feet was cracked and dry, as if the life had been sucked from it. She called out for the farmer, her voice hoarse, but the only answer was the echo of her own desperation.

Then she saw her.

The farmer was lying in the dirt, her body crumpled like a discarded rag doll. Her overalls were torn, stained with blood that seeped into the earth, pooling around her in a grotesque halo. Her face, God, her face was pale, too pale, her eyes open but unseeing, staring blankly at the sky. Haley’s knees buckled as she stumbled forward, her hands trembling as she reached for her lover. “No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No, no, no, please.”

She touched the farmer’s cheek, and it was cold, so cold it burned her fingertips. The farmer’s chest was still, no rise and fall, no warmth, no life. Haley’s breath hitched, a sob tearing from her throat as she pulled the farmer into her arms, cradling her lifeless body. The weight was wrong, too heavy, too final. She buried her face in the farmer’s hair, the familiar scent of earth and wildflowers gone, replaced by something metallic and wrong. “You can’t leave me,” Haley choked out, her tears soaking into the farmer’s shirt. “You promised. You promised you’d stay.”

But the farmer didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe. The fog thickened, curling around them like a predator, and Haley felt it pressing against her, suffocating her. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the dreamscape, but it changed nothing. The farmer was gone, and Haley was alone, clutching a corpse in a dead world.

The scene shifted, fragments of memory twisting into the horror. She saw her parents’ faces, cold and distant, their backs turned as they left her behind. She saw Emily fading into the distance, her laughter growing faint. Everyone she loved, slipping through her fingers like sand, leaving her with nothing but the hollow ache in her chest. And now the farmer, the one person who had seen her, really seen her, was gone too. The darkness swallowed her whole, and Haley drowned in it, her screams lost to the void.

***

Haley woke with a gasp, her body jerking upright in bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. Tears streamed down her face, hot and relentless, and her hands clutched at the sheets as if they could anchor her to reality. The room was dark, but it was the familiar darkness of the farmhouse, not the suffocating void of her nightmare. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the wooden floor.

She turned her head, her eyes darting to the figure beside her. The farmer was there, curled up under the quilt, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. Her hair was mussed, spilling across the pillow, and one arm was flung out, fingers brushing against Haley’s thigh. She was alive. She was here.

Haley’s breath hitched, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as relief and fear crashed together in her chest. She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched the farmer’s arm, needing to feel the warmth, the pulse, the proof that this was real. The farmer stirred slightly, a soft hum escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake. Haley’s heart ached, the nightmare’s claws still digging into her, whispering that this could be taken away, that everyone she loved left her in the end.

She slid down the bed, curling into the farmer’s side, pressing herself as close as she could. Her cheek rested against the farmer’s shoulder, the steady thud of her heartbeat a lifeline in the dark. Haley wrapped an arm around the farmer’s waist, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleep shirt, as if she could hold her here forever. The warmth of the farmer’s body seeped into her, grounding her, but the fear lingered, a cold knot in her stomach.

“Hmm?” The farmer’s voice was soft, thick with sleep, and Haley felt her stir, shifting to blink blearily at her. “You okay?”

Haley’s throat tightened, and she buried her face in the farmer’s neck, her tears dampening the skin there. “I’m fine,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, betraying her.

The farmer frowned, her sleepy haze clearing as she registered the tremor in Haley’s voice. She turned onto her side, wrapping an arm around Haley and pulling her closer. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice gentle, a little slurred. “What’s wrong, sunshine?”

The nickname, so soft and familiar, made Haley’s chest ache. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images from her nightmare—the farmer’s lifeless eyes, the blood, the emptiness.

“Just… a bad dream,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The farmer’s hand moved to Haley’s hair, fingers threading through the curls with a tenderness that made Haley want to cry harder. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep, but there was a warmth there, a quiet strength that Haley clung to.

Haley shook her head, her face still pressed against the farmer’s neck. “Can you just… hold me?” she asked, her voice small, almost lost in the quiet of the room. “Please?”

“’Course,” the farmer said, her arms tightening around Haley, pulling her flush against her chest. She pressed a sleepy kiss to Haley’s forehead, her lips lingering there for a moment. “I’ve got you, okay? I’m right here.”

Haley nodded, her hands fisting in the farmer’s shirt as she tried to let the words sink in. The farmer’s heartbeat was steady under her cheek, a rhythm that slowly, slowly began to calm the frantic pounding of her own. But the fear was still there, the gnawing dread that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. Everyone she loved left her. Her parents, who were never really there to begin with; Emily, who had her own life, her own dreams; and now the farmer, the one person who had made her feel like she was enough. What if she lost her too?

“I dreamed you died,” Haley whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. Her voice was raw, trembling with the weight of it. “You were… you were gone, and I couldn’t do anything. I was alone, and it was my fault, because everyone I love always leaves me.”

The farmer’s arms tightened around her, and Haley felt her shift, propping herself up slightly to look at her. Even in the dim light, Haley could see the concern in her eyes, the way her brows furrowed.

“Hey,” she said, her voice softer now, more awake. “That’s not gonna happen. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that,” Haley said, her voice breaking. “You can’t promise that. What if something happens? What if you get hurt, or… or you realize I’m not worth staying for?” The words were a wound, laid bare, and Haley hated how vulnerable they made her feel, but she couldn’t stop. “I’m not good enough. I’m selfish, and I’m mean, and I don’t deserve you. You’re gonna leave, just like everyone else.”

The farmer’s expression softened, and she reached up, cupping Haley’s face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed away the tears on Haley’s cheeks, and she leaned in, pressing her forehead against Haley’s. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering. “You are more than enough. You’re not selfish, and you’re not mean. You’re Haley. My Haley. You’re kind, and you’re funny, and you make every day better just by being you. I love you, and I’m not leaving. Not ever.”

Haley’s breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, trying to hold onto the words, to let them drown out the fear. “But what if—”

“No what-ifs,” the farmer said, cutting her off gently. “I’m here, right now, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, okay? Me and my muddy boots and my terrible cooking.”

Haley let out a watery laugh. “Your cooking’s not that bad,” she mumbled, her voice still shaky but softer now.

“Liar,” the farmer teased, her tone light, and Haley could hear the smile in her voice. She pulled back just enough to look at Haley, her eyes warm and steady. “I’m serious, though. I love you. All of you. Even the parts you think aren’t good enough. And I’m not gonna let anything take me away from you.”

Haley nodded, her tears slowing as she leaned into the farmer’s touch. The nightmare still lingered, a shadow at the edges of her mind, but the farmer’s warmth, her voice, her presence, was stronger. She felt the farmer’s arms wrap around her again, pulling her close, and Haley let herself sink into it, let herself believe, just for now, that this could last.

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” the farmer murmured, her voice growing sleepy again as she nestled into the pillows, keeping Haley tucked against her. “I’ve got you.”

Haley nodded, her cheek pressed against the farmer’s chest, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a lullaby. “I love you,” she whispered, the words quiet but fierce, a promise and a plea.

“Love you too,” the farmer mumbled, her voice fading as she drifted back to sleep, her arms still wrapped tightly around Haley.

Haley closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth of the farmer’s body, the soft rise and fall of her chest. The fear wasn’t gone, it never really was, but it was quieter now, held at bay by the woman in her arms. For tonight, that was enough.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

I want to request a haley x female farmer smut fic where farmer likes to be babied a bit and carried through it. Gentle top haley if you get what I mean

Ask and you shall receive.

NSFW! MINORS DNI!

The late summer sun spilled golden light across the farmhouse, painting the wooden floors in warm hues. The farmer sat on the edge of her bed, her overalls slightly dusty from a long day tending crops. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, a nervous energy buzzing through her as Haley stood before her, all confidence and soft curves, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.

“You’re so tense, sweetheart,” Haley murmured, her voice a low, honeyed drawl. She stepped closer, her sundress swishing against her thighs, and reached out to cup the farmer’s cheek. Her touch was warm, deliberate, and the farmer’s breath hitched at the contact. “Let me take care of you, okay? You’ve been working so hard.”

The farmer nodded, her cheeks flushing. Haley’s blue eyes sparkled with a mix of affection and mischief, and she tilted the farmer’s chin up, forcing their gazes to meet. “Good girl,” she whispered, the words sending a shiver down the farmer’s spine. “Just relax for me.”

Haley’s hands moved to the straps of the farmer’s overalls, her fingers deft as she unhooked them, letting the denim slide down to pool at the farmer’s waist. The farmer’s thin cotton shirt clung to her skin, and Haley’s lips curved into a smile as she traced a finger along the collar. “This needs to go too,” she said softly, her tone coaxing rather than commanding. “Can you lift your arms for me, baby?”

The farmer complied, her movements shy but eager, and Haley peeled the shirt off, tossing it aside. The air felt cool against the farmer’s bare skin, and she squirmed under Haley’s gaze, suddenly aware of her exposed torso. Haley’s eyes roamed appreciatively, taking in the farmer’s soft curves and the faint freckles dusting her shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” Haley said, her voice sincere. “I don’t tell you that enough, do I?”

The farmer’s blush deepened, and she mumbled something incoherent, making Haley chuckle. “Oh, you’re too cute when you’re flustered.” She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the farmer’s forehead, then another to her temple, her lips lingering as she whispered, “I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise.”

Haley guided the farmer to lie back on the bed, her hands steady and reassuring. The farmer’s overalls were tugged off completely, leaving her in just her underwear, and Haley took a moment to admire her, her fingers trailing lightly over the farmer’s thighs. “Look at you,” she purred, her touch featherlight. “All soft and perfect for me.”

The farmer’s breath came in shallow bursts, her body already responding to Haley’s attention. Haley climbed onto the bed, straddling the farmer’s hips without putting her full weight down, her sundress riding up to reveal smooth, tanned skin. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the farmer’s in a slow, teasing kiss. “You’re doing so well already,” she murmured against the farmer’s mouth. “Just let me take the lead, okay?”

The kiss deepened, Haley’s tongue slipping past the farmer’s lips, coaxing a soft moan from her. Haley’s hands roamed, one sliding up to cup the farmer’s breast through her bra, her thumb brushing over the fabric until the farmer arched into her touch. “That’s it,” Haley whispered, her voice a soothing balm. “Let me hear you, baby.”

She unhooked the farmer’s bra with practiced ease, sliding it off and tossing it to the floor. The farmer’s nipples hardened in the cool air, and Haley’s lips curved into a wicked smile. “So sensitive,” she teased, lowering her head to press a kiss to one peaked bud. The farmer gasped, her hands clutching at the sheets, and Haley hummed in approval. “Good girl. You’re so responsive for me.”

Haley’s tongue flicked out, circling the farmer’s nipple before sucking gently, her other hand kneading the farmer’s other breast. The farmer’s moans grew louder, her body trembling under Haley’s careful ministrations. Haley took her time, lavishing attention on each breast, her touches soft but deliberate, coaxing the farmer into a state of needy arousal.

“You’re doing so good,” Haley murmured, kissing her way down the farmer’s stomach, her lips leaving a trail of warmth. “I love how you sound, how you feel.” She hooked her fingers into the waistband of the farmer’s underwear, pausing to glance up. “Can I take these off, sweetheart?”

The farmer nodded, her voice caught in her throat, and Haley smiled, sliding the fabric down her legs. The farmer was fully exposed now, and Haley’s gaze was reverent, her hands gentle as they parted the farmer’s thighs. “You’re gorgeous,” she said, her voice thick with desire. “So wet for me already.”

The farmer whimpered, her hips shifting restlessly, and Haley shushed her softly. “I know, baby, I know. I’m gonna take care of you.” She settled between the farmer’s legs, her breath warm against the farmer’s inner thigh. “Just relax and let me make you feel good.”

Haley’s lips brushed against the farmer’s core, a teasing kiss that made the farmer gasp. She started slow, her tongue tracing delicate patterns, exploring every sensitive fold. The farmer’s hands flew to Haley’s hair, gripping lightly, and Haley hummed, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through the farmer’s body. “That’s it,” Haley murmured, her voice muffled. “Let me hear how much you like it.”

She licked deeper, her tongue circling the farmer’s clit with agonizing precision, each stroke deliberate and unhurried. The farmer’s moans filled the room, her hips bucking instinctively, and Haley’s hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady. “You’re so sweet,” Haley said, pulling back just enough to speak. “I could do this all day.”

The farmer’s response was a breathless whine, her body trembling as Haley resumed her ministrations, sucking gently on her clit while sliding a finger along her entrance. “Can I go inside, baby?” Haley asked, her tone soft but laced with desire. “I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” the farmer gasped, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

Haley smiled, pressing a kiss to the farmer’s thigh before easing a finger inside, her movements slow and careful. The farmer’s walls clenched around her, and Haley groaned softly. “You’re so tight,” she murmured, curling her finger to find that perfect spot. The farmer cried out, her back arching, and Haley added a second finger, stretching her gently.

