oh-clembo

[oh-clembo]

cowboy daddy — bull rider!joel miller x reader

𝒮ummary: At a dusty rodeo under a burning sun, you got lost from your friends and found Joel Miller instead

𝒲arnings: idk how to tag it but reader continues the action after he comes, semi-public sex, oral sex (m! receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, small town, reader is soft and feral, masturbation, dirty talk, age gap

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: i've been obsessed with elsie silvers' books so i had to do it i'm sorry

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 14,8k

The sun hung low like a burning brand in the sky, casting gold over the dust that curled and drifted in the air. The grandstands of the fairgrounds were packed, filled with the sounds of country rock and distant hoots from half-drunk cowboys and girls with rhinestones on their jeans. The scent of fried food and sweat clung to everything, thick and familiar.

You hadn’t planned to lose your friends. It was supposed to be a carefree Saturday—a little too much seltzer, too much flirtation, and too many selfies taken under the banner for the “State Bull Riding Finals.” But somewhere between the snack stand and the beer tent, they vanished into the crowd. You didn’t panic, though. You drifted instead, letting the music guide your hips and the heat kiss your skin, your crop top tied just right above your navel, your denim skirt fluttering dangerously high with every step. You knew how you looked, and the trail of glances you left behind proved it.

Then came the roar. A surge of excitement, collective and hungry. You turned, drawn toward it like a moth to fire, and slipped through the crowd until you stood by the edge of the arena fence, right as the announcer’s voice cut clear through the speakers:

“Now y’all hold your breath for this one—eight seconds of hell comin’ up with the one and only, the undefeated, Joel Miller!”

You weren’t expecting him.

The man that strode into the center of the arena wasn’t just some local boy in too-tight Wranglers. No, this one carried the kind of weight that made every inch of the world feel smaller. Broad shoulders, thighs like pistons under faded denim, a salt-and-pepper scruff shadowing a jaw that looked carved out of goddamn Texas itself. His eyes were hidden under the brim of a worn, black hat—but you felt him anyway.

He mounted the bull like he’d done it a thousand times—because he had. The animal twisted beneath him, already wild with rage, hooves gouging the dirt, snorting steam like a demon. The gate opened. Time shattered.

You’d never seen something so fucking beautiful.

The way his body moved with the bull—controlled chaos, all muscle and instinct. Eight seconds felt like a lifetime. The crowd counted down, breathless. He lasted. He always did. And when he dismounted, dust coating the sweat on his arms, his hat flew free—spinning once, twice—before landing at your feet, just on the other side of the rail.

You leaned down, fingers brushing the brim. It smelled like sun, leather, and something darker—masculine in the most dangerous way.

Then you heard his voice. Low and slow, like whiskey poured over ice.

“Looks better on you, darlin’. Keep it.”

Your eyes met his. There was a curl at the corner of his mouth—half smile, half dare.

You gave him a smile as sweet as pie, lashes fluttering just enough to bait the hook.

“Might be the first thing I’ve stolen that no one’s tried to take back.”

He raised a brow, those stormy eyes lingering on you longer than polite. “Well… maybe I don’t want it back.”

Your fingers gripped the hat a little tighter.

And just like that, something started. Not a spark—no, this wasn’t delicate. This was heat and dust and the promise of something wild.

Joel Miller had noticed you. And you weren’t planning on letting him forget.

The fair had started to melt into late afternoon, that honey-colored hour where everything looked softer, slower—like time itself was leaning back with a drink. You’d wandered off from the arena, Joel’s hat snug on your head, brim tilted just low enough to make you feel like trouble. The stalls stretched out along the grass, strung with fluttering pennants and rows of handmade goods—leatherwork, turquoise jewelry, candles that promised to smell like bonfires and bad decisions.

You stood before one of them, idly thumbing a braided bracelet, pretending to care about the craftsmanship while your other hand toyed with a red lollipop between your lips. You liked how it tasted—sugar and cherry—but you liked even more the way men looked at you when you sucked on it slow, tongue tracing the hard curve before slipping it back into your mouth with a soft pop.

That’s when you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The air changed. Heavy. Like gravity pulled harder when he walked near. You didn’t even have to turn your head to know it was Joel. You felt that same weight you’d felt in the ring—like some old god in denim, slow and carved from dust.

“Heard red’s your color.”

You looked over your shoulder, the sucker shifting between your lips, eyes half-lidded beneath the brim of his hat now snug atop your head. Joel stood there, arms folded across his chest, forearms thick and sun-kissed, his white tee clinging to a chest built to hold sin. He was grinning like he’d been looking for you—and like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find you right there, in his hat, licking candy like you were born to torment.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d come lookin’,” you said, voice syrupy, playing dumb with your eyes all lit up. “Didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

“Ain’t lookin’ for my hat.” He glanced down at you, gaze slow like a drag off a cigarette. “Figured it found the right head. But I was wonderin’ what a girl like you’s doin’ out here all alone.”

You stepped a little closer to the stall, just enough to make him lean in to hear you better. The lollipop clicked against your teeth as you pulled it free, letting your lips linger on the glossy red tip.

“Didn’t know I was alone. Figured you were watchin’ since the arena.”

Joel’s brows ticked upward, amused. His eyes didn’t move from your mouth.

“Might’ve been. Hard to look away when someone’s wearin’ my hat, suckin’ on candy like that.”

You smiled slow, that soft, sweet expression that always got people to underestimate you. Then, tilting your head, you held the lollipop out toward him between two fingers.

“Wanna taste?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, that long, unreadable look that said he was weighing his options—or maybe the trouble you came with. Then he stepped forward, real close, shadows and heat wrapping around you both.

Joel didn’t take the candy. He leaned in, just enough to speak low into your ear, his breath warm.

“Darlin’, if I start tastin’ you, that sucker ain’t the first thing I’ll be wantin’.”

And then he leaned back, not touching you, just looking at you like he already owned your next move. Like he knew you’d follow, whether you meant to or not.

The sucker stayed in your hand. Your heart kicked up under your ribs.

Something in the air snapped tighter between you two.

The tension hummed, a slow-burn kind of heat that didn’t demand anything—it just waited, sure as a storm in a dry sky. Joel stood there in the dying sunlight, all rough edges and coiled charm, and you felt his gaze settle heavy on you again—like you’d been branded by it.

He tipped his chin toward the back of the fairgrounds, where the floodlights were starting to flicker on over a spread of lawn chairs, pickup trucks, and coolers. Laughter drifted through the air, along with the twang of a guitar and the occasional clink of glass bottles.

“We’re settin’ up by the trailers. Cold beer, good company. You oughta come.”

It wasn’t a question.

You twirled the lollipop back between your lips, leaning a little on one hip. That crop top rode higher, teasing the smooth line of your waist. You didn’t say yes right away—no, you let the silence stretch, watching him, letting him want the answer before you gave it.

Then you gave a soft shrug, playful.

“Sure. Long as no one minds me showin’ up lookin’ better than all the other girls.”

Joel chuckled, deep and rough, like a growl wrapped in velvet.

“Sugar, you walked in lookin’ better than the rest. They’ll live.”

You fell into step beside him, the brim of his hat shading your face as you walked across the fairgrounds. He didn’t touch you—but he didn’t need to. The way he moved beside you, easy and tall, the occasional sideways glance full of unspoken things—it was enough.

The closer you got, the louder it became. Three trucks were backed up in a horseshoe around a crackling firepit, chairs and blankets scattered around, and a big cooler overflowing with beer and melting ice. Joel’s buddies were already gathered—broad men with sunburnt arms and worn-out boots, laughing like they hadn’t known hard days.

One of them spotted you and let out a long, appreciative whistle.

“Well damn, Miller. You didn’t say you were bringin’ a dessert.”

Joel didn’t even look at the guy. He just reached over to grab two beers from the cooler, popped them open with a bottle opener hanging from his belt, and handed one to you with a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Play nice,” he told them, calm but firm.

You took the beer, nails clinking against the glass, and let your lips curl slow around the rim before sipping. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but your attention didn’t stray from Joel. Not for long.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, your voice a teasing whisper meant only for him, “you always share your toys with the boys?”

He grinned, finally letting his eyes drag slow over you.

“Ain’t a toy if it bites back, darlin’. And somethin’ tells me… you bite real good.”

The night stretched ahead, thick with heat and the smell of smoke and beer. Someone strummed a guitar, another tossed firewood onto the flames. But you? You leaned into the curve of your chair, beer in hand, and let the hat tip forward to shadow your grin.

You were right where you wanted to be.

And Joel Miller? He was definitely lookin’ at you like the game had only just begun.

The fire cracked behind you, throwing golden shadows across Joel’s broad chest. The beer bottle in your hand was sweating, beads of condensation rolling over your fingers as you nursed the last few sips. You’d laughed at some story his buddy Tommy told—something about a steer getting loose and chasing a drunk out of a porta-potty—but your eyes had stayed mostly on Joel. The way he sat, heavy and relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his folding chair like he owned the whole damn county. He hadn’t stopped watching you either.

You swirled the last of your beer in the bottle, then let your voice cut low, sweet, just enough to make him lean in to hear.

“So… where does a cowboy like you sleep on the road?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just cocked his head a bit, eyes narrowed, amused and curious like he was tryin’ to read your angle.

You smiled, teasing your bottom lip between your teeth, then looked out toward the edge of the field where a row of trailers sat under flickering sodium lights. You nodded toward them.

“I wanna see it,” you said softly. “Your trailer. Where you sleep.”

Joel’s lips curled into something not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. More like a knowing. His fingers reached down into the cooler again, pulling out another bottle—cold and dripping. He popped the cap against the edge of the metal grate by the fire and handed it to you without a word.

You took it, brushing your fingers along his in a way that said this ain’t innocent.

Then he stood. The firelight caught his frame, tall and cut from something older than time—something that didn’t bend easy. He jerked his head slightly toward the trailers.

“C’mon then.”

You followed, your boots crunching soft in the grass, that little skirt of yours swaying with every step. He didn’t walk too fast. Didn’t walk too slow. Just kept beside you, matching your pace like you’d been walking together for years.

When you reached his trailer, it was exactly what you imagined—beat-up in a charming way, streaks of red dust on the aluminum sides, an old Texas flag decal peeling off the back. He swung the door open and motioned you in with that big hand of his, letting you go first.

The inside was dim, a narrow space full of lived-in scent: leather, sweat, and faint cologne. A small bed in the back corner, sheets messy, denim jacket tossed over the edge. There was a shelf lined with personal things—a few old rodeo belt buckles, a photo pinned to the wall of a much younger Joel, clean-shaven and grinning next to a bull the size of a truck.

You wandered in slow, looking around like you belonged there.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, watching you with arms crossed, his beer dangling from one hand.

“Didn’t figure you were the type to get real interested in travel accommodations.”

You looked back over your shoulder, lips brushing your beer bottle.

“Maybe I just wanted to know where the big Cowboy Daddy, Joel Miller, lays his head down after a long, hard ride.”

He laughs. Loud, and it looked like just the view of you amused him.

His eyes dropped to your legs, then to your mouth. Real slow. That silence fell again—thick silence. The kind that begged for something to break it. A breath. A whisper. A touch.

“You always this curious?” he asked, voice rough.

You turned fully, letting the light from the tiny trailer window catch the curve of your waist, the sweet, sharp smile on your lips.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Joel took a long drink of his beer, then set it down on the counter. You could feel the shift—he hadn’t moved yet, but something in him had. Like a bull behind the gate.

The air inside the trailer felt tighter than it should’ve—low ceiling, narrow walls, but that wasn’t it. It was the weight of Joel’s stare. The way his shoulders filled the doorway like he was trying real hard not to let anything in—or let you out.

You’d wandered your way to the little counter near the sink, fingers dancing along the edge of a battered cutting board, an old coffee mug, a half-used bottle of cologne that smelled like cedar, smoke, and sin. You took a sip from your beer, slow, savoring it like the pause between heartbeats. You could feel him watching your mouth.

“Ain’t much, but it’s home when I’m on the road,” he said.

You looked over your shoulder, head tilted, giving him that same syrupy smile that made most men melt—and always got them to show their hand.

“Not bad. Cozy. Probably gets a lotta use.”

Joel stepped closer, boots whispering across the linoleum. His voice dipped low.

“Only when I got someone worth sharin’ it with.”

Your lashes fluttered just enough to tease, but your mouth quirked into something sharper. You turned, leaning back against the counter, your hip jutting out just enough to catch his eye.

“Lotta women think they’re worth it, huh?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped in, slow and steady, like you were a skittish mare he didn’t wanna spook—but he still intended to saddle. His hand came up to the counter beside your waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“Can’t lie, darlin’. Ain’t been starvin’ out here.”

Then his eyes dropped to your lips. And he leaned in.

That smell—dust and leather and just a hint of beer—wrapped around you. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, just close enough to make your pulse skip. You let it hang there. Let him think he had you. Then you tilted your head back—not away, but just enough.

Your eyes met his, a flicker of fire behind the softness.

“You fuck a woman in every town you stop in, don’t you?” Your voice was honeyed, sharp beneath the sweetness. “Flash a grin, tip your hat, make ‘em feel special for a night—then ride out like a ghost.”

Joel didn’t blink. But that smile? It changed. Less wolf, more… curious.

“And you think you ain’t like them.”

“No,” you said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I know I’m not. You want me, cowboy, you gotta earn me.”

There was a pause. Heavy and deep.

Then Joel laughed—low and warm in his chest, like he hadn’t heard something that real in a long damn time.

“Well,” he said, drawing back just enough to breathe, “guess I picked the right girl to hand my hat to.”

Your lips curved, slow and wicked.

“Guess you did.”

He didn’t try to kiss you again. Not yet.

But the promise hung thick in the air, clinging to every slow glance, every breath.

And Joel Miller? He’d never had to earn a damn thing before.

But he looked at you like maybe this time… he wanted to.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, tucked in the waistband of that tiny denim skirt. The vibration broke the heat in the air, snapped the taut string stretched between you and Joel. You looked down slowly, reluctant, fingers brushing over the screen.

[Maddie: girl where the HELL are you?? we lost you like hours ago 😭]

[Maddie: we’re at the Ferris wheel—text me NOW]

You smiled faintly, a little breath through your nose. Damn. You’d forgotten they even existed.

Joel leaned back slightly, still close enough to feel the heat of him, his hand resting easy on the counter beside you. He glanced at the phone, then back at you, one brow raised.

“They send out a search party?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you murmured, tucking the phone away again, your fingers brushing over his wrist as you stepped slightly back—not far, but enough to signal it.

He nodded once, jaw flexing like he didn’t love the idea of you leaving—but he wasn’t gonna stop you, either.

“That friend of yours got a leash on you?”

You gave him a slow grin, stepping around him toward the trailer door, beer bottle still dangling from your fingers. The sway in your hips wasn’t an accident.

“No one’s got a leash on me, cowboy.”

You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder, eyes lit with something dangerous.

“But don’t worry. I remember the way back.”

Joel watched you go, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, his mouth pulled into a smirk that looked equal parts amused and intrigued.

“I bet you do.”

You stepped out into the thick summer night, the fair still glowing in the distance, the sound of music and laughter calling you back. Joel’s hat still sat snug on your head, brim casting shadows over your grin.

You didn’t look back again.

Didn’t have to.

He was already planning on seeing you again.

The morning cracked open mean and loud.

It started with the slamming of a cabinet door. Then the sharp clink of glass bottles rattling in the sink—half-empty, sticky, the smell of stale liquor already thick in the air before the sun had fully risen. You moved through the kitchen with your jaw tight, boots hitting the linoleum with purpose, your little bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes down. Don’t engage. That was the rule.

But of course, your dad was already drinking.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’ dressed like that?” his voice slurred out from the recliner, worn leather groaning under his weight.

You didn’t stop moving.

“Out.”

“Rodeo again?” he barked, dragging himself up with a grunt, bottle clutched tight. “What, you think some goddamn cowboy’s gonna fix your life?”

You froze at the door, back to him. Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag tighter.

“You wouldn’t know anything about fixing lives,” you muttered, voice sharp and flat. “You just burn everything down and wait for someone else to clean it up.”

That set him off.

“You little bitch—”

Glass shattered. Something thrown. Not at you—but close enough to make the wall rattle. You didn’t flinch. You’d stopped flinching years ago. Just sucked in a breath, jaw locked hard.

“Mom left you,” you said, voice cold now. “And all you’ve done since is try to drown me in her place.”

Then you turned the knob. Walked out.

The sun outside was blinding compared to the nicotine-stained dark behind you. Your boots crunched the gravel of the drive. But what stopped you wasn’t the light.

It was the rumble of an old truck engine.

And Joel Miller, leaning against the driver’s side, one boot hooked over the other, arms folded across his chest like he’d been there a while. The hat you wore last night still sat snug on your head, shielding your eyes—but you didn’t miss the way his gaze moved over you. Not hungrily. Not like the men who looked too long at gas stations. It was measured. Careful. A quiet, burning kind of look.

“Hey,” he said simply. “Was just about to knock.”

You blinked. A full second passed before your body remembered how to move.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

He pushed off the truck, that easy gait of his moving him toward you. He looked good—too good for a morning this fucked. Flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, jeans dusty, the lines of sleep still soft in the corners of his eyes.

“Asked around town,” he said. “Figured if I didn’t find you, I’d spend the day wonderin’ if you were real or somethin’ I dreamed up.”

Your mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

He asked for you around the town. Motherfucker.

“You borrow this too?” you asked, nodding to the truck.

Joel gave a low chuckle.

“Yeah. Tommy’s. He’s still drunk from last night. Won’t notice it’s gone ‘til it’s too late.”

The screen door behind you groaned. You didn’t look back. Joel’s eyes flicked to the sound but didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. He’d seen enough.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low now, serious.

You lifted your chin.

“I will be when we’re not standin’ in this goddamn driveway.”

Joel held your gaze for a moment, then stepped back and opened the passenger side door.

“Then get in.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You climbed in, tossing your bag in first. As you slammed the door shut, the house behind you might as well’ve been a hundred miles away. Joel circled the front of the truck, climbing in behind the wheel, the engine growling to life.

The silence between you settled soft. Heavy.

After a minute, Joel glanced over, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gear shift.

“You don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Good,” you said quickly, cutting him off. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But thanks.”

He nodded. Eyes back on the road.

The truck pulled onto the gravel road, dust trailing behind you like smoke. Ahead, the fairgrounds waited. The noise. The lights. And Joel—Joel wasn’t looking back.

Neither were you.

The truck rolled down the long stretch of two-lane road, the kind that cut through fields and dust like it had nowhere important to be—but today, it had you. The open windows let the wind snake through, lifting strands of your hair, tugging at the brim of Joel’s hat still perched on your head. The same one he’d let you keep the night before.

Your arms were folded tight across your chest, your body turned slightly toward the window, jaw clenched like it had been all morning. That fight still clung to you, like smoke that wouldn’t wash off. Joel didn’t press. He didn’t say a damn thing about the bruised look behind your eyes. But he saw it.

And after a few miles of silence, he decided he’d had enough of it.

“Y’know,” he said, voice easy, drawl thick and smooth, “if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you leave the house wearin’ that skirt either.”

Your head snapped toward him.

He was smirking now, eyes still on the road, like he hadn’t just thrown a match into dry grass.

Your brow arched, mouth twitching like you wanted to be mad—but couldn’t quite stop the smile threatening to crawl across your face.

“You flirt with every girl you pick up outside their daddy’s house, or am I just special?”

Joel let out a low chuckle, one hand drumming against the steering wheel. You saw the way his eyes cut toward you—amused, admiring.

“Nah. You’re special. I don’t chase girls who bite back. Usually I like ‘em soft.”

“And I’m not soft?”

“Not even a little,” he said, slow and glancing at you again, grin spreading wider. “You’re sugar-coated mean, darlin’. All that sweetness up front, but underneath? Ain’t nobody taming you.”

You looked out the window, but the smile finally cracked through. It started small—just the corner of your mouth—but Joel caught it.

“There she is,” he said, real quiet. Like the sound of that smile meant more to him than the rest of the damn day.

You shook your head, huffed a laugh.

“You got a bad habit of knowin’ exactly what to say.”

“No, I just pay attention.”

He reached over, real casual, and brushed his fingers just once against your thigh—low and slow. Not grabby. Not pushy. Just a reminder he was there.

The rodeo grounds were coming into view up ahead. Flags flapping in the breeze, trailers lined up like soldiers, the dust already rising from boots and hooves.

But in that truck, in that moment, there wasn’t any noise. Just the sound of your quiet laughter returning. The faint blush on your cheeks you didn’t bother hiding.

Joel smiled too, his hand slipping back to the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s better.”

The rodeo grounds came into focus like a scene from some dusty postcard—trucks lined along the fields, folding chairs popped open under shade tents, the air buzzing with the low drone of generators, country music bleeding from too many speakers at once. Dust rose in lazy spirals with every step of a boot.

Joel swung the truck into a gravel lot behind the competitor trailers. The second he threw it in park and stepped out, it was like blood hit the water.

She spotted him fast—a blonde, tan like leather, long legs poured into skin-tight jeans, with lips glossed up and ready to be kissed. One of those rodeo girls who knew exactly what her hips could do when she walked, and she walked straight up to Joel before you had a chance to even get out of the passenger side.

“Well look who showed up early,” she purred, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she looked him up and down. “Joel Miller, back again. Still makin’ bulls look tame and hearts look breakable.”

You rolled your eyes. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

Joel stood easy, relaxed in the heat, arms hanging loose at his sides—but you saw the shift in his eyes. He glanced at you through the windshield. Then back at the woman.

“’Preciate the compliment,” he said, voice even. Then, casual as anything: “But I’m here with my girl.”