“There you go,” Haley cooed, her thumb brushing the farmer’s clit as her fingers moved in a steady rhythm. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.” The farmer’s moans grew desperate, her body trembling on the edge, and Haley’s voice was a constant stream of encouragement. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

The farmer’s climax hit like a wave, her body shuddering as she cried out, her hands clutching Haley’s shoulders. Haley worked her through it, her fingers slowing but never stopping, her lips pressing soft kisses to the farmer’s trembling thighs. “You’re so perfect,” she whispered, easing her fingers out and crawling up to kiss the farmer’s lips. “You did so good for me.”

The farmer was breathless, her eyes glassy with pleasure, and Haley smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” she said, her voice teasing. “I want to feel you against me.”

She sat up, pulling her sundress over her head to reveal her bare skin, her curves glowing in the soft light. The farmer’s eyes widened, and Haley chuckled, guiding the farmer’s hands to her breasts. “Touch me,” she said, her voice gentle. “I want you to feel how much I want you.”

The farmer’s hands were tentative at first, exploring Haley’s soft skin, her fingers brushing over hardened nipples. Haley moaned softly, her head tipping back. “That’s it,” she murmured. “You’re so good at this.”

She guided the farmer to lie back again, positioning herself so their cores pressed together, the slick heat of their bodies mingling. The farmer gasped at the contact, and Haley’s lips curved into a smile. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” she said, rocking her hips slowly. “Just follow my lead, baby.”

Haley moved with deliberate care, grinding against the farmer in a rhythm that built steadily, their breaths mingling as they moaned. The farmer’s hands gripped Haley’s hips, her body responding instinctively, and Haley’s voice was a soothing constant. “You’re doing so well,” she murmured. “You feel so good against me.”

The pleasure built again, slower this time, a deep, aching need that had the farmer whimpering beneath Haley. Haley’s movements grew more urgent, her own moans mingling with the farmer’s, and she leaned down to kiss her, their lips sloppy and desperate. “Come with me, baby,” Haley whispered, her voice trembling. “I want to feel you.”

The farmer’s second climax was softer but no less intense, her body shuddering as Haley’s followed, their cries blending in the quiet room. Haley collapsed beside her, both of them breathless, and pulled the farmer into her arms, pressing kisses to her sweat-dampened forehead.

“You were perfect,” Haley murmured, her voice warm and affectionate. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

The farmer nestled closer, her body still humming with aftershocks, and Haley smiled, stroking her hair. The sun had dipped lower, casting the room in a soft, golden glow, and for a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of their bodies and the quiet promise of more moments like this.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Random Haley Headcanons

(That literally nobody asked for)

Part one of (?)

As a parent:

At first, she might be a little overwhelmed by the reality of it. Haley’s used to a lot of personal freedom and self-focus early in life (worrying about fashion, appearances, her own plans), so the demands of a newborn would hit her hard at first. She’d probably panic over every little thing (is the baby too cold? Too hot? Is she doing this wrong?) and need a lot of reassurance from her partner or older figures like Jodi or Caroline. Her perfectionist streak would make her want to “get it right,” even when parenting is often messy and unpredictable.

But underneath all of that, Haley has so much heart. Once she connected emotionally with her child, and once she realized it wasn’t about being perfect, but about being present, she’d soften immensely. She would be the kind of mom who:

Takes a million candid photos of her child growing up, not caring anymore if the lighting or her hair looks right. But just wanting to capture the messy, beautiful memories.

Dresses them up ridiculously cute for festivals and holidays, but always asks what they want to wear when they’re old enough to choose.

Protects them fiercely if anyone tries to hurt or belittle them. Haley has that sharp tongue, and she would absolutely unleash it if someone made her kid feel small.

Teaches them confidence. Not in a shallow way, but by encouraging them to express themselves however they want. If her child wanted to wear rainboots and a superhero cape to the Flower Dance, she’d probably roll her eyes fondly and say, “Whatever makes you happy, kiddo.”

Softens into deep patience over time, especially once she realizes that children aren’t miniature adults. They’re chaotic and emotional and curious, and she’d learn to meet them on their level instead of trying to control it.

Learns with them. Haley might even rediscover parts of herself she lost (the wonder she used to feel about the world) by seeing it through her child’s eyes.

If she had a daughter, Haley would be especially mindful about helping her find her own beauty rather than falling into the traps Haley once did such as caring more about how she looked than how she felt.

If she had a son, she would teach him sensitivity and emotional openness, in contrast to a lot of traditional “tough guy” expectations.

With a daughter:

Early Years:

Haley would be besotted the first time she held her daughter. There would be tears, messy, overwhelmed tears, and an almost panicked promise whispered into that tiny ear: “I’m going to figure this out. I swear I will.”

She’d dress her daughter up in every tiny dress, headband, and little shoe imaginable at first. But she wouldn’t force it if her daughter hated it. If her daughter threw her flower crown into the dirt, Haley would sigh dramatically and then take a photo of the dirt streaked crown anyway, laughing.

As She Grows:

Haley would be intensely protective. She knows how hard it can be growing up feeling judged — for your looks, for not fitting in — and she would fight tooth and nail to shield her daughter from that.

She would be the mom who talks openly about self-esteem, beauty standards, and feeling good in your own skin. “You’re allowed to be whoever you want,” she’d tell her, brushing her hair back. “You don’t owe anyone ‘pretty.’ You owe yourself happy.”

If her daughter loved traditionally “girly” things, Haley would embrace it. If she hated them, Haley would embrace that too, buying her boots instead of ballet flats, snapping pictures of her daughter building mud forts or climbing trees with pride.

She’d struggle a bit during the rebellious teenage years (especially if her daughter inherited some of Haley’s own stubbornness) but deep down, Haley would admire her daughter’s spirit even when it frustrated her.

Special Moments:

Teaching her how to take photos, not to curate a life, but to capture it.

Letting her daughter raid Haley’s old jewelry box, not caring when it turned into a sparkly disaster.

Sitting on the roof on summer nights, talking about dreams, fears, first loves, and all the messy, beautiful parts of growing up.

With a son:

Early Years:

Haley would be absolutely shocked the first time she realized just how chaotic a little boy can be. Mud pies? Bugs in pockets? Clothes torn from tree climbing? It would leave her staring, stunned, but then laughing harder than she ever thought she could.

She would be incredibly affectionate, constantly ruffling his hair, hugging him tight, peppering kisses on his forehead even when he squirmed away.

As He Grows:

Haley would be very intentional about raising a kind, emotionally intelligent boy.

She’d talk openly about feelings, encouraging him to cry if he needed to, teaching him that strength isn’t silence, it’s honesty and care.

If he got teased for being sensitive, Haley would be the mom in the principal’s office reading the school handbook out loud to the administrators in her fiercest voice.

She would encourage him to express himself however he wanted (whether that meant soccer, baking, photography, dance) and she’d show up cheering louder than anyone at every recital or game.

Special Moments:

Teaching him how to take a moment before reacting. Siting with him by the river, skipping stones, helping him learn to breathe through big feelings.

Going on “photo safaris” together through the valley and letting him take the camera and capture the world through his own eyes.

Long talks about integrity and kindness, late at night on the porch swing, with the stars spread out above them.

Names:

Haley would pick names that sound beautiful out loud, feel meaningful, and fit the free, sun-drenched world she built around her kids.

Nothing too stiff, nothing too cold.

Every name would carry a little sunlight, a little love, a little wildness inside it:

For a girl she’d pick something like Summer (bright, free spirited, and full of warmth) or Daisy (fresh, lively, and tied to nature. Playful and innocent). And for a boy Caleb (warm, strong, dependable like someone you trust with your heart) or Bodhi (for a son she hopes grows wise and free-spirited)

For nicknames she’d call her daughter “Petal” and her son either “Champ” or “Bub(s)”

Overall:

Haley would be an imperfect, passionate, fiercely loving mom. The kind who doesn’t always get it right, but never stops trying.

Her kids would know, no matter what, that they were deeply loved. Messy, stubborn, wild hearted and all.

She would grow from a protective, sometimes flustered young mom into a loyal, open hearted, fiercely loving mother.

She wouldn’t be perfect. She’d make mistakes, she’d worry too much, she’d say the wrong thing sometimes. But her kids would never doubt for a second how much she loved them.

She would be the kind of mom you still call when you’re 30, just to hear her voice when the world feels heavy.

And she would always, always, always save a seat at the table for them, even long after they left home.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Hello friend! If you're okay with writing it, I'd love to see Jodi absolutely clock the farmer's shit (gently but verbally) because the farmer seems themself as no one important and doesn't feel like he deserves this wonderful life he is starting to have with Jodi. Bonus points if he is on a wheelchair recovering from injury and is watching Jodi help out Sam and Vincent on the field

Thank you in advance! :)

The storm had rolled in without warning, soaking the fields and turning the dirt paths to slick, stubborn mud. The windows of the farmhouse were fogged from the warmth inside, and the fire he hadn’t meant to light was burning low, its embers crackling softly in the hearth.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt half-buttoned, sling hung awkwardly across his chest, as though even now he was still trying to hide how much the injury had taken from him. His hair was damp from the rain. He hadn’t waited for her to arrive before hauling himself outside to check the coop, despite her telling him not to, and his knuckles were scraped from something he wouldn’t name.

Jodi stood in the doorway, watching him with a look that wasn’t pity, but something deeper. Something gentler.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she said finally, her voice steady but laced with concern, like someone afraid of pressing too firmly on a bruise.

He didn’t look at her at first. Just kept his eyes on the worn floorboards beneath his boots, as though the truth might settle there if he stared long enough.

“I can’t just sit here and let everything fall apart around me,” he said, quieter now. “This place, this life…it doesn’t run on kindness or good intentions. It needs hands that work. And right now, I’ve got one.”

When he finally looked up at her, there was something raw behind his eyes. Not frustration. Not even pain.

Something far worse.

“I don’t know how to let you keep showing up like this,” he said, the words leaving him like they’d been dragged up from somewhere deep. “You cook for me. Clean. Sit with me when I can’t even string two decent words together. You come here and… and love me like I deserve it. And I don’t.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I don’t deserve this,” he went on, his voice beginning to fray. “I don’t deserve you. Not when I’ve got nothing to give back but a busted shoulder and a pile of half-grown crops I can’t even harvest.”

She moved to him slowly with no hesitation, just quiet certainty, and knelt in front of him, her palms resting on either side of his knees like she needed to anchor him in place before he drifted any further from the truth.

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” she said, her voice low but unwavering, every word threaded with something that had lived inside her far too long to be doubted now. “You don’t get to stand here and tell me how I should feel or much of my heart I’m allowed to give, or to who.”

His gaze dropped again, as if he couldn’t bear the weight of her looking at him like that; with so much love it ached.

“I know what it’s like to give everything and get nothing back,” she continued, her voice softening around the edges. “To pour yourself into someone and wonder if they even see you anymore. But I look at you and I see everything. I see the man who helped my son build a kite just because it was windy. The man who fixed the gate without being asked. The man who says he doesn’t deserve love, even while giving it in a thousand small ways every day.”

She reached for his hand, fingers brushing over the rough lines of his palm, and held on.

“I’m not here because you’re strong,” she whispered. “I’m here because you make me feel like I don’t have to be. Because when I’m with you, I’m not just someone’s wife or someone’s mother. I’m me. And I like who I am when I’m with you.”

He blinked hard, jaw trembling, but she leaned in before the words could escape him, before he could protest or apologize or run from what had already been spoken into the air between them.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “You just have to let me stay.”

And in the hush that followed with the fire crackling, and the storm softening against the roof, he finally nodded, just once. Not a gesture of agreement, nor reluctant acceptance.

But something quieter.

Something deeper.

But the quiet, aching release of a man who’d stopped fighting the love he thought he hadn’t earned.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

so like I wanted to request a haley oneshot with female farmer where farmer got in an accident while caving and with the monsters, got really injured, Haley was informed of this and went to the clinic but the farmer gained amnesia from the hit to the head. Basically farmer forgetting who Haley is.

Here you go 😢😢 hope you…enjoy? Is that the word for this kind of pain?

She didn’t remember how she’d gotten to the clinic, only that she had. Her body had carried her there on instinct, breath shallow, heart thudding like it might escape the cage of her ribs, a single name echoing through her as though it had become the only word she knew how to say.

Now she sat in the corner of the room that smelled like bleach and waiting, her hands curled uselessly in her lap, her shoulders hunched, her posture betraying the fight she was no longer pretending not to lose. She had not spoken much since arriving. There was nothing to say, not to Harvey, not to the nurse, not to the walls that pressed in with their white silence. All that mattered was the bed in front of her and the person lying in it unmoving, pale, marked by a jagged line of gauze at the hairline where blood had dried and caked like rust.