You blinked. What?

The woman cocked her head, all that sugar in her smile suddenly turning brittle.

“Oh?”

Joel turned then, motioning toward the truck. His eyes met yours through the open door—steady, warm, the barest flicker of something smug just behind them.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s the one wearin’ my hat.”

Your heart did a dumb little flip before you could strangle it.

You stepped out slowly, making sure your boot hit the gravel just loud enough to announce your entrance. You didn’t strut—but you didn’t hurry, either. The sun caught the edge of your bare legs, skirt riding dangerously high as you adjusted the hat slightly, just to drive it home.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your tone mild, but your eyes were sharp when you looked at the woman.

The blonde gave a little smirk, the kind that meant she was chewing on jealousy but didn’t want to choke in public.

“Didn’t know Joel had a type.”

“He didn’t,” you said, stepping up beside him. “I’m the exception.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, then reached out and rested his hand low on your back—real easy, real sure.

The other woman’s smile twitched, brittle and breaking. She gave a tight shrug, turned on her heel with a swish of hair and attitude, and stalked back toward the trailers.

As soon as she was gone, you tilted your head toward him, lips curving.

“Your girl, huh?”

Joel looked down at you, eyes dark and amused.

“Would’ve said it earlier, but figured I’d ease you into it.”

You snorted, looking away before he could see the way that heat was crawling up your neck.

“You’re real full of yourself, cowboy.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning in just enough to murmur it against the brim of his hat on your head, “just full’a good taste.”

And with that, he stepped around you, grabbing his gear from the back of the truck like he hadn’t just branded you with two words in front of half the damn rodeo.

But that hand on your back? That lingered.

And so did the grin on your lips.

The rodeo grounds buzzed with noise and heat—riders tightening ropes, bulls kicking up dust in their pens, announcers testing mics with long drawls echoing from the PA. Joel slung his duffel over one shoulder, the weight of it resting against his thick frame like it belonged there. He was already shifting into game-face mode—less flirt, more steel. Focused.

You could see it in the way his jaw set, his shoulders squared. All that swagger he wore like a second skin turned just a little more serious.

“I gotta get over to the prep stalls,” he said, jerking his chin toward the far end of the arena where the riders gathered behind the chutes. “Get my gear set, check the draw. You good gettin’ to the stands?”

“The what?” you asked, squinting.

“The grandstands,” he said, half-smiling. “Where my folks watch. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He reached for your hand without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, his fingers curling around yours as he led you through the maze of trailers, hay bales, and riders hollering across the dirt.

The grandstands loomed up ahead—metal bleachers already packed with people in cowboy hats and sunburns, waving programs and drinking from sweaty cups. Joel brought you right up to the fence that divided the crowd from the arena, then turned to face you.

“You sit right up there, center row,” he said, nodding to a spot with the best view of the chutes. “Ain’t hard to find. I’ll be able to see you from the ring.”

You looked up toward the seats, then back at him. His face was in shadow from the sun behind him, but his eyes were clear. Focused. Present.

The air between you turned still for a moment. The sound of everything else—boots stomping, bulls bellowing, distant country music—faded to a dull thrum behind your ribs.

You stepped close.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Joel looked down at you, brows raised.

And then, without asking, you reached up and kissed him.

Not shy. Not sweet. Sure.

Your hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the collar of his flannel as your lips met his—warm, firm, and steady. Not long. Not sloppy. But full of a promise. You tasted dust and leather and beer and him.

When you pulled back, his eyes hadn’t moved. They stayed locked on yours, quiet heat in every inch of that gaze.

“For luck,” you said, voice low.

He huffed a breath through his nose—half-laugh, half-growl—and smirked.

“If I ride that bull clean, it’s ‘cause of that damn kiss.”

You turned toward the stands, boots clicking against the wood as you climbed the steps. Halfway up, you looked back.

Joel was still watching you.

And even from that distance, you could see it:

That kiss wasn’t leaving his mind anytime soon.

The crowd was already humming before his name was even called.

You sat center row just like he told you, legs crossed, elbows resting on your knees, heart thudding faster than it had any right to. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the arena, and the dust in the air glittered like gold as the announcer’s voice rang out over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, next up—hold on to your goddamn hats—we got Joel Miller comin’ to the ring!”

The crowd erupted, a swell of hoots and whistles and stomping boots. You didn’t cheer—not yet. You just leaned forward, fingers curling around the edge of the metal seat as the chute gate creaked open and there he was.

Joel.

Mounted on the back of a bull that looked like it was forged in hell—massive, muscles twitching, eyes wild. But Joel sat like stone. Perfect form, one hand in the rope, the other lifted, loose but ready. His legs locked, his core tight. He looked like a man about to go to war with something ancient.

And then the gate blew open.

The bull burst into the ring like a living explosion, hooves slamming the dirt, muscles bucking in furious rhythm. But Joel didn’t falter. Not once. His body moved with the beast like he wasn’t fighting it—like he’d become part of it. The crowd screamed as the seconds counted down, the announcer barking into the mic, but none of that reached you.

You didn’t hear a damn thing.

You just watched him ride.

Eight seconds. Clean. Sharp. Perfect.

When the buzzer sounded, he threw himself off in a practiced dismount, landing heavy in the dirt but already rising again like gravity didn’t matter. The bull stormed off, wrangled by the pickup men, but your eyes were only on Joel.

He looked up toward the stands.

Right at you.

And then, grinning like the devil just gave him permission to sin, he jogged toward the fence—straight across the arena, brushing off the dirt clinging to his shirt and jeans. The crowd was still cheering, but it thinned around you as he stopped right below the railing where you sat.

“Well?” he called up, breathless, chest heaving. “You see that ride?”

You leaned down toward him, your face only a few inches from his. The brim of his hat still sat low over your brow.

“Told you it was the kiss.”

Joel reached up and gripped the top rail of the fence, hoisting himself halfway up with one powerful pull. He was still covered in dust, shirt damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead.

“Think I earned another one,” he said, low and rough.

You didn’t make him ask twice.

You leaned in and kissed him right there in front of everyone—hot, full, lips pressed to his like you weren’t in the middle of a cheering stadium. His hand came up, strong and warm on the side of your neck, keeping you there just long enough to turn heads and raise eyebrows.

When you finally pulled away, your mouth tingling, breath caught in your chest, Joel grinned.

“Told you I’d ride clean.”

“Told you,” you whispered, “you had to earn me.”

His eyes narrowed, smirk curling wider.

“Think I’m startin’ to.”

And with that, he dropped back down into the arena dirt, tipping his head once as he turned and walked off—leaving behind a roar of noise, a cloud of dust, and you, heart pounding, smile wide, and lips still tingling with his.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, barely cutting above the thundering crowd:

“And with a score of 92.7, your winner tonight—Joel Miller!”

The stands erupted, boots stomping against metal bleachers, hats flying into the air, people slapping each other’s backs and hollering like they’d all known him forever. You didn’t holler, though. You just smiled—slow and sure—watching him stand there in the dirt, backlit by the last lick of sunlight, dust curling around his boots like smoke around a flame.

He didn’t milk it. He wasn’t the type to throw his arms in the air or shout victory.

He just looked up toward the grandstands. Toward you.

And that was louder than anything else.

Later, after the arena started to clear out, after he shook a dozen hands and signed a few shirts for sweaty, wide-eyed kids, Joel found you again. You were leaning against the side of his borrowed truck, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing on your lips.

“So,” you said, “gonna ride off into the sunset or what?”

He snorted, grabbing a bottle of water from the backseat and downing half of it in one go.

“Sunset can wait. My back’s soaked through and I’m covered in three layers of dirt and pride.”

You quirked a brow. “What’s your plan then?”

“Trailer,” he said simply. “Gotta get outta these clothes before they stick to my ribs.”

He paused. Looked at you. “C’mon. Ain’t askin’ for anything. Just… I don’t feel like goin’ back there by myself.”

That last part was quieter. Almost under his breath. And it hit a little deeper than you expected.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just pushed off the truck and nodded.

“Alright, cowboy. Lead the way.”

The walk back was quiet, the noise of the rodeo fading behind you like a dying song. The trailers sat in a crescent under strings of yellow lights, buzzing soft with mosquitoes and late-night air. His was toward the end, the same beat-up metal box you remembered from the night before.

He opened the door and stepped inside first, shrugging off his gear and tossing his gloves onto the counter. You followed him in, the door clicking shut behind you.

Inside, it was quiet and warm. The smell of leather and sweat thick in the air, mixed with something softer now—something like soap and the faint echo of cologne on his clothes.

Joel peeled his shirt off with a grunt, the cotton sticking to his back before finally sliding free. His skin glistened, damp with sweat, the muscles in his back catching the low lamplight as he tossed the shirt aside. You watched him without shame, eyes tracing the curve of his spine, the faded scars that whispered stories you hadn’t heard yet.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna do anything,” he said without turning, voice low, rough. “But hell, if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”

You smirked, stepping closer just enough to grab the water bottle he’d left on the counter. You brushed past him, cool plastic trailing his bare side.

“Didn’t say I didn’t want to look,” you said lightly.

He turned then, a towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling slow.

“You want me to step out while you clean up?” you asked, though your voice wasn’t exactly eager to leave.

Joel shook his head.

“You stay.”

And so you did.

You sat at the edge of the bed while he toweled off, pulling clean clothes from the little cabinet above the sink. A fresh shirt, soft with wear. Loose sweats that clung to his hips in the right ways. No tension. No pressure. Just quiet.

He didn’t try to impress you now. He didn’t need to.

He just let you be there.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else could’ve been.

The trailer filled with the soft, rhythmic hiss of running water—the kind of sound that drowned out everything else, muffling the world to a low, warm hum. You sat on the small bench by the narrow bed, one leg crossed over the other, his hat still resting comfortably on your head, tilted just low enough to shade your eyes.

Joel had disappeared behind the thin sliding door at the back of the trailer, the space where the cramped little shower was hidden—barely big enough for a man his size to move in without bumping an elbow or two. You heard the low creak of the faucet handle, the thunk of something (probably his elbow) knocking into the wall, and then the sound of water hitting skin.

The image came easy—him, head bowed under the spray, steam curling around thick shoulders, water gliding down the ridges of his back, dripping over the curve of his spine, soaking into the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. You didn’t try to fight the heat curling low in your belly.

But still, you stayed put.

Mostly.

You glanced at the wall separating you from him, lips twitching as the water shut off with a sharp squeak. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open again.

And there he was.

Joel stepped out, steam rolling into the trailer behind him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. A single white towel was slung low around his hips, barely knotted, just enough to keep from slipping—though not by much. Droplets still clung to his chest, trailing down the defined lines of muscle, soaking into the towel’s edge. His hair was damp, darker with water, a few strands clinging to his temples. His jaw was freshly scrubbed but shadowed, that permanent 5 o’clock scruff giving him a wild, worn edge.

You didn’t look away.

Not even close.

He caught your gaze instantly. And for a moment, he just stood there, towel hanging on his hips, heat lingering on his skin—and something darker sparking behind his eyes.

“You enjoyin’ the view, or should I come back out with jeans on?” he asked, voice low, a teasing rasp undercutting the question.

You tilted your head, slow smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back on your hands, legs still crossed.

“Depends. You plan on droppin’ that towel anytime soon?”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he moved toward the little drawer near the bed, pulling it open and grabbing a pair of soft, well-worn gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered, not even trying to hide the grin.

“So I’ve been told,” you said lightly, watching as he turned just slightly—just enough for the towel to shift low, low enough to flash a dangerous line of hip, the kind of line that invited sin and poor decisions.

You bit your bottom lip and looked away finally—just long enough to breathe.

He noticed.

“Ain’t doin’ it to tease,” he said behind you, voice quiet but rough. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

You looked back at him. Really looked.

The towel still hung in place, barely. His eyes, though? They weren’t pushing. Not hungry. Not leering. Just watching you like he wanted to be seen, like it didn’t bother him if you looked—so long as you were the one lookin’.

You stood slowly, walking past him to grab the water bottle you’d left on the counter, brushing close enough to feel his damp heat radiating off his skin.

“I don’t mind,” you said, voice soft but pointed. “But you already knew that.”

Joel didn’t move. Just let you pass. But when you turned back, he was still watching you with that low-burning, steady heat.

He didn’t need to touch you to make you feel it.

And even when he turned to pull on his clothes, that damn towel still clinging for its final seconds—your eyes followed.

You weren’t in a rush to look away again.

Joel pulled the soft black T-shirt down over his head, the fabric clinging for a moment before settling across his broad chest. He scrubbed the towel through his damp hair, chest still faintly damp, his scent filling the narrow trailer—soap, skin, something deep and warm that made the air feel heavier.

You sat again, this time perched casually on the edge of the little bench, watching him with that same half-smile playing on your lips. You weren’t trying to be subtle, and he wasn’t pretending not to notice.

As he tucked the last of his things back into his bag, Joel glanced your way.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “You dragged me to the grandstands, into a kiss, and halfway to hell with that look you keep givin’ me. Think it’s only fair I let you pick where we go next.”

You tilted your head, expression thoughtful now. The playfulness dulled just a little as something softer crept into your gaze. Not shy. Just real.

“There’s a place,” you said. “Bit of a drive.”

Joel raised a brow, one arm hooking around the back of his neck as he leaned against the counter, waiting.

“There’s a lake. Little ways outside town, tucked in the woods off the back roads. Ain’t many people know about it. My mom used to take me out there sometimes. After she left…” you hesitated for a moment. “I started goin’ there alone. Just to breathe.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. Just nodded, slow, understanding etched in the hard lines around his mouth.

“Sounds like the right kind of place.”

“It is,” you said, eyes flicking up to meet his again. “I don’t usually bring people there.”

He stepped closer, one hand resting easy on the edge of the counter beside you.

“You don’t usually do a lot of things you’re doin’ lately, huh?”

Your lips curled slightly, and you gave a slow shrug.

“Guess you’re the exception too.”

That earned a real smile from him, wide enough to show the edges of his teeth.

“Alright then,” he said. “Show me this lake.”

You nodded, standing again as he grabbed the keys off the hook near the trailer door.

“You drive,” you said as you passed him, brushing your shoulder just slightly against his chest. “But you better not bitch about the roads. They get rough near the trail.”

Joel opened the door with a huff of amusement.

“Darlin’, you think I’m scared of a little dirt road after ridin’ a thousand pounds of pissed-off bull?”

You glanced back at him as you stepped into the cooling evening, boots hitting the grass with that same lazy sway in your stride.

“Fair. But just wait. This place don’t like to be found easy.”

Joel grinned as he followed you out, locking up the trailer behind him.

“Neither do you.”

And with that, the two of you disappeared into the slow-falling dark, headed down a road most people wouldn’t bother finding… but Joel Miller was already the kind of man who chased what others couldn’t hold on to.

The drive took a while—long enough for the heat between you two to settle into something slow and comfortable, like sun-warmed honey. The roads had narrowed into little more than dirt paths wound through tall trees, the kind that curved and dipped like the woods themselves were trying to hide something.

And then the lake appeared.

It wasn’t big, not something you’d find on a map with a name and a dock and a rules sign hammered into the ground. Just a deep stretch of water nestled quiet among the pines, still and shining under the blush of the setting sky. Fireflies already winked in the tall grass, and the air smelled like earth, summer, and something faintly sweet.

Joel killed the engine.

You slid out first, stepping onto the wild grass barefoot now, your boots left in the truck. The hat—his hat—still sat on your head, tilted at an angle that made your eyes almost smug beneath the brim.

He followed slower, still moving like a man who expected the ground to shift beneath him at any second, always carrying tension in his shoulders. But when he looked around—at the water, the trees, you—some of that weight seemed to roll off him.

“Well,” he muttered, “hell. You weren’t lyin’. Place is damn near perfect.”

“I don’t lie, Joel. I just don’t share easy.”

You dropped into the grass with a soft oof, stretching out on your side before propping yourself up on an elbow. Joel eased down beside you, one leg outstretched, the other bent just enough for balance. His arms rested behind him as he leaned back, eyes on the water.

For a long second, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward. Just… settled.

Then you spoke.

“So,” you said, voice a little softer than your usual sass. “Tell me somethin’. What made you wanna travel the country to get thrown around by angry livestock for a livin’?”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep in his chest.

“You make it sound like I’m out here tryin’ to get killed for fun.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Nah. I’m just too damn stubborn to do somethin’ safe.”

You raised a brow.

“That’s the whole reason?”

Joel shifted, pulled a blade of grass from the ground and started to twist it between his fingers.

“Nah… My brother and I, we grew up rough. Ranch work, every kinda odd job you can think of. When I was sixteen, this old guy down the road—real bastard, had a mouth like a belt sander—he paid me fifty bucks to ride a bull named Whiskey Jack ‘cause his regular guy didn’t show.”

“And you said yes?”

“Hell yeah. I needed gas money and I was dumb as rocks.”

You laughed, leaning into the side of his arm.

“So you just climbed on?”

“Didn’t even have the right boots. Slid right off that bastard after three seconds and nearly cracked my jaw on the chute rail. Thought I’d never do it again.”

“But?”

“But next week I was back. And I stayed on for five seconds. Then six. Then eight.”

You were grinning now, teeth catching your bottom lip.

“So, what—you just fell in love with the pain?”

Joel looked over at you, eyes dark but amused.

“No, sweetheart. I fell in love with the fight. The noise, the crowd, the way it all goes quiet when the gate opens. Nothin’ else exists in that moment but holdin’ on.”

You let that sit for a second, staring at him.

Then you smiled.

“You’re deeper than you look, Miller.”

He snorted.

“Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation to uphold.”

You scooted just a little closer, your bare leg brushing his denim-covered thigh.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Joel looked down at you, and for a moment, he didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just looked. Like maybe he’d found something even quieter than the inside of that ring.

“Thanks for bringin’ me here,” he said low. “Even if it’s just to make me spill my life story.”

You grinned, head tilted.

“I didn’t bring you here to talk, cowboy.”

Joel’s brow rose, interested. “No?”

“Nah. I brought you here so you’d shut up and let me admire how good you look in the moonlight.”

Joel laughed then—deep and warm—and leaned just a bit closer.

“Darlin’, you keep flirtin’ like that, I’m gonna forget we’re sittin’ next to a lake and not a motel bed.”

You batted your lashes, all mock-innocence.

“Who said anything about stoppin’ you?”

And just like that, the quiet between you turned electric again—laced with heat, with laughter, with something new simmering slow beneath it all.

And the lake just sat there, still and calm, reflecting back the kind of night you both weren’t ready to end.

The air had turned thick with silence again—but not the peaceful kind this time.

It was charged. Hot. The lake shimmered under the rising moonlight, pale and glass-still, but everything between you and Joel felt like it was rolling just under the surface, waiting to break.

You stared at him, really stared. His face softened in this light—less hardened cowboy, more man. His jaw was still shadowed, lips still curled in that half-damn smile, but his eyes had stopped playing games. They were locked on you. Watching you think.

And you’d thought long enough.

Your fingers brushed against his knee, light at first—then firmer, a glide up over the denim toward his thigh as you sat up, knees tucked beneath you in the grass. Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He was waiting.

And you didn’t ask.

You just leaned in and kissed him.

Hungry. Desperate. Like every look he’d thrown you today had carved away your patience until nothing was left but fire and need. Your lips crashed into his, full and open, tongue sliding against his in the kind of kiss that tasted like possession. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, fingers threading into the damp curls there, holding him close like you’d waited your whole goddamn life to finally stop holding back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, low and broken, his hand coming up to your waist, squeezing—firm, possessive, like he’d wanted to do it since the minute he saw you in that skirt. You didn’t give him room to talk, didn’t give him breath. You kissed him like you were trying to drag something out of him. Something real.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, your voice dark and breathless.

“I’m so fucking tired of pretendin’ I don’t want this right now.”

Joel’s chest rose hard beneath your hands, his breath hot as it hit your cheek.

“Then don’t pretend.”

You kissed him again—deeper. Slow but dirty, the kind of kiss that made the world tilt, made your thighs squeeze tight where you knelt in the grass. His hands slid up under your top, rough palms skimming hot skin, but he still held back. Still let you lead, like he knew you needed to.

You dragged your lips down to his jaw, kissed the scrape of stubble, bit lightly beneath his ear.

“You drive me crazy, Joel,” you breathed. “You look at me like you wanna ruin me… and then don’t.”

He laughed—dark and low, voice cracked.

“Don’t tempt me, sugar.”

“Who says I’m temptin’?” you murmured, dragging your teeth over his throat. “I’m beggin’.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and the sound of it settled deep in you. His hands clenched around your hips like he was fighting every damn instinct in his body.

And still… he didn’t pull you down. Didn’t flip you over. He just kissed you back like it meant something. Like he’d waited just as long to feel something real.

The grass was cool against your knees, but your body burned like fire beneath the moonlight. Joel lay back on his elbows, legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved low on his hips, chest rising with uneven breath as you settled between his thighs.

He was already hard—thick and heavy in your hand as you gripped him, your touch bold, unforgiving, like you weren’t here to tease anymore. No more pretending, no more playing soft. You wanted him wrecked—and he knew it.

Your lips hovered just over the head, and you let your breath hit him before your tongue did. He twitched at the heat of it, groaned low in his chest as your tongue flicked once—slow, deliberate—then again, dragging up the underside with purpose, tasting sweat, salt, skin.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, his head falling back, hand sliding into your hair. “You ain’t takin’ it slow tonight, huh?”

You looked up at him through the brim of his hat still perched on your head, eyes glinting, mouth curling just slightly around him.

“Don’t want slow,” you breathed, voice thick. “Want to feel you lose it.”