The farmer lay still beneath a thin hospital sheet, her breathing shallow but steady, her face slack with unconsciousness that looked too much like sleep except for the unnatural stillness, the stiffness in her hands, the way the bruises bloomed across her cheekbone in slow, sick color.

Haley had always hated the mines. Even the word left a taste in her mouth she couldn’t quite spit out. Cold. Collapsing. The thought of her there, alone in the dark, pinned beneath the earth, filled her with a helpless kind of rage. Rage at the stone, at the silence, at the world for daring to hold someone she loved in its mouth and bite down.

She reached out, slowly, her fingers trembling just enough to make her pause before they made contact. The farmer’s hand rested palm-up atop the blanket, scraped and dust-streaked, her fingers curled loosely in sleep. Haley touched them with the same care one gives to something fragile and ancient, something that might dissolve if held too tightly. The warmth of her skin was real. It grounded her, even as everything else threatened to tilt.

“Come back,” she whispered, not to the body in the bed, but to the soul somewhere behind it. Her voice was quiet and heavy, the kind that breaks in silence rather than sound. “Please… come back to me.”

She wasn’t expecting a miracle. She wasn’t expecting anything. But when the farmer’s brow twitched faintly, a small shift beneath the bruises, Haley froze. Then the eyelids fluttered. Slowly, unsteadily. And opened.

It was the breath between the moment and the break. The space where hope tries to bloom, even knowing it might be crushed.

Haley stood, her movements hesitant, as if afraid that even breathing too loudly might unmake what was happening.

“You’re awake,” Haley breathed, the words catching in her throat like they’d scraped their way out. “Oh my god, you’re—”

She didn’t finish. Her hand found the farmer’s with more certainty this time, fingers curling gently around hers, anchoring herself to the warmth of skin and the fragile promise that this wasn’t the end.

The farmer blinked slowly, her eyes unfocused at first, darting across the ceiling, then toward the window where dusk hung low and colorless. Her brow furrowed as if something in the room didn’t make sense, as if she was still trying to orient herself in a body that didn’t quite feel like her own.

“What… happened?” she asked, voice hoarse, dry as old paper.

Haley leaned in without thinking, her voice low and trembling, careful not to overwhelm.

“There was a collapse. In the mines. You hit your head pretty badly. But you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

The farmer let her head shift slightly on the pillow, her gaze moving slowly to the walls, the equipment, the sterile hush that clung to the clinic’s air like a second skin. She nodded once, though it looked more like instinct than comprehension.

“Where am I?” she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “What is this place?”

Haley squeezed her hand without meaning to, her grip tightening just enough to tremble.

“You’re in the clinic. In Pelican Town,” she whispered. “You’ve been out for a while. But you’re back now. I’m here.”

That was when the farmer’s eyes finally found hers.

And stayed there.

But what Haley had hoped to see—the rush of recognition, the flicker of warmth that always lit up that gaze when they looked at each other—wasn’t there.

There was only confusion, clouded and quiet. A searching kind of stillness.

The farmer looked down at their joined hands, then back at her, her voice cautious, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Who… are you?”

And Haley felt her chest hollow out, like the floor had vanished beneath her feet and left her suspended in the ache of a moment she hadn’t been ready to meet.

Her name, the one she had only ever wanted to hear in that voice, now sat untouched in the farmer’s mouth.

And just like that, the entire world shifted.

Haley didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She stood there for a moment longer, her hand still cradling fingers that no longer recognized her touch, staring into eyes that had once been the softest place she knew, now blank and uncertain. And then, with all the grace she could muster while her entire body screamed to fall apart, she gently let go.

“I’ll give you some space,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, brittle around the edges, careful not to let it crack in front of her.

The farmer didn’t protest. She only blinked, slowly, as if unsure whether she had done something wrong.

She walked out of the room without saying another word, because words, she had quickly discovered, were far too delicate for this kind of pain. There was nothing she could have spoken aloud that would have reshaped the air between them, nothing she could have whispered that would have made those eyes soften, that face brighten, that voice say her name with the familiarity that once made Haley feel like she mattered more than the world itself. So she left, not with drama, not in flight, but in slow, measured steps that felt like walking through water, her body moving while something inside her stayed rooted to the edge of that hospital bed where the woman she loved had looked at her and seen a stranger.

The hallway was quiet in the way only medical spaces could be: clean, humming faintly with the low drone of fluorescent lights, washed in pale colors meant to soothe but which now only seemed to remind her of sterility, of things wiped clean, of erasure. She pressed her back against the wall as though it might somehow support the weight she could no longer carry in her chest, and she slid down slowly until her body folded in on itself, knees drawn in, arms wrapping tight, not to guard against the cold, but to hold in the tremble building beneath her skin like something alive and writhing, something she couldn’t name or kill or let go of.

She didn’t cry the way people did in films or books—there was no keening, no sob cracking the stillness like glass shattering on tile. The tears came slowly, steadily, the way rain sometimes falls after the storm has already passed, soft and relentless, soaking through the fabric of her sleeves where she hid her face, as if somehow making herself smaller would undo what had just happened. It didn’t. Nothing would. She had looked into the eyes that once held her with such unmistakable certainty, and they had been empty. Not cruel. Not cold. Just vacant, the way windows look after the lights have gone out inside.

She had not imagined how badly it would hurt to be forgotten.

The sound of a door opening down the hall didn’t startle her, and the voice that followed, quiet and careful, was one she recognized even before he stepped into view.

“Haley,” Harvey said gently, his footsteps soft against the floor, “can I sit?”

She didn’t answer, not because she didn’t want to, but because her voice didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore. He lowered himself beside her anyway, the weight of his presence calm, steady, and she was grateful he didn’t try to touch her or offer meaningless platitudes.

“I know this isn’t what you expected to walk into,” he said after a long pause, his tone stripped of pretense, soft but unavoidably honest. “And I know how hard it is to hear that someone you love doesn’t remember loving you.”

Haley shifted slightly, her hand coming up to swipe at her cheek, but the tears kept coming, quiet and unstoppable.

“She was the first person to really see me,” she said finally, her voice thin and trembling at the edges, but still holding. “I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to pretend. She just… looked at me like I was already enough. Like I didn’t need to be anything other than exactly who I was.”

She paused, her throat catching, breath shaking as she tried to hold herself together even as everything inside her was splintering like frostbit wood.

“I don’t know how to look at her now and not reach for what we had. I don’t know how to look at her and not want her to remember how she used to kiss me like the world was ending. I don’t know how to be a stranger to the only person who ever made me feel like home.”

Harvey didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to reframe it or ease it. He just let the silence settle again before speaking, his voice quiet, each word placed gently between them like stones across a frozen river.

“Memory can come back. I’ve seen it happen. And sometimes it doesn’t come all at once. It’s not a light switch. Sometimes it returns like fog lifting. Slow, partial, unexpected. She might remember something. She might remember you.”

Haley nodded, because she knew he meant well, and maybe it was true. Maybe time would smooth the edges of this, bring back fragments of what was lost. Maybe the farmer would remember the orchard, the nights in bed with limbs tangled and breath shared, the way they used to dance slowly in the kitchen when no one was watching. But right now, all Haley could think about was the way she had looked at her with eyes that had once held nothing but love and now held only the barest trace of curiosity.

“She looked at me,” Haley whispered, “and there was nothing there.”

And that, more than the collapse, more than the bandages and the blood and the clinic, was what broke her.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Beneath the Valley Sky: Chapter 1

(Haley x F! Farmer)

Summary: She never expected the farmer to matter.

Stardew Valley was quiet, predictable. Haley knew its corners, its faces, its small certainties.

But Hunter carried something different into town — not a storm, not a fire, but something steadier. Something like dawn light spilling through an old window, slow and sure and impossible to ignore.

Hearts don’t grow on command. But they grow, just the same.

And Haley finds herself leaning toward the light, without ever meaning to.

Chapter Summary: There’s a difference between surviving and living. Hunter came here to learn which one she’s still doing.

The road into Stardew Valley was not paved so much as it was remembered. Dirt packed hard beneath summer’s retreating warmth, loose stones and curling brambles edging along like old scars that refused to fade. Beneath Hunter’s boots, the ground felt solid, familiar in a way that made her heart ache and her breath catch tight in her chest. She had not expected this, not truly. She thought the ache of leaving behind her old life would have dulled by now, filed down by the slow miles of travel, by the weight of loneliness that had settled so comfortably at her side like an unwelcome passenger. But it had not. If anything, it had sharpened into a fine point, needling at her ribs with every step closer to the place that was meant to be a beginning, though it felt dangerously like an end.

She adjusted the strap of her pack higher on her shoulder, the leather cracked and worn from years of use, much like the farmer herself. She was not yet thirty, though her reflection in the train’s window earlier that morning had made her wonder if the years had slipped past unnoticed, stealing softness from her features and replacing it with the quiet, carved look of someone who had already fought too many battles just to stay standing. Dark hair, tangled and damp from the mist that clung stubbornly to the valley’s lip, framed her face in loose waves, and her eyes—green, sharp, wary—scanned the horizon with the restless precision of someone who had learned not to trust beauty at first glance.

Because Stardew Valley was beautiful. Achingly so.

The fields sprawled out in soft undulations, gold-tipped grasses rippling beneath the kiss of a lazy breeze, while wildflowers—bursts of violet, white, and amber—pushed their way through the forgotten corners, defiantly alive. Beyond them, dense woods pressed close, the dark green of pines and the honey-bronze of maples tangled together beneath the wide sweep of sky. Autumn hovered just at the edge of the season, not yet settled but promised in every crisp breath of wind that carried the scent of earth and leaves turned sweet beneath the sun.

Hunter let her gaze drift toward the rise in the east, where the town sat cradled between gentle slopes, its rooftops peeking through the treetops like secrets half-spoken. She could just make out the curved sign of Pierre’s General Store, the scalloped awning of the saloon beside it, and further still, the old clock tower rising above the community center, stoic and tired beneath a veil of ivy.

A place caught between time and memory.

She had grown up on stories of Stardew Valley, though never once had she thought her feet would carry her here, not like this. Her grandfather’s letters had painted it as a refuge, a world apart from the noise and rush of the cities, a patch of earth where life was still lived slowly, tenderly, like turning pages in a book read aloud beneath a quilt. He had written of mornings spent watching fog lift off the fields, of afternoons thick with the hum of bees working the orchards, of nights where the sky split open in a tapestry of stars so bright it seemed they could catch fire and fall to earth.

What he had not written about, she suspected, were the silences that followed. The quiet left behind when voices faded and laughter died down to echoes.

Her throat tightened, and she pushed the thought away like she had so many others, burying it beneath the resolve that had carried her through so many uncertain years. She had come here to plant roots, to find a steadiness she had not known in too long. If the soil would have her, she would give herself to it fully, body and spirit alike.

As she crested the final hill before the farm, the land unfolded at her feet in a rough sprawl of wild growth and ruin.

Her breath caught—not in disappointment, but in grim recognition.

This, too, her grandfather had not written about.

The fences were splintered, leaning at odd angles like old men who had lost the strength to stand upright. Brambles as thick as rope snaked through the fields, choking what little had once grown beneath their greedy tangle. The farmhouse itself sat hunched beneath the weight of time and weather, its roof patchy with lichen and its windows dimmed by grime. A crow called from the porch rail, sharp and accusing, before flapping away into the sky with a beat of wings that stirred the dust at her feet.

Hunter let out a slow breath and set down her pack.

The weight lifted from her shoulders but not from her chest.

“This is home now,” she said aloud, her voice rasping against the hush of the valley, and for a moment, she almost believed it.

Almost.

The hours that followed blurred into rhythm, into ache and sweat and breath pulled sharp between her teeth. She worked without thinking, without letting herself pause long enough to feel the creeping doubt that licked at the edges of her resolve. Fallen branches were dragged into piles near the barn’s skeleton frame. Stones, cold and stubborn in the soil, were pried loose with numbed fingers and set aside in rough stacks. The farmhouse door shrieked on rusted hinges when she forced it open, dust billowing in a soft cloud that caught the light like ghosts startled from sleep.

Inside, the air was thick with disuse, but beneath it all, she could smell the faintest trace of cedar, of old wood warmed by sun, of something that might one day be comfort.

She did not expect the knock at the door.

It came soft at first, then firmer, the rap of knuckles against weathered wood pulling her from her thoughts like a tug on a snared line. She crossed the small room in three strides and pulled the door wide, squinting against the sharp light.

A man stood there, tall and broad in the shoulders, his face open but wary beneath the brim of a battered cap. He held himself like someone used to hard work, though not immune to surprise, and when his gaze met hers, there was something in it that flickered—curiosity, perhaps, or something older, something like recognition.

“You must be Hunter,” he said, his voice edged with the gravel of long days and longer nights. “I’m Lewis. Mayor of Pelican Town.”

Her nod came without hesitation, though her muscles tensed beneath the surface. “That’s me,” she confirmed, keeping her tone even, measured.

He offered a small, weathered smile. “Your grandfather was well-liked here. He spoke of you often, before he passed.”

Something sharp twisted in her chest, but she kept it buried. “He wrote plenty about this place,” she managed, her throat tight. “I’m hoping to do it justice.”

Lewis’s gaze softened, and he stepped back from the threshold, giving her space to breathe. “If you’ve got the heart for it, the valley will meet you halfway,” he said, and there was something in the way he spoke that told her he believed it—had to believe it. “We’re a small town, but we take care of our own. If you need supplies, come by Pierre’s. He’ll set you right. And if you’re ever looking to meet folks… well, the saloon’s open most evenings.”

Hunter let her eyes flick toward the distant cluster of buildings, the notion of strangers crowding her edges tight with unease. She was not ready for that, not yet.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, and if Lewis heard the hesitation in her voice, he did not press it.

“Good,” he said simply, then tipped the brim of his cap and turned back toward the winding road. “Welcome to Stardew Valley, Hunter.”

She watched him go until the path swallowed him whole, then stepped back inside the farmhouse, closing the door behind her with a quiet click that felt heavier than it should.

Evening unfurled slow and amber across the sky as she settled onto the front steps, her arms draped over her knees, her breath steady but shallow in her chest. She could feel the weight of the day in her bones, in the throb of her palms where blisters threatened to bloom beneath the skin. The valley breathed around her, alive with the rustle of wind through grass and the low murmur of the river as it curled through the heart of the land.

For the first time since her arrival, she let herself believe, just a little, that this place could be more than ruin and memory.

That maybe, just maybe, there was a future to be carved from the wreckage.

As the first stars bloomed in the darkening sky, Hunter lifted her gaze to meet them, the chill of the coming night brushing her skin like a whisper.

She did not know what tomorrow would bring, but she would meet it with her hands in the earth, her heart braced for the fight, and her spirit bent not toward survival alone, but something fuller, something real.

Something like living.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

i absolutely love your work it’s so amazing ksbdbsks idk if you take requests but if you do you should write wizard (sdv) smut if you’re comfortable with it 👀 but anyways i adore your writing and i hope you have an amazing day 🫶

This made my day thank you so much 🥺🥺🥺 I’ll totally do it just need to know who with and if it’s farmer what pronouns you prefer them to have

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

The Last Light of Summer

(Haley x Farmer)

Summary: Haley never expected to love the farmer, but they were the only one who ever saw past her walls and stayed. In the quiet ache of illness and inevitable loss, she holds on as tightly as she can, watching helplessly as the person she built her heart around fades from her arms. Love, it turns out, isn’t enough to stop the end—but she stays until their last breath, because it’s all she has left to give.

TW: Grief, loss, major character death.

It had started so slowly that Haley, in her reckless optimism, had almost convinced herself it was nothing at all.

The farmer had always been tireless, rising with the dawn, hands thick with calluses and strength, shoulders tanned by the sun and streaked with the dust of their labor. They had seemed inexhaustible, an endless reservoir of energy and stubborn will, as if the earth itself had chosen them to nurture it. She had loved them for that — for their persistence, their quiet steadiness in a world that always felt too sharp and fast for her.

And for the way they had seen her.

Long before illness, long before frailty had crept into their bones, they had been the only one who ever truly looked past her polished veneer, past the pretty smiles and carefully arranged photographs and shallow conversations that never dared to dig too deep. While the others in town had dismissed her as vain, hollow, a spoiled girl clinging to beauty as if it were the only currency she possessed, the farmer had been patient, chipping away at her defenses not with force but with quiet, consistent care. They had found her in the hollow places where she had buried her fears and brushed the dust away gently, never once mocking the emptiness they uncovered.

She had hated them for it at first.

Then she had loved them for it with a ferocity that frightened her.

And now, she was losing them.

It began with little things — an ache in their joints that lingered longer than it should have, a shortness of breath after climbing the hill to the west field, a tiredness in their eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. They had shrugged it off, had smiled that easy, infuriatingly calm smile and told her not to fuss, but she saw it. She saw it in the way they hesitated before lifting the heavy crates of produce, in the way their hands sometimes trembled when they thought she wasn’t looking.

When the diagnosis came, it did not come as a surprise, but that made it no easier to bear.

Haley had sat in the clinic beside them, her fingers laced tightly in theirs as Harvey delivered the words that stole the breath from her chest. Terminal.

No cure.

Time — measured in seasons, not years.

She had wanted to scream, to tear the walls down brick by brick and demand a different answer, a different fate, but all she could do was sit there, her nails digging into the farmer’s skin as if her grip alone could tether them to the earth. The farmer, ever calm, had only squeezed her hand in return, as if they were the one offering comfort when it should have been the other way around.

From that moment, the seasons seemed to pass too quickly, as if the sun itself was eager to outrun them.

Summer faded into autumn, and the farmer’s strength withered with the leaves. Tasks that had once been effortless now left them breathless and pale, and Haley found herself taking on more and more of the burden, her delicate hands blistering from work she had never thought herself capable of. She did it without complaint, though, because if she stopped, even for a moment, the weight of what was happening would crush her beneath its certainty.

She did it because she loved them.

Winter came early that year, harsh winds carving through the valley and rattling the windows of their home. The farmer, wrapped in blankets by the fire, grew thinner with each passing day, their skin pale beneath the flickering lamplight. Their voice, once so strong and steady, had grown soft, frayed at the edges like fabric worn thin by too much use. They spoke less, but when they did, their words were always for her — gentle reassurances, small jokes meant to coax a smile from her lips, quiet declarations of love that broke her heart anew each time they were spoken.

Haley tried to hold herself together, tried to be the pillar they needed, but there were nights when she slipped away to the far corner of the house, pressing her fists to her mouth to stifle the sobs that clawed their way up her throat. She could not let them see her break. She had promised herself that much.

But now, as she knelt beside their bed, her hands trembling as they cupped the farmer’s fragile face, she felt the cracks splitting wide open.

Their breathing had grown shallow, ragged, a thin thread fraying beneath the weight of the inevitable. Sweat beaded on their brow despite the cold, and their eyes, once so clear and full of quiet determination, flickered with a distant glaze, as though they were already slipping beyond her reach.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw from the tears she had shed in secret. “Please… just a little longer.”

The farmer’s lips parted, a faint smile ghosting across them as they looked at her, truly looked at her, with the same unwavering affection that had unraveled her defenses all those seasons ago. Their hand, thin and shaking, lifted from the blankets to brush her cheek, their thumb tracing the path of her tears with excruciating tenderness.

“I’m still here,” they breathed, their voice barely more than a sigh of wind through brittle leaves. “I’m here… Haley.”

Her name, spoken like a prayer, like a farewell wrapped in love and regret.

She held them tighter, as if she could anchor them to the earth with the strength of her embrace alone. She pressed her forehead to theirs, her tears spilling freely now, dampening their skin as she whispered every promise she could think of, every word of love she had ever wanted to say, every desperate plea for time she knew the universe would not grant her.

Their breath hitched once, twice, then faltered.

She felt it happen — the precise moment when their chest, so frail beneath her trembling hands, rose for the last time and did not fall again. She felt it like a thread snapping in her own chest, a sharp, unbearable absence where their life had once been, and as the silence closed in around her, she pressed her lips to their temple and held them as tightly as she could, as if by sheer force of will she could deny the truth settling over them like a final, merciless frost.

Outside, the wind moved through the bare branches of the orchard, rustling what few withered leaves remained, and within the quiet of the farmhouse, Haley wept for the love she had found too late to keep, and the life that had slipped from her arms as surely as the seasons slipped away from them both.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 10

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: In the quiet aftermath of their night together, Jodi wakes tangled in the farmer’s arms, her body aching but alive. There is no regret—only the memory of how he saw her, touched her, made her feel wanted and real. As he worships her again with slow, reverent care, she lets herself embrace the need she thought she'd buried. Later, returning to her house, she feels no guilt—only relief and quiet defiance. Her body carries the evidence of a night that changed everything, and as Kent stirs upstairs, Jodi stands taller, unafraid to let him feel the shift.

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The farmer’s bedroom was a quiet haven, the early morning sun filtering through the simple burlap curtains, casting golden streaks across the rough-hewn wooden floor. The bed was a sturdy thing, its frame creaking faintly under the weight of their naked bodies, the quilt shoved haphazardly to one side. The air carried the faint scent of pine from the walls, mingling with the musk of sweat and skin that lingered from the night before—a night that had started with fear and ended in something Jodi hadn’t expected. She lay on her side, her hair splayed across the pillow, her body pressed against the farmer’s solid warmth. Every muscle ached, a deep, tender soreness radiating from her core, her thighs trembling faintly from the stretch of him—his size, his intensity, the way he’d worshipped her until she’d forgotten everything else.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she simply breathed, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, his arm draped loosely over her waist. Then it hit her—the memory crashing in like a wave. Kent’s voice, sharp and jagged, his hand raising. The farmer stepping in, broad and unflinching, stepping in front of her, his voice low and firm as he told Kent to back off. She’d been shaking, tears stinging her eyes, and he’d brought her here, to his house, to safety. And then… then she’d kissed him, desperate and raw, and he’d responded with a gentleness that turned into something fierce, something that left her gasping his name, her body bare and trembling under his hands, his mouth, his everything.

She should feel guilt. She knew that—Kent was her husband, the father of her boys, a man broken by war but still hers. Yet as she lay there, naked and sore, the farmer’s breath warm against her neck, she couldn’t summon it. Not regret, not shame. Only the echo of how he’d looked at her—like she was worth saving, worth worshipping—and how alive she’d felt, pinned beneath him, his rough hands mapping her body as if it were sacred ground. Her chest tightened, but her heart beat steady, unapologetic. She’d needed him, and he’d given her everything.

He stirred behind her, a low rumble in his throat as he woke, his arm tightening around her, pulling her closer. His skin was hot against hers, the coarse hair on his chest brushing her spine, and she felt him shift, his thick length pressing against her backside—already half-hard, a reminder of why she ached so deeply.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep, his lips grazing the nape of her neck. He kissed her there, soft and lingering, and Jodi shivered, the soreness flaring into a quiet, insistent heat.

“You okay?” he asked, nuzzling her shoulder, his hand sliding up to rest just below her breast, fingers splaying wide over her ribs. His touch was careful, like he knew she might be fragile after last night—after Kent, after him.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice catching slightly. “Just… sore. You’re… big.” She flushed, but his low chuckle was warm, not mocking, and he pressed another kiss to her skin, this one firmer, a little possessive.

“Sorry,” he said, his hand drifting lower, tracing the curve of her stomach. They lay there for a moment, cuddling naked in the soft light, his broad frame spooning her smaller one, his warmth wrapping around her like a shield. His fingers roamed lazily—over the swell of her hip, up to tease the underside of her breast, then back down—each touch stoking the slow burn she couldn’t ignore.

The soreness was there, sharp and real, but beneath it was a hunger, raw and undeniable, sparked by the memory of his hands on her, his body filling her until she’d shattered. She bit her lip, then reached for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. Silently, she guided him, sliding his rough palm down her stomach, past the soft curls between her thighs, until his fingers rested against her slick, swollen heat. She parted her legs slightly, pressing his hand there, her breath hitching as she told him without words what she craved.

He growled low in his chest, understanding instantly.

“Jodi,” he breathed, his voice rough with want as he tightened his hold, spooning her closer. His thick arm curled around her, anchoring her against him as his fingers slid through her folds, finding her wet and tender from the night before. She gasped, her head tipping back against his shoulder, and he kissed her neck, open-mouthed and hungry, as he began to move.

His middle finger teased her entrance, circling the sensitive flesh before slipping inside, slow and deliberate, mindful of how sore she was. She was tight, her walls fluttering around him, still stretched from his size, and the sensation pulled a ragged moan from her throat.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he muttered against her skin, his breath hot and uneven. He added a second finger, stretching her further, and Jodi whimpered, her hips rocking back against him, pressing his hardening cock harder into her back. The soreness stung, but it melded with the pleasure, making her feel every inch of him inside her.

He worked her with a steady rhythm, his fingers curling deep, stroking that spot that made her tremble. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing firm, tight circles, and her breath came in short, desperate bursts, her nails digging into his forearm.

“Like that?” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, and she nodded, frantic, her body tensing as the heat coiled tighter. His cock throbbed against her, hot and insistent, but he didn’t push for more—this was for her, a gift after everything.

He quickened his pace, fingers plunging deeper, slick with her arousal, the wet, obscene sounds of it filling the quiet room. Jodi’s moans grew louder, unrestrained, her thighs quaking as she neared the edge. His free hand slid up to cup her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers, and the sharp jolt of it sent her over—she cried out, her walls clenching hard around his fingers, pulsing with release as her body shook against him. He kept moving, drawing it out, his thumb relentless on her clit until she was gasping, limp and trembling in his arms.