And then you sank down.

Your mouth took him deeper, stretching wide as your jaw opened around the weight of him. The sound was obscene—wet, eager, your spit mixing with every movement as you took him farther, one hand gripping the base, the other pressed to his thigh to keep him right there.

Joel’s groan was rough and sharp, pulled straight from his gut.

“God damn, girl—”

You didn’t stop. Your head bobbed, slow at first, then faster, your rhythm building with every low curse that slipped from his mouth. You wanted him undone, trembling, wrecked by the feel of your throat tightening around him, by the wet heat and the way your tongue curled under the tip just right.

You moaned around him, and the vibration made him jerk, his hips flexing before he grabbed the back of your head and groaned again—trying not to thrust, not to take control.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I swear—fuck—”

You held eye contact, never breaking it, your lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowing with effort and hunger. Spit dripped down your chin, shining in the moonlight, but you didn’t wipe it. You let it stay, let him see the mess you were making of yourself for him.

And he watched you—eyes blown wide, mouth parted, chest rising like he was already chasing the edge.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he growled, voice hoarse, fingers tightening in your hair. “You want me to come down your throat?”

You moaned again—louder. A yes without words, mouth full and greedy.

You could feel it in him—the tension, the twitch of his hips, the way his muscles coiled. He was close. You didn’t let up. You sucked harder, deeper, filthy sounds filling the still night around you.

Joel choked out a broken curse, his head falling back as his grip on your hair tightened.

And then he came.

Hard.

His body tensed, jaw clenched, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as you swallowed every bit of it, never pulling back, never breaking eye contact. You kept going until he twitched from overstimulation, until his thighs trembled beneath your palms.

Only then did you finally pull off—slow, messy, a string of spit and release still clinging to your lip.

You wiped it with the back of your hand, licking it off as you grinned.

“Told you,” you whispered, breathless. “I don’t do things halfway.”

Joel was wrecked—chest heaving, eyes dark, his voice barely a growl.

“Jesus… You just ruined me.”

“Good,” you whispered, crawling up to straddle his lap. “That was the plan.”

You were still straddling his lap, the curve of your thighs flush against his hips, your breath ragged, lips wet from where you’d ruined yourself on him. Joel’s chest rose slow beneath you, and he looked up at you like he hadn’t caught his breath yet.

But something had shifted in his gaze.

That control you took? He was about to take it back.

His hand slid up your bare thigh, slow, possessive—fingertips dragging just under the edge of your skirt. He didn’t ask. Didn’t check. He just looked at you, that rough kind of stillness settling over him. One hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lip.

“Open,” he said softly, and when you parted your mouth, he slipped his thumb in—watching you suck it, wet and slow, your eyes locked to his.

“Good girl.”

His voice dropped lower, a gravel drag through your spine.

Then both hands moved. One grabbed your waist, grounding you in place. The other dipped between your thighs, fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked cotton of your panties to the side.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “You’re drippin’, darlin’. You got that messy just from suckin’ me off?”

You couldn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Your body spoke for you—hips twitching at the first touch of his fingers sliding through your slick, teasing just outside where you needed him.

He leaned in, lips grazing your throat, the stubble on his jaw scraping your skin in the best kind of burn.

“Want you to ride somethin’ now,” he murmured. “And I ain’t talkin’ about my cock… not yet.”

His middle and ring fingers slid inside you—slow at first, deliberate, curling deep with that exact kind of pressure that made your spine arch. You gasped, thighs twitching around his wrist, and he grinned.

“There it is,” he whispered.

He didn’t move them yet. Just kept them buried in you, palm flat against you, thick fingers pulsing with subtle pressure—making you feel the stretch, the shape, the slow burn.

“Now ride.”

You met his eyes—your lips parted, chest heaving, legs trembling—and obeyed.

Your hips rolled down against his hand, grinding slow over his fingers, deeper, needier. Joel didn’t move them for you. He just let you do it, watched you work for it, mouth half-open, eyes burning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching the way you rocked on him. “Look at you, baby. Filthy little thing, makin’ yourself come on my fuckin’ hand.”

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingernails digging into muscle as you moved faster—moaning, riding the pressure, the angle of his palm hitting your clit just right with every roll of your hips. His fingers curled, and you cried out.

“That it?” he growled. “Right there?”

You nodded, desperate, lips trembling.

“Say it.”

“There—fuck, Joel, right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He kept his fingers steady, curling deep, his thumb pressing tight against your clit, grinding up into you as your rhythm turned frantic—your thighs shaking, body tensing, that release building sharp and fast, right under your skin.

“You gonna come for me?” he growled, lips at your ear now, voice tight. “Right on my fuckin’ hand like a good girl?”

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you hard—hips jerking, hands clutching him like a lifeline, your moan drawn-out, unrestrained, wrecked. Joel held you through it, didn’t pull his fingers out until your body trembled and your head fell against his shoulder, gasping for breath.

Slowly, so slowly, he slipped his fingers free—and brought them to his lips.

Sucked them clean, watching you the whole time.

“Tastes like trouble,” he said, voice hoarse. “Think I’m startin’ to like it.”

You laughed against his neck, dizzy and full of heat, your voice wrecked.

“You haven’t even seen half of what I can do.”

Joel smirked.

“Then don’t stop now.”

The lake shimmered in the dark like a secret, moonlight sliding across its still surface, broken only by the occasional flick of a bug or ripple of wind. Joel sat back in the grass, legs stretched, fingers flexing in the leftover heat of you still pulsing down his hand. His shirt clung slightly to his chest where your body had leaned against him, his breath still ragged, pupils still blown.

You leaned back, breath shallow, looking over your shoulder toward the water. The corners of your mouth curled like you were about to say something wicked.

“I wanna swim.”

Joel raised a brow, still catching up. “Now?”

“Mmhm.” You slowly pulled the hat from your head and set it on his chest. “You stayin’ here, cowboy, or you comin’ in?”

But you weren’t waiting for an answer.

You stood, legs shaky but defiant, skirt still hitched high from where he’d had his fingers buried in you. Your shirt clung to your back, your thighs gleamed in the moonlight, and you walked toward the edge of the lake like it owed you something.

And then—slow, deliberate—you grabbed the hem of your top.

Joel sat forward.

You peeled the shirt off, over your head, dropping it in the grass without looking back. No bra. Just bare skin kissed by the moon, your back arched slightly, your hands slipping down to the waistband of your skirt.

You pushed it down slow. Tantalizing. Unashamed. The cotton panties followed, dragged down over your hips and thighs until you stood at the lake’s edge completely naked, moonlight painting every inch of you in soft silver and shadow.

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes gleaming with something half-feral, half-mocking.

Calling him again, but silently.

Joel was frozen for a second. Just a second. Then he stood, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your body. The shirt was off in one pull. The sweats dropped low. But you were already stepping into the water—hips swaying, the cold making your nipples stiffen, your breath hitch just enough to make him twitch with want.

The lake swallowed you, one step at a time, until the water came to your breasts. You turned, hands skimming the surface, watching him through heavy lashes.

“You gonna keep starin’,” you said, voice low, sultry, “or you finally gonna come in here and do somethin’ about it?”

Joel’s voice was thick, hoarse.

“You keep undressin’ like that in front of me, girl, I ain’t gonna be doin’ a damn bit of swimmin’.”

You gave a dark little laugh, then waded deeper—slowly, deliberately, until you dove under and came up slick with water, your hair darkened and clinging, your body gleaming wet in the moonlight.

You looked like sin. Wild. Untouchable.

Joel stepped into the water, muscles coiled, hands flexing like he wanted to grab you the moment he got close enough. The chill made his breath catch, but his focus never broke—he was locked onto you like a predator scenting blood in the water.

You swam backward, just out of reach, teasing.

“You look like you’re thinkin’ real hard, Miller.”

“Tryin’ to decide if I wanna drag you under or pin you against that rock right there.”

“Who says you can’t do both?”

His eyes darkened further. Your body ached from the inside out—not just from what he’d done, but from what you knew was coming next.

Joel was in front of you now, chest heaving. He reached out, grabbed your waist under the water, and pulled you flush to him with one sharp motion.

Skin on skin. Wet. Hot.

Your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, and you grinned, wicked and wild.

“Told you I don’t share my lake,” you whispered, mouth against his jaw. “But maybe I’ll make an exception… just this once.”

Joel growled low in his throat, lips finding your neck, his hands gripping your ass beneath the water, dragging your hips tight against the hard length of him pressing into your stomach.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

“Then die slow,” you breathed, biting his earlobe.

And just like that—the lake stopped being peaceful.

It became a battlefield.

And you were already winning.

The water wrapped around you both like silk—cool, dark, quiet—but the heat between you was anything but. Joel’s hands were tight on your waist, holding you against him, your bare chest pressed to his, soaked skin sliding on soaked skin, every breath shared, every heartbeat tangled.

You were weightless in the water, legs around his hips, the hard length of him pinned tight between your bodies. And your mouth—god, your mouth—was all over his.

You kissed him like a storm. Not sweet. Not slow. Your lips crushed against his with the hunger of someone who���d waited too long, wanted too hard. His beard scraped your chin, his tongue met yours in deep, messy strokes, and the water sloshed around you as your bodies moved, tangled, greedy.

Joel groaned against your mouth, one hand slipping down to your ass, squeezing hard again, grinding you against him, while the other cradled the back of your head, keeping your mouth right there, right where he wanted you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled between kisses. “You don’t stop, I ain’t gonna last.”

You smiled into him—wet and smug—then leaned back just enough to see his face. Moonlight cast silver across his cheeks, but his eyes were pure black heat. You dipped one hand between your bodies, under the water.

He gasped—sharp—as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Then don’t stop me.”

Your grip was sure, smooth beneath the surface, the water letting your hand glide effortlessly along the hard length of him. You stroked him slow, tight, then faster, just to feel the twitch in his thighs, the catch in his breath. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, groaning like he was pained by how good it felt.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice rough in your ear. “You do that again and I’m takin’ you right here in this fuckin’ lake.”

“Thought that was the idea.”

Your hand pumped him harder now, teasing your thumb over the head, squeezing just enough to make his hips stutter in the water. His breath hitched again—sharp, torn from him—and his hands tightened on your waist, fingers bruising as he fought for control.

“You tryna make me lose it, sugar?”

You leaned in, bit his lower lip, then whispered against his mouth:

“I wanna watch you lose it.”

And you kept stroking—relentless, greedy, your own body rocking slightly with the water, breasts pressed to his chest, your core aching against his stomach. You felt the tension coil in him, deep in his abdomen, his thighs starting to tremble under the pressure of holding back.

He kissed you again—hard—like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, like if he let go of your mouth he’d lose himself completely.

And with your hand wrapped around him under the water, you were in control now.

“You close?” you whispered, lips brushing his.

“So close,” he growled, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching under your hand.

You stroked him harder, faster, water slapping softly between your bodies.

“Then give it to me,” you whispered, voice dark, low. “I want it, Joel. Right here.”