He eased his fingers free, resting them against her thigh, slick with her release, and kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice soft now, his arm wrapping tighter around her waist to hold her close. Jodi turned her head, catching his lips in a slow, grateful kiss, her soreness a distant ache beneath the warmth of his embrace. They stayed tangled together, naked and content, as the morning light bathed them in gold, the world outside forgotten for a little longer.

***

The front door clicked shut behind her with a softness that felt almost accusatory. Jodi stood there for a moment, just inside her own home, holding her breath like she was sneaking in.

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that had edges—tight, watchful. Her clothes felt too neat, like a disguise. She’d showered at the farmer’s place, tried to smooth herself back into something Kent would expect. But her body still ached in ways she couldn’t hide. Not completely. The dull soreness between her thighs pulsed with every step. Every reminder of him. Of what she wanted. Of who had given it to her

She moved to the kitchen, making sure her footsteps were light. The coffee pot sat untouched. No sounds from upstairs. Maybe Kent hadn’t gotten out of bed yet. Maybe he was pretending to sleep.

Good.

Her hand lingered on the counter as she exhaled, slow and controlled. Her eyes drifted to the knife block, the edge of the fridge door where the boys’ drawings still hung, and the worn spot on the floor in front of the sink—details that made up her life. The life she’d been holding together for years.

She wasn’t guilty. She thought maybe she should be. But all she felt was… relief. And something else.

Wanted.

Seen.

Owned in a way that had nothing to do with a ring or a promise. Something real.

A sound came from upstairs. She froze. Kent’s footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Heavy.

Jodi straightened, shoulders pulled back.

The front door was locked behind her. Her hair was still a little damp. Her body was still sore. And she didn’t care if he noticed.

Let him wonder.

Let him know something had changed.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

The Brat and the Farmer (Haley x F! Farmer)

(Kinda)

Summary: Alone in her room, Haley gives in to the desire she’s been denying for weeks, using the farmer’s social media as fuel for her fantasies. Frustrated by her growing obsession yet unable to resist, she indulges in a heated, breathless release, all while imagining the farmer’s rough hands and teasing words. When it’s over, she’s left craving more—already wondering what she’d do if she ever got caught in the act.

NSFW Minors DNI!

Haley’s room was a shrine to herself: Polaroids pinned to the walls, a vanity cluttered with makeup and perfume, and a soft pink bedspread that matched her aesthetic perfectly. The late afternoon light streamed through her window, casting a warm glow over her as she sprawled across the bed, phone in one hand, knees bent and spread wide. Her skirt was hiked up around her hips, panties discarded somewhere on the floor, and the air was thick with the faint scent of her arousal and the coconut lotion she’d rubbed into her legs earlier.

She scrolled through the farmer’s social media—some rustic little account with grainy photos of crops, chickens, and the occasional selfie. Haley had rolled her eyes at first, muttering about how “basic” it all was, but now her thumb hovered over a picture of the farmer in a tight tank top, sweat glistening on her collarbone, dirt smudged on her cheek. She looked strong, capable, annoyingly hot in that effortless way that made Haley’s stomach twist.

“Stupid farmer,” she muttered, but her voice was breathy, her free hand already trailing down her stomach. She’d been fighting this for weeks—the way her pulse quickened when the farmer dropped off a basket of strawberries, the way her eyes lingered on those calloused hands. Now, alone in her room, she didn’t have to pretend.

Her fingers brushed over the blonde curls between her thighs, teasing herself for a moment before she reached for the drawer of her nightstand. Inside, tucked beneath a stack of fashion magazines, was her secret—a sleek, purple dildo she’d ordered online months ago, back when she thought she’d use it to get over some dumb fling. She hadn’t touched it in weeks, but today, it felt like the only thing that could scratch the itch the farmer had left her with.

Haley grabbed it, settling back against the pillows and spreading her legs wider, the cool air hitting her slick folds. She swiped to another photo— the farmer laughing, mid-harvest, her hair messy and her shirt clinging to her curves. “Fuck,” Haley whispered, dragging the tip of the dildo along her slit, coating it in her wetness. She was already soaked, embarrassingly so, just from a few pictures and the thought of that smug, dirt-streaked face between her thighs.

She pressed the toy against her entrance, teasing herself with shallow dips, her hips twitching impatiently. “You’d like this, wouldn’t you?” she muttered, imagining the farmer’s voice—low, teasing, telling her to stop being such a brat and take it. With a sharp breath, she pushed it in, the stretch making her gasp as it filled her inch by inch. Her head tipped back, blonde hair fanning out on the pillow, and she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

The dildo was thick, curved just right, and she started slow, sliding it out and back in, her free hand gripping her phone like a lifeline. She scrolled again, landing on a shot of the farmer bending over to plant something, her ass tight in those worn jeans. Haley’s imagination ran wild—those hands pinning her down, that mouth on her, rough and demanding. “Oh god,” she whimpered, her pace quickening, the wet sounds of the toy fucking into her loud in the quiet room.

Her knees trembled, spread as wide as they’d go, and she propped the phone against a pillow so she could use both hands—one pumping the dildo, the other slipping down to rub her clit in tight, frantic circles. “Yeah, just like that,” she panted, pretending it was the farmer’s fingers, the farmer’s tongue, driving her crazy. Her hips bucked, chasing the pressure, the fantasy spiraling out of control— the farmer bending her over the kitchen counter at the farmhouse, fucking her hard while she begged for more.

“Fuck—fuck you,” she gasped, half a curse, half a plea, as the tension coiled tighter in her core. The dildo slammed in deeper, hitting that spot that made her see stars, and her fingers on her clit sped up, sloppy and desperate. She could almost hear the farmer’s laugh, that cocky edge to it, pushing her over the edge.

Her orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through her with a choked cry. Her walls clenched around the toy, pulsing as she fucked herself through it, thighs shaking and toes curling into the sheets. The phone slipped, the screen going dark, but she didn’t care—her eyes were squeezed shut, lost in the image of the farmer’s smirk, the farmer’s hands, the farmer’s everything.

When it finally subsided, Haley slumped back, chest heaving, the dildo still buried inside her as aftershocks rippled through. She pulled it out slowly, wincing at the sensitivity, and tossed it aside, her legs collapsing together. The room was silent again, save for her ragged breathing and the distant chirp of crickets outside.

She grabbed her phone, wiping her sticky fingers on the bedspread—gross, but she’d deal with it later—and stared at the farmer’s profile. “You’re such a bitch,” she muttered, but there was a grin tugging at her lips. She’d never admit it out loud, but she was already wondering when the farmer would stop by again—and what she’d do if she got caught like this.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 9

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: Inside the quiet warmth of the farmhouse, Jodi confesses her loneliness and longing to feel wanted, not pitied. The farmer responds with quiet reverence, assuring her of her worth. As they move to the bedroom, every touch is patient and unhurried, as he shows her not just desire, but deep, respectful care. Slowly, Jodi allows herself to be seen and cherished, shedding her fear as he worships her with tenderness, grounding her in the raw truth that she is still wanted—every inch of her.

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The farmhouse was warm, but not in a way that drew attention to itself. It was a quiet warmth—low firelight casting soft shadows, wood creaking gently with the settling of the night, the faint clink of mugs cooling on the table. Jodi sat curled up at one end of the couch, legs pulled beneath her, arms wrapped in the sleeves of the flannel shirt he’d given her. It smelled like him—pine, smoke, something faintly earthy—and she held it a little tighter every time her thoughts drifted too far into places she didn’t want to go.

The farmer sat across from her, one elbow resting on the back of the chair, his body relaxed but not distant. He hadn’t said much since they got back, just moved around the kitchen with the kind of quiet, capable presence she’d come to associate with him. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He just made space for her to exist in it.

“I feel ridiculous,” she said finally, her voice quiet, her eyes on the fire instead of him. “Showing up here like this. Falling apart.”

“You’re not ridiculous,” he replied, without hesitation. “You’re human.”

She let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s generous.”

He didn’t argue. He let her sit with that.

After a few moments, she shifted, uncurling her legs and resting her feet on the floor. Her shoulders were still drawn in, but not like before—this was less about hiding and more about holding herself together.

“I’ve been alone a long time,” she said, her voice softer now. “Even before Kent left, even when he came back. I got used to not being touched. Not being seen. I told myself I didn’t need it anymore.”

She looked up, met his eyes.

“But I do,” she whispered. “I need it. Not pity. Not someone telling me I deserve better. I just… I want to feel wanted. Just for a night. Just long enough to remember I’m still a person.”

The farmer didn’t move right away. He watched her, patient and calm, as if giving her the chance to pull the words back if she needed to. When she didn’t, he stood slowly, crossed the small space between them, and knelt in front of her.

His hands were warm when they touched her knees, his thumbs brushing gently along the flannel she still clutched.

“You are a person,” he said. “And I want you. Not because you’re broken. Not because you asked. But because you’re you.”

Jodi’s breath hitched. Her hands lifted to cup his jaw, fingers tentative but certain, and when he leaned in, she met him with a kiss that started soft—but deepened with need she couldn’t keep down any longer.

When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, her voice nothing more than a breath between them.

“Will you come with me?”

He nodded, his hands moving up to cradle her sides as he stood, helping her up with him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go slow. But I’m yours tonight.”

And with that, she followed him—quietly, willingly—into the warmth of the bedroom, the fire still crackling gently in the other room behind them.

***

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft spill of firelight from the living room and the silver wash of moonlight filtering through the window. The bed was simple—neatly made, sheets clean, the kind of space that wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Just real. Lived in. Warm.

The farmer led her in slowly, not guiding her like someone fragile, but with the kind of quiet assurance that let her set the pace. Jodi stood near the edge of the bed for a moment, fingers still knotted in the flannel wrapped around her, her breath coming a little faster now—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what she was about to allow herself to feel.

He stepped in front of her, close but not crowding, his hands finding her waist. His touch was gentle, not timid. When his thumbs brushed along her sides, she shivered, her eyes lifting to his.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

She nodded, hands sliding up his chest to rest just below his collarbone. “I want this,” she said. “I want you.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, letting it stretch between them until everything else—the quiet of the farmhouse, the faint hiss of cooling firewood, the weight of what had come before—dropped away. His fingers slipped beneath the flannel, brushing the cotton of her T-shirt where it met the waistband of her jeans, his touch firm but gentle. She inhaled sharply, not because it startled her, but because it had been so long since anyone touched her like they wanted to.

There was no rush. Just a slow build. The kind of pull that comes from finally being seen.

Jodi’s hands came up to his chest, her fingers fumbling lightly at the buttons of his shirt. He stood still, patient, letting her move at her own pace. When she reached the last one and let the fabric slide down his arms, her palms lingered against his bare skin, warm and solid beneath her hands.

The farmer kissed her temple, soft and steady, and spoke into her hair. “You’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to ask for it.”

She nodded, barely, but her movements slowed. Her hands drifted to the hem of the flannel she still wore. She looked down, jaw tight.

“I haven’t… looked at myself in a mirror without clothes in a long time,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I used to feel good in my body. Not perfect, just… comfortable. But lately…” She trailed off, her hands knotting in the flannel. “I see someone soft and tired. I don’t know if I feel like myself anymore.”

He said nothing at first. Just listened, steady and present. When she finally looked up at him, his expression hadn’t changed.

“You don’t need to be who you were,” he said gently. “You’re beautiful as you are. Not in spite of anything—because of everything.”

She let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob, like his words knocked something loose inside her.

“If you want to keep these on,” he added, fingers brushing the sides of her thighs where the fabric clung, “you can. I’ll still want you.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, her shoulders rising as if bracing for impact—but when he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, her body softened into his.

With careful fingers, she peeled off the flannel and laid it over the back of a chair. Then, after a breath, she reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head. She wasn’t graceful about it. She didn’t try to make it seductive. She just took it off. Because she wanted to.

She stood there in her bra and jeans, her skin goose-pimpled from the air, but she didn’t flinch. She let him look. And when he stepped closer and put his hands on her waist, she didn’t pull away.

“You’re stunning,” he said—simple. Certain. Like it was a fact, not a compliment.

She gave him a half-smile then, shy and almost disbelieving, but there was relief behind it too.

“Help me with the rest?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, and with hands that never rushed, he knelt in front of her, undoing her jeans slowly, easing them down her hips with care. She stepped out of them without hesitation this time, standing before him in nothing but soft cotton and bare skin, her heart pounding loud in her ears.

He stayed there for a moment, still kneeling in front of her, his eyes moving slowly over her—not in hunger alone, but in something softer. Something reverent. His hands rested lightly on her hips, thumbs brushing across her skin as if memorizing the shape of her.