The lake no longer felt like water—it felt like heat, like tension about to snap.

Joel snapped.

In a flash, his hand was in your hair, fisting it, dragging your head back with a sharp yank that forced a gasp from your lips. His other arm scooped under your thighs, lifting you in the water like you weighed nothing. He slammed your back against the nearest slick rock jutting from the waterline, your legs still wrapped tight around him.

“You want it?” he hissed against your mouth, hot breath sliding down your throat. “You want it that filthy, that rough? Right here in the fuckin’ lake where anyone could see?”

You nodded, panting, eyes wide, lips parted—shaking and ready.

“Do it, Joel. Take me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, gripped your thigh and yanked it higher, opening you wider as he thrust forward and buried himself in one brutal, claiming push. You cried out—loud, no shame, no restraint. He didn’t wait for your body to adjust—he knew what you wanted.

And he gave it to you.

Hard.

The water slapped against your bodies with every savage roll of his hips, his chest flush against yours, teeth gritted as he fucked into you like he’d been starving. You were already raw, already oversensitive from grinding on his fingers, but now—

His hand stayed tangled in your hair, pulling, keeping your throat exposed while his mouth marked your skin with open, wet kisses and bites that bordered on bruises. You dug your nails into his back, clawing at him as your legs locked around his waist.

“Look at you,” he snarled, voice all gravel and sweat. “So fuckin’ pretty… cryin’ on my cock, beggin’ me like it’s the last thing you’ll ever feel—”

“F-fuck, Joel—yes—yes, I want it like this—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He slammed into you harder, each thrust driving a helpless sound out of your throat, your voice turning ragged as your body shook against the rock.

“You feel that?” he growled in your ear. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Yours, Joel. Fuck— don’t let me go—”

His rhythm broke, hips faltering, hand moving from your hair to your jaw, gripping your face as he kissed you—devoured you—growling low in his throat like a man unhinged.

“You come with me, baby,” he hissed. “You feel me come inside you—say my fuckin’ name—say it—”

“Joel,” you cried, shaking. “Joel, fuck, I’m—”

You came hard, clenching around him, body arching off the rock as the wave of it hit, loud, messy, feral. Joel followed with a grunt that turned into a half-roar, slamming deep as he spilled inside you, holding your hips tight, driving himself as far as you could take him—like he wanted to leave a mark.

The lake rocked around you, quiet now but for the sounds of panting, the water lapping gently against the shore.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t speak.

Just held you there in the moonlight, still trembling against him, your lips against his throat, your body wrecked and soaking and satisfied.

“Holy fuck,” he finally whispered, voice rough as sandpaper.

And he kissed you again.

Your bodies stayed locked in the water—his chest heaving against yours, arms still tight around your waist, your thighs wrapped snug at his hips. The night air clung heavy to your wet skin, steam rising between the heat of your breath and the chill of the lake. Moonlight danced on the rippling surface, but beneath it, the tension didn’t fade.

Joel was still inside you. Softening slowly. The aftermath of that raw, ruthless high pulsed through both of you—but you weren’t satisfied. Not really.

Not yet.

He leaned his forehead to your shoulder, chuckling low, exhausted.

“Jesus… I need a fuckin’ minute.”

You smiled, wicked and wet, dragging your fingers through his curls as you whispered close to his ear.

“You’re not gettin’ one.”

“Sugar,” he huffed, voice ragged and rough. “I just emptied every damn drop I had in me.”

You rocked your hips once. Just enough. Felt the stretch of him still inside, not ready… but not unwilling.

“You didn’t pull out,” you murmured, rolling again, slower this time. “You’re still in me. That means I can go on.”

Joel groaned. One of those deep, broken sounds, like your words physically hurt.

“You’re evil.”

“No,” you breathed, biting down on his jaw, “I’m needy.”

You gripped his shoulders and started to move.

Slow.

The water cushioned you, made everything slicker, smoother. His cock wasn’t hard—yet—but it was there, thick and sensitive, twitching with every shift of your hips. You moved carefully, deliberately, grinding yourself against him with slow rolls, feeling him start to twitch, to grow again.

He hissed between his teeth, hands flying to your waist.

You moaned, soft but sharp, mouth right at his ear.

You kissed him—open, messy—tongue sliding against his as your hips kept rocking. The water sloshed between you. You felt him hardening again inside you, inch by inch, your body coaxing him back from that edge of spent exhaustion into something new.

Joel cursed into your mouth, bucked his hips once in reflex. His fingers dug into your ass now, squeezing.

“Goddamn, girl. You ain’t human.”

You laughed—a low, breathy sound against his cheek—and sat up straighter on his lap, water dripping down your chest, your back arching as you ground down harder, the tip of him brushing deep inside.

“Not right now,” you whispered. “Right now I’m just a hole wrapped around your cock.”

His hands snapped to your hips.

And his breath caught like he was ready to burn again.

The water rocked around your bodies, small waves rippling out into the darkness as you rode him—slow, deep, relentless.

Joel leaned back against the rock, lips parted, eyes glassy and dazed as he watched you above him. His hands stayed on your hips, fingers slipping on your soaked skin, but his grip was loose now. Weak.

You were in control.

And you wanted it that way.

He was hard again—not as thick, not as furious as before—but enough. Just enough. Enough for you to keep him inside, to grind down on him and take what you needed while he stared at you like you’d stolen every last thought from his head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna bleed me dry.”

You didn’t slow. You clenched around him harder, dragging your body in slow, punishing circles, the water rocking with your movement. Your hair clung to your cheeks, dripping onto his chest as you leaned down, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want every last drop.”

Your pace picked up, steady and deep, your thighs trembling now, knees digging into the smooth lake stone under the water. The friction of him inside you was maddening—your body raw from the first time, aching now, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You bounced harder, breathing faster, fingers clawing down his chest as you started to unravel again. Joel’s head fell back against the rock, neck exposed, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “So fuckin’ tight… baby, I can’t—can’t even move…”

“You don’t have to,” you panted, riding him now with broken rhythm, your voice shaking. “Just lay there. Let me come on your cock like it’s mine.”

His hips twitched, barely a thrust, more like a reflex—but it was enough. The extra push made you cry out, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your whole body tensing around him.

“Joel—fuck—I’m coming—”

And you did.

You collapsed against him, arms locked around his neck, your thighs shaking as you pulsed around him, drawing him in deeper, milking every inch. You buried your face in his throat, moaning into his skin, your whole body melting against him as the orgasm shook through you like a fever.

Joel didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

He just held you there—soft, drained, wrecked—his cock still buried in you, twitching weakly, his hands twitching where they gripped your ass.

You stayed like that, tangled and soaked in moonlight, floating half in the water, half in each other.

He finally exhaled, voice a ghost against your cheek.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

The lake was still as glass when you finally pulled yourself off of him—slowly, shakily, his cock slipping free with a quiet, spent twitch. Joel groaned low in his throat, head still tilted against the rock, arms splayed out in the water like he couldn’t remember how to move. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, fully wrecked. And you? You were trembling and grinning, your thighs sore, your skin tingling with the kind of heat that lingered long after the fire burned out.

“Stay there a while,” you murmured, breathless, voice tinged with a wicked edge. “You look real pretty like that.”

He gave a lazy half-laugh, half-growl as you turned away, water lapping at your waist as you waded back to shore. Every movement sent more water dripping down your bare skin—between your thighs, down the insides of your legs, slick and unmistakable.

You reached the grassy bank and stepped out, skin glistening in the moonlight. The wind kissed your body and made you shiver, but you didn’t flinch. You just walked with slow purpose across the soft grass to where your clothes lay strewn—discarded like old thoughts.

You picked up your panties first, still damp from before the lake even touched you. Slid them up over your thighs, pulling the soaked fabric snug between your legs, ignoring the slick mess beneath that still clung to you.

Then came the skirt.

It stuck to your wet skin, the denim heavy and damp as you shimmied it up your hips and fastened it. Your shirt followed, clinging to your chest as you pulled it over your head, your nipples pressing clearly against the cotton, soaked through.

No fixing your hair. No shame.

You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they’d been the storm that ruined a man and left him grateful for the wreckage.

You glanced back toward the water as you slid Joel’s hat back onto your head—tilted low, eyes shadowed, smirk curling your lips.

He was finally standing now, sluggishly dragging himself to the shore, water pouring down his body. Still bare. Still caught somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion. His eyes met yours—and lingered.

You held his gaze as you adjusted the skirt’s hem with two fingers, smoothing it over your hips.

“You comin’?” you asked, voice sweet as sin.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.

“Hurry up, cowboy. I wanna watch you die slow.”

And with that, you turned away from the lake, walking barefoot through the wet grass—clothed but still wild, soaked to the skin and grinning like a woman who knew exactly what kind of chaos she carried in her hips.

He followed.

The ride back was quiet—but not awkward. It was the kind of silence that came after something intense, after bodies had been pushed past their limits and souls tugged just a little too close together.

You sat curled in the passenger seat, legs pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. The denim of your skirt was still damp, sticking to your thighs, your shirt clinging to the curve of your back. Your skin smelled like water, grass, and him. Joel’s hat was still on your head, pushed back slightly now, exposing the bruised swell of your lips and the mess he’d left in your expression.

He didn’t talk much. His hand rested on the top of the wheel, fingers drumming every now and then. His other was in his lap, tapping idly, like he had too many thoughts and not enough words. The headlights cut through the darkness in long silver beams, washing the trees in and out of view.

The town came into sight quicker than you expected—familiar signs, empty roads, cheap lights flickering over storefronts that shut hours ago.

And then your street.

He pulled up in front of your house without a word, engine idling.

You didn’t move to open the door.

Just sat there in the hush between you, watching his profile as he stared out the windshield, jaw tight again. The easy charm from earlier had slipped somewhere on the drive. All that slow, hungry mischief replaced now with something heavier.

You finally broke the silence, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“You stayin’ in town? Or was this all just a ride through?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t look at you.

“Nah,” he said eventually, low and blunt. “I’m movin’ on. Next stop’s Amarillo.”

You felt something in your chest shift—small and sharp.

You nodded slowly, turning to look out your own window now. The porch light buzzed, flickering faintly. You hated that sound.

“Figures,” you muttered. “You ride in, break the bull, break the girl, then disappear.”

Joel’s voice came rough beside you.

“That what you think this was?”

You looked back at him, your face unreadable.

“I don’t know what this was.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you now, eyes darker than before, not angry. Not sorry either.

Just honest.

“I don’t stay long, sugar,” he said, voice lower. “I don’t belong in one place. And I don’t drag people along when I go.”

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on your knees, watching the keys jingle slightly in the ignition.

“So that’s it?”

Joel shifted in his seat, glancing over at you again. His jaw flexed, lips parted like he wanted to say something else.

But he didn’t.

Just reached up, touched the brim of his hat still on your head—soft, a little trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep that. Somethin’ to remember the ride.”

You looked at him for a long second. And though you weren’t the crying type, something pulled tight in your throat. Not sadness.

Just… that ache that came when something good wasn’t meant to last.

You opened the door, boots hitting the gravel.

And as you stepped out, you didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t slam the door.

You just walked up the drive with his hat still on your head, knowing damn well he was watching you the whole way.

And in the silence behind you, the engine eventually rumbled low… and carried him away.

It had been twenty-six days. You’d counted—at first without meaning to, then because you couldn’t stop.

Twenty-six days since you felt his hands on your body.

Since he kissed you like he needed oxygen and you were the only air left in the world.

Since you rode him in a moonlit lake, shaking, soaked, and so wildly yourself it scared you now.

You told yourself it was just a passing thing. He was a drifter, a rider, a man made of dust and distance. Joel Miller didn’t stay. He warned you. And you weren’t the kind of girl who chased after someone who made it clear they wouldn’t look back.

But the hat still sat on your nightstand.

You hadn’t worn it since the night he left. It felt wrong, like it only had power when he put it on you. So it stayed there, untouched, a reminder you pretended not to look at every morning.

And then—on a Wednesday that felt like any other—you walked out the back door of the small diner you worked mornings at, still wearing your apron, the sky thick with heat and early sun, and you saw him.

Leaning against a familiar truck.

Same one. Same dented door.

He was wearing a soft gray shirt, jeans that looked road-worn, and boots with dust that didn’t belong to this town. His arms were crossed, and his eyes—those goddamn eyes—were already locked on you the second the screen door banged behind you.

You froze, one hand still gripping the door frame.

“You son of a bitch,” you whispered, heart slamming against your ribs.

Joel didn’t smile. Not yet. His face was unreadable, jaw clenched, tension in his shoulders. Like he’d driven through three states without breathing right. His voice when it came was low, tired, real.

“Couldn’t get you outta my fuckin’ head.”

Your throat closed up. Everything inside you twisted—heat and ache and something dangerous.

“You said you don’t stay. Said you don’t drag people along.”

“I don’t,” he said, stepping forward. “But I ain’t been the same since I left. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t ride right. Couldn’t even look at another girl without seein’ you in my lap, smilin’ like you owned the fuckin’ world.”

You blinked, breath shallow.

“So what, you here to pass through again? Get your fix, then disappear?”

Joel moved until he was right in front of you, towering, heat rolling off him in waves.

“I didn’t come back to fuck you.”

“No?”

“I came back ‘cause every mile I put between us felt like a mistake. And I don’t do regret. Never have. But you—” he exhaled hard, hands flexing at his sides, “—you got in me. Deep. And I ain’t runnin’ from it anymore.”

You stared at him. Your lip curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Took you long enough.”

Joel’s grin broke through finally—sharp, boyish, relieved.

“Still got that hat?”

“Sittin’ by my bed,” you said, stepping close enough for your voice to drop. “Right where I left it.”

He touched your cheek then. Rough hand, gentle grip.

And this time, when he kissed you?

It wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a beginning.

Joel’s lips were still on yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—barely an inch between your mouths. His thumb was brushing along your jaw, calloused, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe you were standing in front of him again. Like maybe he’d been dreaming you every night on some godforsaken highway, and now he was scared he’d blink and wake up alone again.

“I ain’t good with words,” he murmured, voice thick, low, “but I been drivin’ on autopilot for weeks, thinkin’ about your voice, your laugh, the way you look at me like you know what I’m gonna say before I say it.”

You didn’t move. Just let his words settle over your skin like a second heat.

“Thought if I got far enough, I’d stop thinkin’ about you,” he said. “But you got inside me like roots. Stuck.”

You tilted your head just slightly, teasing, though your voice shook under it.

“You here to tell me you love me, Miller?”

He huffed a dry laugh, but there was something raw under it.

“I don’t know what the hell this is. But I know I don’t want it without you.”

Then he looked at you fully, steady and real.

“Come with me.”

The words hit different. They weren’t casual. They weren’t a question tossed into the wind. They were solid. Heavy. And they landed deep.

Your breath caught, heart skipping once.

“You serious?”

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean,” he said. “It won’t be easy. Livin’ outta a truck half the time. Worn beds, bad food, long roads. I’m not a man who settles—but I’ll make space for you. I want you in my seat. Next to me. Laughin’, bitchin’, wearin’ my damn hat like you own it.”

He stepped even closer, hand curling around your waist.

“You ride with me, I won’t leave again. I’ll stay—wherever you are.”

You blinked once, swallowed hard.

Then you smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Certain.

“Drive me home. Gimme ten minutes to grab the hat and some clothes.”

Joel grinned like the tension finally broke.

“That’s my girl.”

And just like that, your world shifted again. Not by force. Not by fate.

By choice.

His.

And now yours.

[oh-clembo]

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the sette. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses that soaks into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

[oh-clembo]

Gingerwort truffle tea (Lucanis x Rook fanfiction)

Lucanis x Female Rook one-shot.

Summary: Lucanis can't help but feel jealous when Davrin takes Rook out for a picnic. He's not expecting Rook to come back high on an odd tea. Fluff and mutual pining but specially Lucanis, who's wrestling with his feelings and with Spite.

Lucanis pretended not to pay attention while Davrin and Rook got everything ready for their picnic in Arlathan. He’d learned about his plans when Davrin had come into the pantry to get some food for it, and Lucanis had been in a sour mood since then.

He had no reason or right to be upset and angry, but he couldn’t be logical about it. He was jealous, he knew it and he could admit it, but he also knew he had no right to feel that way. Rook wasn’t his partner. Sure, there’d been some flirting, he’d thought she might be interested in him, but they weren’t in a relationship.

And whose fault was that?

He’d cut short all of her attempts to get closer to him. Maybe he’d made her think he was not interested in her that way. Far from the truth, but it was for the best. He had too much going on and so did Rook, she had enough to deal with without adding the hazard that was Lucanis now. 

He had nothing to offer her, nothing but trouble, death and darkness.

He was an abomination and the shame of it burned bright. He had a demon inside him, that he couldn’t control, what if Spite took control of him when he was with Rook. The demon seemed to like Rook, oddly enough, to trust her even, or at least he was usually more at ease when she was around, but Lucanis didn’t want to risk it.

Spite was now far from calm, he too seemed upset at seeing Rook and Davrin. The shimmering anger of the demon was growing and growing to the point that Lucanis had to walk away, afraid that the Spite would take control over him.

“Rook. Is. Ours,” Spite yelled inside his head as he made his way back to the pantry, and Lucanis was glad to have walked away, in case Spite might have made him say something like that in front of Rook.

“She isn’t,” he replied to the upset demon.

And whose fault was that. 

That was his own voice and thought, not Spite’s. 

“She’s her own person and she can go out with whoever she wants, she has more friends.”

That wouldn’t change even if they were romantically involved, but still, Lucanis couldn’t shake the feeling that Davrin might think of the picnic as some sort of date, not a friendly hangout. 

Spite brisked at the thought…how could a demon be jealous? Maybe it wasn’t jealousy but something else, some odd demon ownership thing, or maybe the demon was just picking up on Lucanis’ feelings. Whatever it was, it was annoying and hard to control.

Lucanis set on making a big pot of coffee. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Spite’s upset emotions, on top of his own, with their barely controlled anger and stupid jealousy. At least he could try to drown Spite’s voice in his head and his own feelings with black coffee.

As time passed, Lucanis tried not to think about what Rook and Davrin might be doing on their perhaps-date. He drank coffee. Exercised and trained. Cleaned his gear. Drank more coffee.

He couldn’t even blame Davrin for setting up a date with Rook, if that’s what it was. She was brave, smart, courageous, kind… of course Davrin would want to date her. What was a wonder was why Rook’d seemed to be interested in Lucanis instead, but perhaps he’d ruined it.

He couldn’t blame Rook for maybe turning to Davrin now, for being interested in him. Lucanis had his differences and problems with him, but he could admit the warden was brave, charming, and attractive, like a damn romance novel character. No, he couldn’t blame Rook if she wanted Davrin instead.

His wings popped out, eyes flashing purple, at his and Spite’s combined and badly controlled jealousy. Lucanis rushed to make more coffee.

*

Later, Lucanis was pacing the hall of the Lighthouse's main building, a cup of black coffee in his hand, lying to himself saying he was not waiting to see if Davrin and Rook walked up from the Eluvian room.

Eventually, he heard their steps walking up the stairs, followed by Assan’s squeaks and Rook’s laughter. He usually loved that sound but it now sent a pang of dread to his belly. So, she’d enjoyed the maybe date…of course she had.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Davrin’s words turned the dread into angry jealousy. He had no right to be jealous and yet… Lucanis turned around to leave, trying to ignore the sight he caught of Davrin walking with his arm around a grinning Rook.

“Something. Is. Wrong,” Spite said in his head. “She smells…Funny.”

“Shut up.” Lucanis had no wish to hear how Rook smelt or if she might smell like Davrin.

“Hey, Lucanis, wait,” Davrin called after him when he opened the door, but Lucanis was decided to ignore him. “You know about poisons, right?” The odd question combined with Spite saying something was wrong made Lucanis stop and turn around to face them. “I might need you with Rook.”

Alarm bells began sounding in Lucanis’ mind, drowning even Spite’s agitation, as he rushed to them, looking at Rook. She was staring intently at Assan, before turning to grin at Lucanis with bright eyes…eyes too bright. She seemed unharmed, but also, Spite was right, something was off with her.

“She was poisoned?!” 

“I don’t think so?” Rook answered and…yes, something was off.

“She was not.” Davrin alternated between looking at Rook and Lucanis. “But I made gingerwort truffle tea with Emmrich’s recipe and I think it didn't sit well with Rook.”

Rook herself just booped Assan and giggled.

“You drugged her with mushroom tea?!” Lucanis snapped. He knew his reaction was ungranted, he knew Davrin would never do that, yet he couldn’t help it.

“I didn’t.” Davrin rolled his eyes, unimpressed by his reaction and his purple flashing eyes. “It’s just tea, an old recipe. Emmrich said it might have some magical properties…but I think Rook’s just high.” 

Davring had the gall to chuckle as he looked at Rook, and Lucanis felt more aggravated by it.

“I’m not high!” Rook protested. “I just can understand Assan’s language now, I don’t know why you can’t, you had the tea too.”

Davrin chuckled again while Lucanis looked at Rook, trying to wrap his head around what was going on, while trying to ignore and turn down Spite’s onslaught of questions regarding Rook, the tea, and if Lucanis could drink it too.

“Yeah? What’s Assan saying now?” Davrin asked.

“Nothing, but you just wait. Assan. Assan.” Rook called his name until Assan squawked and then she gasped. “See!” 

Davrin snorted and Lucanis glared at him, but at least Rook didn’t seem hurt or in danger.

“She’s high, not poisoned. Your fault, by the way,” Lucanis accused him. “What do you want of me?”

“I don’t know, some kind of crow remedy?” Davrin shrugged at Lucanis glaring. “I think she just needs to sleep it off.”