Jodi didn’t move. She stood in the quiet, breathing hard, half expecting to flinch or fold—but it didn’t come. There was no shrinking in his gaze. No judgment. Only warmth.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, quieter now. Closer. “Every inch of you.”

Her breath caught, a rush of something warm and aching rising in her chest.

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear that again,” she admitted.

He looked up at her, eyes steady. “Then I’ll say it until you believe it.

She reached down for him, her fingers finding his jaw, gently coaxing him up to meet her. He rose slowly, their bodies nearly brushing, and when he kissed her again, it was deeper than the last—less hesitant, more sure. Her hands slipped around his back, drawing him in until there was nothing left between them but heat and skin and a kind of trembling honesty.

His hands moved slowly—along her back, down to the waistband of her underwear—pausing just long enough for her to nod. When she did, he eased them down with the same careful touch, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, anywhere he could reach.

She undressed him in return, fingers sliding beneath his waistband, pulling fabric away until he was bare too. When he stepped back for a moment, her breath hitched again—not from nerves this time, but from the sight of him.

He reached for her hand again.

And when he led her to the bed, she followed, the warmth of his palm grounding her in every step. It wasn’t just the feel of his skin or the strength in his grip—it was the steadiness. The way he didn’t pull, didn’t rush. He simply offered his presence, and she moved with him, drawn by the quiet certainty in his touch.

The sheets were cool when her legs brushed against them. He paused before guiding her down, watching her face, reading every flicker of hesitation with care. She gave a small nod—barely more than a breath—and he climbed in beside her, easing her back onto the mattress like she was something delicate, but not fragile.

The way he looked at her made her feel bare in a way that had nothing to do with the clothes she’d left behind. She turned her face slightly, out of instinct more than thought, but his hand came to her cheek, coaxing her gaze back to his.

“You don’t have to hide,” he said, his voice low and even. “Not with me.”

She let out a breath that trembled a little at the edges. “I’m not used to being seen like this. It’s different when someone’s just going through the motions.”

He leaned in and kissed her again—not urgent, but full. His hand slid along her waist, down to the curve of her hip, anchoring her.

“I’m not here for motions,” he said softly. “I’m here for you.”

She shifted toward him, the heat of his body meeting hers in a slow, aching press. Their legs tangled, skin sliding against skin, and as he moved over her, she arched to meet him—not because she was trying to perform, but because her body wanted to. For the first time in too long, every inch of her skin felt like it was waking up, each touch sparking something deeper.

“Jodi,” he murmured, voice rough and low, thick with reverence.

His hands found her first, palms sliding over the smooth plane of her shoulders, fingers tracing the delicate dip where her collarbone met her throat.

Her skin was warm, yielding under his touch, and he mapped her slowly, deliberately, as if she were a treasure he’d unearthed after years of searching.

His thumbs brushed the faint freckles scattered across her chest, constellations earned from long days in the sun, and he followed them downward, palms cupping the full weight of her breasts.

They were soft, heavy in his hands, the dusky peaks hardening as he grazed them with his fingertips, drawing a sharp, shaky breath from her lips.

“You’re so sexy,” he said, his voice a quiet growl, eyes locked on hers as he kneaded her gently, thumbs circling her nipples until she arched into him, a soft whimper escaping her throat.

His hands slid lower, tracing the curve of her ribs, the slight give of her stomach—marked faintly with the silvery lines of motherhood—and he lingered there, pressing his palms flat against her, feeling the warmth and the life beneath her skin.

His lips followed where his hands had been, brushing the soft skin just below her navel, warm and deliberate.

Jodi’s breath hitched, her hands flying to his hair, threading through the messy strands as he kissed lower, his mouth tracing the gentle curve of her belly. He pressed his face there, breathing her in, then moved to her hips, kissing the rounded crest of one, then the other, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin and leaving a faint pink flush in its wake.

“Every part of you,” he murmured, voice muffled against her, “is perfect.”

He shifted, his hands sliding down to cup the backs of her thighs, strong and thick from years of work, yet trembling under his touch. He kissed the inside of one, his lips firm and wet, tasting the salt of her skin as he worked his way higher.

Jodi gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair, pulling slightly as his mouth found the sensitive crease where her thigh met her core. He lingered there, kissing and sucking gently, his breath hot against her, until her legs quaked and a low, desperate sound spilled from her lips.

“Oh—please,” she managed, voice breaking, and he groaned softly in response, his hands squeezing her thighs as he pressed his mouth closer, teasing the edge of her heat without rushing, savoring every shudder she gave him.

Shifting slowly, he dragged his hands up her body, feeling the dip of her waist, the swell of her sides, the softness of her arms. His lips found her neck again, kissing the pulse that raced beneath her jaw, then trailing down to her collarbone, where he sucked harder, leaving a faint mark she’d feel later. Jodi moaned, her head tipping back, and he took the invitation, kissing the hollow of her throat, then lower, until his mouth closed over one breast.

He sucked gently at first, tongue swirling around the hardened peak, then harder, drawing a cry from her as her nails dug into his shoulders. He moved to the other, giving it the same slow, reverent attention, his hands cradling her back to hold her steady as she arched into him.

When he pulled back, breathless, he cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs stroking the flushed curve of her cheeks.

“I could do this forever,” he said, voice raw, his forehead resting against hers. “Worship you like this, Jodi. You’re everything—every inch of you.”

His lips found hers then, deep and hungry, tasting the heat of her gasps as he kissed her with all the devotion he couldn’t put into words.

His hands roamed again, sliding down her spine, cupping her ass, pulling her flush against him so she could feel how much he meant it.

Jodi’s eyes glistened, wide and unguarded, and she didn’t pull away. She melted into him, letting him show her—over and over—how alive she could feel, how cherished she was in his rough, steady hands.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 8

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: Under the quiet light of the moon, the farmer stumbles upon a heated argument between Jodi and Kent. As Kent’s anger boils over, the farmer steps in to protect Jodi, defusing the tension and leading her away from the confrontation. Back at the farmhouse, Jodi allows herself to break down, finding refuge in the farmer’s quiet steadiness. He offers her safety without expectation, and in the warmth of his home, she finally admits her fear and exhaustion. For the first time in a long while, she feels seen.

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The lake was still under the low light of the moon, its surface reflecting back a stretch of open sky, pale and cloudless, the water rippling only at the edges where a breeze stirred the reeds. The farmer stood near the bank, cigarette balanced between two fingers, its faint ember glowing like a tiny heartbeat in the dark. Smoke drifted up from his mouth in slow, curling ribbons, disappearing into the night air as he stared across the water, his body quiet, his thoughts far from the ground beneath his boots.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Maybe about nothing at all. The lake had a way of doing that—smoothing out the edges of the day, dissolving the noise until all that remained was the weight in his chest and the sound of his own breathing. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when the sharp rise of voices cut across the stillness, distant but unmistakably urgent.

The first voice was tight and raised just enough to cut through the air. A woman’s voice—he recognized it immediately. Jodi.

The second came fast behind it, louder, angrier, with that particular sharpness that made something in his gut tighten before he even registered the words. Kent.

The farmer didn’t hesitate. He dropped the cigarette, letting it smolder out in the grass, and moved quickly up the slope toward the path that curled behind the rows of houses. The arguing grew clearer with every step, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against something brittle and ready to give.

By the time he rounded the final bend, the source came into full view under the yellow wash of a porch light. Jodi stood at the edge of their small yard, arms wrapped tightly across her body, shoulders drawn inward in that familiar way people hold themselves when they’re trying not to flinch. Her face was pale in the light, mouth tight, eyes glinting with unshed tears. Kent stood in front of her, not quite looming but close—too close—his voice raised and his posture rigid with frustration, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I go to work,” Kent snapped, the words bitter and hard, “I keep this family afloat, and you still act like I’m not doing enough.”

Jodi’s voice cracked as she answered, not with anger but something closer to desperation. “You’re not present, Kent. You come home and shut down like I’m not even here.”

“I don’t have the energy to babysit your feelings every goddamn day,” he shot back, and then, as if realizing how loud he’d gotten, he stepped in closer, lowering his voice but not softening it. “You think I don’t have my own shit to deal with?”

Jodi didn’t retreat, but she took a breath that looked more like a bracing than anything calm. “I’m not asking for a performance. I’m asking you to see me.”

And that was when Kent moved. Not a full step, not a swing, but his body shifted forward with too much weight, his hand lifting instinctively—fast and thoughtless—and it wasn’t until Jodi flinched that the farmer felt the heat spike in his chest.

“Back up,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the air before Kent could close the last bit of space between them.

Kent turned, startled, clearly not expecting anyone else to be there, especially not him. His expression twisted, mouth curled in something bitter and mean. “Of course,” he said with a dry, humorless laugh. “Look who shows up. Can’t leave anything alone, can you?”

The farmer didn’t stop walking. He stepped between them with calm, purposeful movement, not raising his voice, not showing any hint of panic, but his body spoke clearly enough. He positioned himself squarely in front of Jodi, his back to her, eyes locked on Kent with a steadiness that didn’t waver.

“I said back up,” he repeated, his tone quiet but unwavering.

Kent held his stare for a few seconds too long, jaw working like he was chewing on the next mistake, but whatever he was about to say never made it out. He scoffed, shook his head in disgust, and turned, muttering under his breath as he stomped off into the dark, the sound of his boots fading quickly into the silence he left behind.

The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. It sat heavy in the space between them like a storm that had passed but not fully broken. The farmer waited a beat before turning back to Jodi, whose arms had dropped to her sides. Her expression, once sharp with frustration, had gone slack, stunned, her eyes still brimming.

He stepped closer, gently this time, the edge gone from his movements, and spoke in a voice low enough that it didn’t make her flinch. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, but not in frustration—just in quiet defeat. “No,” she whispered. “Not even close.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and as soon as she said it, whatever composure she had left gave out. Her breath hitched once, and then her shoulders dropped as the tears started to fall, silent and immediate.

He didn’t wait. He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her without asking, pulling her close with the kind of care that left no space for hesitation. Her body melted against him, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, her face burying into his chest like she’d been waiting for something to give her permission to collapse.

He held her firmly, one hand resting at the back of her head, the other drawing slow, steady circles across her back, grounding her. She cried without apology, without pretense, the way people do when the weight has just gotten too heavy and someone finally shows up to help carry it.

They stood there like that for a long moment, unmoving under the glow of the porch light, until the air felt a little easier to breathe.

When her sobs softened into quiet, shaky breaths, he leaned down and spoke close to her ear, his voice as even as it had been before. “Do you want to come back with me? Just to get out of here. No pressure. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain anything. Just… decompress.”

Jodi didn’t pull away, but she nodded slowly against his chest, and that was enough.

He shifted slightly, keeping one hand on her back as he guided her gently down the path, away from the house, away from Kent, away from all the sharpness she’d been trying to live inside.

And for once, she let herself be led—not out of weakness, but because someone was finally willing to go with her.

***

The walk to the farmhouse was quiet, slow, but not heavy. Jodi kept her eyes on the path, her arms folded across her chest—not defensive, just bracing, like she was still holding in the last of the tremble in her hands. The farmer didn’t speak as they walked, and she was grateful for it. The silence wasn’t awkward; it felt like permission to not be okay.

At the door, he opened it and stepped back without a word, giving her space. She hesitated for a half second on the threshold before stepping in, her fingers twitching at the sleeves of her jacket. The warmth hit her immediately—soft lamp light, a low-burning fire, and the familiar, grounding scent of pine, woodsmoke, and something that smelled faintly like coffee and old books.

He didn’t make a show of welcoming her. Didn’t rush to ask what she needed. Instead, he pulled a thick, oversized flannel off the back of a chair and handed it to her without a word.

She looked at it for a moment, then took it and slipped it on over her shirt. It was soft and well-worn, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the collar still warm from where it had rested on his skin. She tugged it tight around herself and murmured a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Couch’s yours,” he said, his voice low and even. “Blanket’s behind you if you want it.”

She nodded once and sat, moving slowly, sinking into the cushions with the kind of exhaustion that lives in the body, not just the bones. She didn’t lie down—just curled her legs up under her and stared into the fire like it had something to tell her.

He didn’t hover. Just moved around the kitchen in quiet motions, setting the kettle on the stove, rinsing a mug. She watched him for a moment, and then, softly, her voice barely louder than the ticking of the stove, she said, “He’s never hit me. But tonight, I think he almost did.”

The words didn’t shake. They landed flat, like something she’d said to herself a hundred times but never out loud.

The farmer didn’t turn immediately. He stayed where he was, arms folded, his back to her.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he said after a moment. “But I believe you.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on the fire. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“You didn’t,” he said, turning now, his gaze steady. “He did.”

There was a pause.

She didn’t cry again, but her jaw trembled slightly as she asked, “Is it stupid that I still wanted someone to stop him? Even if he didn’t actually…”

He shook his head, stepping over to the fire. “It’s not stupid to want to feel safe.”

She swallowed hard. “I forgot what that felt like.”

He stoked the fire with a few gentle turns of the poker, watching the flames rise a little higher. When he sat beside her, it was with enough distance to give her space, but close enough that his warmth reached her.

She glanced sideways at him.

“Would it be okay if I stayed here a while?” she asked. “Just… long enough to remember how to breathe.”

He looked at her, not surprised, not weighing it—just sure.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course. Take what you need.”

She nodded, exhaling slowly through her nose, her shoulders beginning to lower, her fingers finally stilling in her lap. He draped the blanket over her legs, let his hand rest there for a moment—just pressure, nothing more—and then leaned back beside her.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The kettle began to whistle softly in the background, but Jodi made no move to get up.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeper now, and whispered, almost like it was to herself, “Thank you for seeing me.”

The farmer didn’t answer with words.

He just stayed beside her, steady and silent, and didn’t move.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 7

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: After an intense encounter with the farmer, Caroline remains at the kitchen table, enveloped in a profound sense of being seen and valued. The farmer's gentle care contrasts sharply with Pierre's earlier silent departure. Returning home, Caroline finds Pierre brooding, unable to confront the reality of their fractured relationship. Their brief exchange underscores the deep chasm between them. Alone in her bedroom, Caroline reflects on the night's events, feeling a renewed sense of self. A candid text exchange with Robin reinforces her feelings, highlighting the depth of her experience and the awakening of desires long suppressed.

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The kitchen was silent, thick with the aftermath.

Caroline stayed bent over the table, her breath still catching, the farmer’s chest warm against her back, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her through the last tremble of it all. Across the room, Pierre finally stood.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at her.

His jaw was clenched, his fists tight at his sides, his face burning with something she couldn’t name—but didn’t care to decode. The farmer didn’t even glance up.

Pierre walked out. The door slammed behind him.

And just like that—it was quiet again. Caroline closed her eyes, but didn’t move. She wasn’t ready to. And the farmer didn’t push her.

Instead, he kissed her shoulder. Soft. Steady. Then eased out of her slowly, carefully.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She nodded.

When he returned, he had a warm, damp cloth in one hand, and a towel in the other. He knelt behind her, and without a word, cleaned her up—gentle, patient, like it mattered. Because to him, it did.

She blinked hard, overwhelmed by how tender it felt after everything.

“You doing okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” he said.

He stood, helping her upright, and wrapped the towel around her hips before guiding her toward the chair by the window.

“Sit,” he said gently. “Let me grab your things.”

She sat, her legs still a little shaky, but her heart steadier than she expected.

He gathered her panties first, sliding them up her legs with care. Then the lace bra. She took it and clasped it herself, grateful for the space. Finally, the sweater.

He helped her into it, pulling it down over her arms, smoothing the sleeves like he was tucking her back into her own body.

Then he knelt in front of her again, his hand resting lightly on her knee.

“You weren’t wrong for needing this,” he said, quiet but firm. “You weren’t wrong for asking.”

She looked at him, searching for something—judgment, maybe. But there wasn’t any.

Just warmth.

“You were good to me,” she said. “Even when you didn’t have to be.”

He shrugged. “You deserved good. That’s all.”

She swallowed.

“What if I feel something later?” she asked. “Guilt. Shame. All of it.”

“Then you let it come,” he said. “And if you need someone to hold it with you… you know where to find me.”

Caroline felt something ache deep in her chest at that. Not pain. Not regret.

Just the weight of finally being seen. She reached for his hand, and he took it, warm and solid in hers.

She didn’t rush to leave.

Not yet.

Because this was hers.

And he was still here. ***

The walk home was quiet, but her thoughts weren’t.

Her body still carried the heat of the night—tender between her thighs, skin humming where the farmer had touched her.

But the air was cool now. The stillness of town after dark pressed in on her shoulders as she climbed the porch steps and opened the front door.

Pierre was there.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the dim light, his hands clasped in front of him, staring down at nothing.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the door behind her and stood in the quiet.

He didn’t look up.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You‘re here.”

“I live here,” he muttered.

She took a few steps in. “You didn’t have to watch.”

That made him glance at her—sharp, wounded.

“You wanted me to,” he said bitterly. “No,” Caroline said, her voice low and even. “You said you wanted to.”

He opened his mouth, but she kept going.

“Don’t rewrite this now. You said if I was going to sleep with someone else, you wanted to be there. You said maybe it would help you understand. So I let you watch.”

Pierre looked away again, jaw tight, his knuckles white around the edge of the table.

She walked past him, heading toward the hallway, but stopped at the threshold.

“You asked for it,” she said. “And I let you have it.”

She turned slowly to face him.

“So if you’re angry now, be honest. Be angry at what you saw. Not at me for showing it to you.”

His voice was low. “Did you enjoy it?”

She didn’t blink. “Yes.”

He flinched. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it—even though he’d seen every second. Caroline stepped closer.

“I needed to remember who I was,” she said. “And he reminded me. You didn’t.”

Pierre’s eyes dropped again, his silence louder than any accusation.

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She walked down the hall, her steps slow but sure, and when she closed the bedroom door behind her, she did it without guilt.

Not to punish him.

Just to be alone with the only thing she owed herself now:

Truth.

Her heart was still thudding—not from fear, not from guilt. Just from the sheer intensity of everything. Her body felt both used and cared for. Her skin still hummed where he’d touched her, where he’d held her like she was something precious, even while he made her come apart.

Caroline crossed to the bed, sat down slowly, hands resting in her lap.

Then—her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She jumped a little. The sharp sound cut through the quiet like a pin.

She reached for it, expecting maybe a message from Pierre.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Robin.

“How was it?”

“Real. He made me feel like I had a body again.”

“Yeah. He’s good at that.”

Caroline stared at the message, lips twitching into something dangerously close to a grin.

She lay back on the bed, pulled the blanket over her bare legs, and let herself feel it—still stretched, still warm inside, still tingling from where his hands had gripped her hips and where his voice had settled in her ear like sin.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, then she typed:

“He bent me over the kitchen table and made me look at Pierre while I came.”

Another buzz, almost immediately.

“Holy shit. I knew he’d do it right.”

Caroline laughed under her breath.

“He was so deep I could barely keep my legs under me. He held me after. Cleaned me up. Like it mattered.”

“It does matter. That’s the part no one ever expects. How safe it feels when he’s done.”

Caroline swallowed.

“He almost came in my mouth but stopped. Said he wanted to make me come first.”

“Of course he did. He’s got that whole big strong quiet thing but he’s a total giver. Addicting, right?”

Caroline grinned now, flushed and buzzing all over again.

“Yeah. It’s a problem. I want it again.”

“You will.”

Caroline tucked the phone beside her, pulled the blanket higher, and exhaled slow.

She didn’t feel bad.

She felt seen.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 6

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: Caroline and Pierre arrive at the farmer's house after dark, each carrying their own tensions. Pierre takes a seat in the corner, silent and withdrawn, while Caroline stands vulnerable yet resolute. She seeks something she's been missing—intimacy, recognition, passion. The farmer, attentive and patient, offers her the space to express her desires and responds with deliberate care. As the night unfolds, Caroline experiences a connection that reignites a sense of being truly seen and desired, a stark contrast to the distance she's felt in her marriage. All the while, Pierre observes from the sidelines, confronting the reality of their strained relationship.

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The knock came just after dark. Right on time.

The farmer opened the door to find Caroline standing there in a long coat, her hair done soft, subtle makeup highlighting the sharpness in her green eyes. She looked stunning—but guarded. A woman stepping off a cliff, knowing she wouldn’t hit the ground for a while.

Behind her, Pierre stood stiff, hands in his pockets, eyes anywhere but on his wife.

“Come in,” the farmer said, voice low, calm.

They entered quietly. Caroline’s boots clicked on the hardwood. Pierre lingered just inside the door.

The farmer nodded toward the armchair in the corner. “That’s for you,” he said to Pierre. No malice. No challenge. Just command.

Pierre didn’t argue. He walked over, sat down slowly, hands on his knees, looking like he didn’t know what the hell to do with his own body.

Caroline stood still in the center of the room.

She looked at the farmer, eyes searching his face, trying to hide the shake in her breath.

He walked toward her, slow, until there was almost nothing between them.

“You sure?” he asked, voice quiet, but firm.

She nodded.

“No,” he said. “Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

He reached up, unbuttoned the top of her coat, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed the skin at her throat. She didn’t flinch.

“You can take this off,” he said.

The coat slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

The farmer’s eyes moved over her slowly, unhurried, and heavy with focus. Black lace hugged her in all the right places—delicate, sheer, nothing flashy. It didn’t scream for attention. It invited it.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just took her in.

“You wore this for me?” he asked softly, voice thick with warmth.

Caroline nodded, breath catching.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping close enough that she could feel the heat from his skin. “I want to hear it.”

“I wore it for you,” she murmured. “Not for him.”

He raised a hand, cupped her cheek gently. “Good.”

His fingers brushed down her arm, slow, deliberate. He circled behind her, letting his touch trail along the curve of her hip, then up her spine. When he reached the clasp of her bra, he paused.

“You don’t rush something this beautiful,” he whispered, almost like to himself.

The clasp came undone with practiced ease. He caught the straps before they slipped, then slid them down her arms himself, inch by inch, until the bra fell away and she was bare to him.

Caroline’s chest rose sharply, nipples stiff, skin flushed.

He stepped back to look, his gaze softer now—but no less intense.

“God, Caroline,” he said. “You’re stunning.”

The words hit her low in her belly. Not flattery. Not empty.

Just real.

He moved in again, hands settling lightly at her hips, thumbs dragging slowly along the waistband of her panties.

“You want me to take these off?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless.

He didn’t yank them down—he peeled them, careful, reverent, his eyes never leaving hers until the fabric slipped down her legs and pooled at her ankles.

“Step out,” he murmured, voice velvet.

She did.

Now naked, exposed, she stood there under his gaze, but didn’t feel small. Didn’t feel judged. She felt seen. The way Robin had described. The way she’d barely let herself believe was possible.

His eyes roamed her body slowly again, less hungry now, more like he was savoring the sight of something he hadn’t known he wanted this badly.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Every inch of you.”

From the chair, Pierre said nothing—watching, frozen—but Caroline had already forgotten he was there.

The farmer leaned in close, his voice a low hum against her ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

Caroline’s breath hitched. She was still standing, bare now, the lace and silk on the floor. The air felt cool on her skin, but his body was warm—just inches away.

She didn’t rush to answer. Her eyes flicked to his lips, then lower. Then back to his eyes.

“I want you to touch me,” she said quietly. “Really touch me.”

He nodded, slow, like he was absorbing it—like that answer mattered.

“Where?” he asked. “Tell me what you need right now.”

Her throat worked around the answer. Not because she didn’t know—because it felt dangerous to say it out loud.

“My breasts,” she said finally, breath just barely holding together. “I want your hands on them.”

A small smile touched the corner of his mouth—not cocky. Warm. Focused.

His hands came up, slow and steady, giving her time to stop him if she wanted to. She didn’t.

He cupped her gently at first—just the weight of his palms against her. His thumbs brushed across her nipples, soft at first, then firmer, watching the way her breath caught and her eyes fluttered.

“You’re sensitive,” he murmured.

She nodded, lips parting in a soft gasp as he rolled one nipple between his fingers. “God… yes.”

His thumbs circled her nipples, teasing them slowly, and she swayed into his touch. Her skin flushed under his hands, breath catching every time he gave a little tug, a roll, a brush that sent a pulse straight to her core.

Then his mouth found her neck—warm and slow, lips open against her skin, his stubble scraping just enough to make her shiver. He kissed just below her ear, down the line of her throat, lingering there while his hands continued their slow rhythm on her chest.

“You like that,” he murmured, not a question.

She hummed, soft and breathless, leaning her head to the side to give him more access. “Mmm… yeah.”

His teeth grazed her skin, just the edge of a bite, and her body reacted—hips shifting forward, her thighs pressing together.

And then, without a word, Caroline reached down.

She grabbed his wrist—firm, but not rough—and guided his hand lower. Down her stomach, past her navel, until his fingers brushed between her legs.

She was soaked.

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder, toward the corner of the room where Pierre sat—silent, watching, his jaw tight and his hands clenched in his lap.

Caroline didn’t say anything to him. Just looked.

Then turned her gaze back to the farmer, her voice low and rough.

“Touch me.”

And he did.

His fingers slipped between her folds, slow at first, exploring her with deliberate care. He didn’t tease—he learned her. Pressed where she needed it, circled where she twitched, watched her face the whole time.

“Fuck,” she whispered, her knees wobbling. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed her again—this time on the mouth. Deep. Purposeful. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers moving in tight, wet strokes, already pulling soft, broken sounds from her throat.

His fingers worked between her thighs, slick and steady, every movement tuned to her breath, the way her hips rolled toward him, needing more.

And yet—when she glanced past his shoulder again, Pierre still sat there.

Rigid.

Silent.

Expression unreadable.

Not even a shift in his seat. Not a sound. Not anything.

That cold, blank look she’d lived with for years.

It hit her all over again—that same ache in her chest—but this time, it burned hot.

She clenched her jaw.

You’re watching your wife fall apart in another man’s hands, and you still can’t even move.

The farmer kissed her neck again, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, grounding her. But something inside her had already shifted.

She looked at him—really looked—and leaned in, lips brushing his ear, her breath hot and sharp.

“Get me on my knees,” she whispered. “I want your cock down my throat while he watches.”

That did something to him.

She felt the way his breath caught, the subtle tension that surged through his body like a current. He didn’t speak. Just looked at her with something deeper than lust.

Something like understanding.

His hand slipped from between her legs, but not before he dragged one final slow stroke through her slick heat, just to make sure she’d miss it.

Then he took her chin gently, made her look up at him.

“You sure?” he murmured.

Her eyes burned with something wicked. “I want to make him regret every year he wasted.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip, and he nodded.

Caroline sank to her knees, the hardwood cool beneath her, but all she could feel was heat—her own, and his. The farmer stood tall in front of her, still fully clothed. His shirt clung to him from the heat of the room, his jeans worn and dirty from the day. And underneath them, she could already see the thick outline of what was waiting for her.

Her fingers went to his belt first.

She undid the buckle slowly, deliberately, not looking away from his face. He watched her with that same steady focus—calm, but dark with want.

She popped the button, then eased the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. His cock was already hard beneath the fabric of his briefs, straining.

She pulled those down too, careful, until he sprang free—thick, flushed, heavy.

“Fuck,” she whispered, more to herself than him.

She wrapped a hand around the base, feeling the heat of him, the weight. Her thumb brushed the underside, slow and purposeful.

And then he did something that made her pulse jump.

He cupped the back of her head—gently. Fingers threading into her hair like he was anchoring himself. Not to control. Just to feel.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re perfect.”

The words hit her harder than expected.

She felt powerful. Desired. Present.

She leaned in and licked him, slow from base to tip, then circled the head with her tongue. The farmer exhaled hard, hips twitching just slightly.

“Just like that,” he whispered.

She smiled around him.

And then took him in.

Her lips wrapped around the head, warm and soft, and she sank down inch by inch, her hand stroking what she couldn’t fit, her mouth working him slow and deep.

He groaned, hand tightening in her hair—not pushing, just grounding himself.

She pulled back, then took him again, faster now, hollowing her cheeks as she moved.

And then, without turning her head, she let her eyes flick sideways—to Pierre, still seated, still silent.

He hadn’t moved. Not a twitch.

So she locked eyes with him and moaned.

She let spit drip from the corner of her mouth, let the slick sound fill the room, her hand twisting around the base while she bobbed her head.

She turned back to the farmer, sucked harder now, hearing his breath hitch.

“You feel incredible,” he said, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Caroline… you’re gonna make me lose it.”

Good.

She wasn’t done.

She wanted him to fall apart.

While her husband watched.

And did nothing.

She sucked him deep, hand stroking, spit dripping from her chin, his cock twitching in her throat.

He was close. She could feel it—his hips starting to shift, his grip in her hair tightening, the tension rippling through his body like a wire pulled taut.

His jaw clenched. “Shit—I’m not gonna last—”

Then his hand slid to her jaw, gentle but firm, pulling her back with care.

She looked up, lips swollen, chest heaving, mouth wet.

But he wasn’t looking at her mouth.

He was looking at her eyes.

“Not yet,” he said, breath ragged, voice softer now. “I want to feel you come first.”

She blinked, still catching her breath.

“I need to feel you fall apart before I do,” he murmured. “Let me have that.”

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

He was already guiding her to her feet, already turning her slowly toward the kitchen table.

“Come here,” he said softly. “Right here.”

Caroline stepped forward, her legs shaking slightly from how wet she already was, and bent over the table—her palms flat against the wood, chest low, hips lifted.

The farmer came up behind her, hands running up her back, down her thighs, tracing her curves like he was savoring the shape of her. Then he dropped to one knee and spread her open, mouth finding her with no hesitation.

She gasped, her head falling forward.

“Fuck—yes—”

His tongue moved slowly at first, then deeper, deliberate, his fingers spreading her as he buried his mouth in her. His stubble scratched softly against her skin, grounding her in the sensation of it.

She was already close. Already trembling.

Then he stood, and slid inside her—deep and full in one slow, thick stroke.

Caroline cried out, loud and raw—he filled her completely, made her feel claimed.

Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“Gods,” he groaned, bending over her, his breath warm at her neck. “You feel unreal. So soft… and so damn wet.”

She could barely breathe. Every thrust sent sparks down her spine.

Then he gently gathered her hair in one hand, lifting her head.

“Look at him,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes—and there was Pierre.

Still seated. Still watching.

Now red in the face, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists on his knees.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” the farmer said, voice low and reverent in her ear. “You wanted him to see how beautiful you are like this.”

He moved in her slower now, deeper, the rhythm intense and sensual, his hands smoothing along her waist.

“Let him watch you come,” he whispered. “Let him see what it looks like when someone sees you.”

His hips pressed harder, deeper, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the room, his mouth pressed to her shoulder.

She moaned, breath hot and frantic, her whole body beginning to tremble.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me what he’s seeing.”

“He’s watching me come,” she gasped. “He’s watching you fuck me.”

And then she shattered.

Her body tightened around him, every muscle clenching, her moan long and broken as she came hard—eyes open, locked on Pierre, while the farmer held her like she was something he’d been waiting his whole life to touch.

And Pierre?

Still didn’t say a word.

Caroline was still shaking, her body flushed and sensitive, every breath a tremble as she leaned forward over the kitchen table, trying to steady herself.

Behind her, the farmer hadn’t stopped moving.

His thrusts had shifted—slower now, but heavier. A steady rhythm that said he was holding on by a thread.

She felt his hand flatten over her stomach, the other sliding up her back, grounding her. His chest pressed against her spine, breath hot against her shoulder.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, voice low, strained. “So goddamn perfect.”

She turned her head slightly, enough to glance back, enough to feel how tightly he held himself back.

“You can let go,” she whispered. “I want you to.”

His pace faltered—just once.

Then he groaned, long and low, like he’d been waiting to hear that.

“You want me to come inside you?” he asked, voice nearly a growl, not dirty—desperate.

Caroline reached back, her fingers brushing over his thigh. “Yes,” she breathed. “I want to feel it.”

He snapped his hips once, deep.

“God, Caroline—”

She felt him pulse inside her—thick, hot, flooding her in waves as he buried himself to the hilt. His arms wrapped around her waist as he came, his forehead pressed to the back of her neck.

He trembled.

He, the one who had held her so steady, was now the one shaking.

And Caroline smiled—small, breathless, satisfied.

She stayed still, letting him soften inside her, his hands still on her, his breath slowing against her skin.

She felt him exhale.

One long, steady breath.

Like she’d just given him something more than just release.

Across the room, Pierre still sat—silent, stunned, his jaw tight and his eyes hollow.

Caroline didn’t look away this time.

She met his stare.

And didn’t blink.

[multi-fandom-hoebag]

Til Death—or the Farmer—Do Us Part: Chapter 5

Summary: When the new farmer rolled into Stardew Valley, no one expected him to do more than grow turnips and fix fences. But underneath the calloused hands and easy smile is someone who listens—really listens. And soon, one by one, the town’s wives find themselves drawn to something they’ve been missing for years: attention, tenderness, the thrill of being wanted.

Their husbands are distracted, distant, or just going through the motions. The farmer? He’s present. He sees them.

It starts with late-night talks and innocent touches. A shared drink. A look held too long. Then the lines blur. Passion sparks. Secrets take root.

But it’s not just lust. Sometimes, it’s about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about being held like you matter.

In Stardew Valley, the harvest isn’t the only thing coming early.

Chapter Summary: As the sun sets, Robin visits the farmer with a quiet warning—Caroline might be coming to him, not for comfort, but for something real. That night, Caroline shows up, composed but trembling underneath. She lays it out clearly: her marriage is broken, and she wants something honest, something she hasn't felt in years. She doesn’t ask for seduction—she asks to be seen. And when the farmer doesn’t shy away, she makes her choice. Not someday. Soon..

NSFW! Minors DNI!

The sun was low when Robin showed up, boots scuffing softly down the dirt path to the farmhouse. She didn’t call out. Just walked up to where the farmer was leaning against the porch railing, watching the shadows stretch across the fields.

He looked over, and a slow smile tugged at his mouth. “Didn’t hear you coming.”

“You’re used to me by now,” she said.

He nodded. “Not complaining.”

She joined him, leaned against the railing beside him, arms crossed loosely. For a moment, they just stood there in silence, the sound of cicadas humming in the background, the warm breeze brushing over the porch.

Then, casually: “Caroline’s probably going to come see you.”

He didn’t react. Just waited.

Robin glanced over at him. “Things with Pierre… aren’t working. In the bedroom.”

That got a slight tilt of his head. Still no surprise. Just patience.

“She’s frustrated,” Robin continued. “Lonely. I think it finally broke open last night. She told him exactly what she wanted.”

“And he took it well?”

Robin gave a humorless smile. “Not at first. But he didn’t say no. He said if she was going to sleep with someone… he wanted to watch.”

The farmer let out a breath through his nose. “That’s one way to handle it.”

“She told me she wants to feel like a woman again,” Robin said softly. “That she’s tired of pretending.”

Her voice dipped lower. “Sound familiar?”

He met her eyes then, and for a second, nothing moved.

Robin looked away first.

“She doesn’t have a plan yet. But she’s circling the idea. And if she shows up… just know it’s not a game. She’s not doing this to tease you. She means it.”

The farmer nodded once, thoughtful.

Robin pushed off the railing, starting to turn.

“She asked me what it felt like,” she said over her shoulder. “To be with you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I told her,” Robin said. “It felt like being seen.”

And with that, she headed down the steps, hands in her pockets, walking back toward town like nothing had changed—though everything had.

****

The knock came after dark.

Firm. Deliberate.

He opened it to find Caroline standing there in a dark green sweater, jeans hugging her hips, hair down. She looked… composed. But her hands were clenched in the sleeves, and her mouth was tight.

He stepped aside. She entered without hesitation, but her steps were slow, cautious, like she was still deciding if she could go through with what she’d come to do.

She didn’t sit. Just stood in the middle of the room, hands twisting together in the sleeves of her sweater.

He waited.

“I’m going to get straight to it,” she said. “Pierre and I… we’re not working. We haven’t been, for a long time.”

She exhaled through her nose, measured. “I told him I wanted someone else. That I needed something he couldn’t give me anymore.”

Her fingers tensed slightly against her elbows.

“He said if I was going to do it, he wanted to be there. Just sit, just watch. That was his only condition.”

The farmer leaned against the doorframe, quiet. Still.

Caroline took a step closer.

“Robin told me enough to know you don’t just get women off,” she said. “You make them feel like they exist.”

Her voice dipped lower.

“She said you touched her like she was the only thing in the room. Like she mattered.”

A small pause. Her gaze held steady.

“I want that.”

There wasn’t a waver in her voice now. Just need. Heavy, quiet, honest.

“I want to be seen. Wanted. Taken apart by someone who actually notices what I feel.”

She stepped closer again. Close enough to smell him—sweat, earth, woodsmoke.

“And I want it from you.”

Another breath.

“If you don’t want this, I’ll go. No hard feelings. But if you do… I want to set a night.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Soon.”

The farmer didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just studied her like he was deciding whether this was real—or just a moment she’d regret.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice low.

Caroline nodded, but he didn’t let her off that easy.

“I need to hear you say it.”

She swallowed, met his eyes. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He tilted his head, gaze sharp. “And Pierre. He’s just watching?”

“Yes,” she said, no hesitation. “He’s not part of it. Not unless you count silence and guilt in the corner.”

That earned a faint twitch of his mouth, but it faded quick.

He stepped forward, just once—closing some of the space between them.

“Then tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Caroline stiffened—not from fear, but from the weight of hearing it said out loud. Her breath hitched. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down.

She looked him straight in the eye, and her voice came out quieter, but steady.

“I want you to touch me like I haven’t been touched in years.”

Another breath. “I want you to put your hands all over me. I want to feel your mouth. Your fingers. I want to be undressed slowly—like it matters.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “I want you to fuck me like you’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me.”

Still, he didn’t interrupt.

“I want to be made a mess of,” she said. “I want to be used… but gently. At first. I want to be ruined with care.”

And then, softer. “I want him to see what he’s missing.”

He stepped in closer now—close enough for her breath to hitch again.

“Good,” he said. “Then pick a night.”