“Possibly,” Lucanis replied icily.

“Hear that, Rook, the poisoner crow agrees,” Davrin said as he turned to Rook, and Lucans tried to control his and Spite’s wish to stab him. Poison wasn’t even his specialty. Stabbing, though… “Why don’t you go get a nap?”

“Can I take Assan?” Rook answered.

“Sure, if he wants to.”

“Assan, come on!”

Rook walked upstairs and to her room, slightly uncoordinated, with Assan at her heels.

“You got her high,” Lucanis huffed when the door of Rook’s room closed.

“I didn’t plan to.” Davrin rolled his eyes. “It was just gingerwort tea, it’s safe, but Rook seems to be sensitive to it.”

“Who would even want to drink tea,” Lucanis retorted. He knew he was being silly yet he couldn’t help it.

“Me. And Rook. She likes tea, she told me so when we were drinking it,” Davrin said. “But she has mostly coffee because that’s what you make all the time.”

“Oh…”

So, Rook liked tea and he didn’t know it. He’d prided himself on knowing Rook’s favorite drink. He’d thought she enjoyed coffee too. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe she’d just been drinking it for his sake…

“Man, stop with the puppy eyes, it’s just coffee, you’re too attached to it.” Davrin laughed and Lucanis’ allegedly puppy-eyes turned purple and murderous as he glared at him, but Davrin seemed unimpressed. “Rook likes coffee too. Especially if you make it, she says it’s better then.”

“Rook…told you that?” Lucanis asked quietly, looking down.

“Yeah. She can’t shut up about you for more than an hour.” Davrin chuckled, but Lucanis thought he’d sounded just ever so slightly annoyed. 

Lucanis couldn’t blame him. If he planned a date with Rook and she would spend it talking about Davrin, he knew he’d be annoyed. Still, he couldn’t help how pleased he felt at Davrin’s words. When he looked at Davrin, though, he was smirking.

“I think it’s bullshit, though, I don’t think your coffee is anything special,” Davrin teased.

“Oh? Have Neve’s coffee and then come tell me,” Lucanis joked back.

“No, thanks.” Davrin chuckled. “I’m going to tell Emmrich about the tea, just in case.”

Lucanis nodded. “I’ll check on Rook.”

*

Lucanis walked into Rook’s room, carrying a tall glass of water, and he was greeted by the big, odd aquarium. It made him feel uneasy, reminded him of the Ossuary, and he tried to ignore it, looking at the couch. Rook sat down there, holding Assan’s head gently as she looked intently into the griffon’s eyes.

“Rook, are you alright?”

“I wish he said something besides worms,” Rook sighed longingly, letting go of Assan’s head.

“Here, drink this.” Lucanis handed her the glass of water.

“Not coffee?” Rook asked, and Lucanis felt a pleasant warmth as he remembered Davrin saying Rook liked the coffee more if Lucanis made it.

“Later. Now drink that.”

Rook nodded, drinking the water.

“The tea made me understand Assan…do you think it made me understand Manfred and Spite too?!” Rook looked at him wide-eyed and if Lucanis hadn’t been as worried as he was, he’d have snorted. She really was high, more than he’d thought at first.

“Rook. You already understand Spite,” he told her calmly. “You have spoken with him.”

“Oh…right…I can understand him.” Rook nodded. “Right, Spite?” 

Before Lucanis knew what was happening, Rook had reached to hold his head like she’d been doing with Assan, looking into his eyes, and Lucanis felt his cheeks burning. He tried controlling how his heart picked up, the odd twirling in his belly, a wave of feelings that allowed Spite to wrest control over him.

“Lucanis. Never. Lets me. Speak!”

“Lucanis…that’s not very nice,” Rook chastised and Lucanis huffed, trying to push Spite back. “Let him speak sometimes.”

“I let him speak enough.”

“You. Don’t!” Spite’s took control again, out of…spite, probably. “Rook. Smells like…Assan.”

“See, this is what happens when he speaks,” Lucanis said, mortified, but Rook seemed amused.

She was still holding his head, her hands gentle on his warm cheeks, and she looked at him intently. Lucanis swallowed hard, feeling his mouth going dry at the way she was looking at him, at how close she was.

You. Want that. Again. Spite’s annoyed voice said in his head. Lucanis didn’t need to ask what he was talking about, he knew what he was feeling, not for the first time or the second…

He wanted to kiss Rook. And she was so close, he’d barely need to lean in to kiss her…he wanted to. But she was high, it wasn’t right, not to mention the demon kicking in his head, Rook didn’t need that burden…

“Lucanis…” Rook called his name quietly.

“Yes?” He could barely whisper it.

“What if Spite possessed Manfred?”

Lucanis blinked at Rook, too stunned to talk for a second. “What?”

“Would they take turns controlling the skeleton?”

Spite took control of Lucanis to speak before he could. “Curiosity. Has. Hands! I want. That!”

“You deserve hands!” Rook agreed, letting go of Lucanis’s head…she really was way higher than either he or Davrin had thought.

“He doesn’t,” Lucanis said, trying to wrestle down Spite. “Don’t encourage him, Rook.” She just giggled. “We have enough hands already.” And he had enough with Spite trying to control his.

“Then you wouldn’t have to share…I’m trying to be helpful for both of you,” Rook sighed dramatically.

“I know,” Lucanis conceded. He couldn’t help half a smile at her. “I let him stab enemies with my hands sometimes.” Not. Enough. Spite complained in his head but Lucanis ignored him. “Why don’t you take a nap? Come on, now that you still have time.”

“Alright…” Rook agreed and Lucanis was glad he didn’t have to try to convince her. “I’m not tired but I have a headache,” she sighed as she lay down on the couch and Lucanis had to fight the urge to caress her hair. “Assan, come.”

Rook patted the couch and grinned when Assan jumped onto it, and, at Rook’s grabby hands, the griffon lay down almost on top of her, curling up with Rook. “Oof, you’re heavy for a baby,” Rook said as she wiggled, but despite her words, she held Assan to her, looking quite happy to snuggle with him.

Another half-smile tugged at Lucanis mouth as he looked at them. The sight stirred some feelings, warmth, fondness…longing?

You. Want. That? Spite’s voice asked in his head, sounding puzzled and confused. Like. Assan?

“Shut up,” Lucanis muttered.

Did he want that? To lie down there with Rook like Assan, in her arms? Of course. But he didn’t want Spite catching on it, asking about it, or making his wishes and thoughts worse.

“What?” Rook asked, already sounding drowsy.

“Nothing. Get some sleep, Rook.”

Lucanis walked away before his and Spite’s combined thoughts could get out of hand.

*

A couple of hours later, Lucanis was in the pantry when he heard someone fumbling in the kitchen, and he walked out to find Rook there, holding a piece of hard cheese. He’d gotten that one for grating it but she seemed about to eat it just like that.

“Hey,” Rook greeted, seeming a bit awkward. “I was hungry but I didn’t feel like cooking.”

“I’ll cook you something,” Lucanis offered, heading to the kitchen space.

“You don’t have to…”

“I don’t mind.” Lucanis shrugged. He liked to cook and he liked it even more if it was for Rook.

“It’s fine, I think there are leftovers from the picnic.” Rook nodded towards a basket. “We barely got to eat before I…” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry you saw me like that before.”

“It’s okay, Rook,” Lucanis told her softly, trying to be comforting.

“I mean, I’m sorry for myself, it’s embarrassing to know that both you and Davrin saw me like that…” She shook her head, seeming mortified. “At least nobody else did.”

“It wasn’t your fault, it was the tea,” Lucanis reassured her, grimacing at the thought of the drink. It was Davrin’s fault for feeding it to her, but he didn’t say it aloud, he didn’t think Rook’d agree.

“A tea that also Davrin and Emmrich had and nothing happened to them,” Rook remarked and Lucanis tried to ignore Spite’s voice asking him repeatedly to try the tea himself and see what happened.

“It’s not your fault that you’re sensitive to it,” Lucanis tried to reason, he didn’t like to see Rook chastising herself like that.

Rook just shrugged with a non-committal humm and Lucanis watched as she took a sandwich from the picnic basket. He decided he’d cook something anyway, he didn’t trust Davrin’s cooking. Frittata with the grating cheese that Rook’d been about to eat.

As he began to get everything ready, it seemed Rook was going to say something, maybe to tell him again that he didn’t have to, but she didn’t, she just smiled softly and looked at him cooking in silence for a little bit.

“That smells so good,” she said as the frittata cooked and Lucanis couldn’t help how pleased it made him feel. It was a simple dish, truly, only eggs, cheese, and some vegetables mixed together, but he thought it was good nonetheless.

When the frittata was finished, Lucanis served it on a plate and handed it to Rook along with a glass of water. With a thanks, Rook took it and instead of going to the dining table, she sat down on the sofa around the small coffee table.

Rook looked at him as if wondering if he’d join her, and so Lucanis poured himself a cup of coffee and went to sit with her, not next to her on the couch but on the armchair near it. He noticed Rook eyeing his coffee while she sipped her water.

“I can make you a tea,” Lucanis offered, even if his nose scrunched in disgust at the thought of such a beverage, and he wasn’t even sure he could brew it properly, but Davrin had said Rook liked tea so at least he could try.

“I…I think I’ve had enough tea for a while…” Rook grimaced. “Besides, I love your coffee, it’s really good.”

A warm, pleased feeling spread through Lucanis at that, while a smile tugged at his lips. Davrin’d already told him Rook enjoyed his coffee more, but it was not the same than hearing her saying that she loved it.

Rook cut into the still steaming frittata and brought a piece to her mouth, closing her eyes with a delighted hmm, making something stir in Lucanis belly at it. “This is so good, really.”  That warm, pleasant feeling grew even more.

Rook didn’t say anything else, just enjoyed the frittata, and Lucanis watched her enjoying the food in silence. Lucanis had rarely cooked for anyone besides himself, and he liked cooking for his friends at the Lighthouse and having them enjoy the food, but when it was Rook, it felt even better.

Once Rook finished her frittata, Lucanis already had a cup of coffee ready for her.

“What would we do without you, Lucanis, you spoil us,” she half-teased, smiling as he nursed the cup in her hands.

“I saw how you all ate before hiring me,” Lucanis tried to joke, trying to control the wave of feelings as Rook kept complimenting him. “You needed a cook, not an assassin.”

“And we were so lucky we got both,” Rook chuckled.

She lifted her legs onto the couch and leaned on the armrest closer to Lucanis, and he fought the impulse urging him to lean closer too, to touch her, maybe stroke her hair. For a moment, they both sipped their coffee in silence.

“I think maybe I should get ready another picnic with Davrin, one in which I don’t get…indispose…” Rook commented after a little while.

Lucanis’ warm, content and pleasant feelings were gone, replaced by hot jealousy at hearing Rook speaking about arranging a date with Davrin. He grimaced as he tried to control Spite’s onslaught of upset feelings as the demon caught Lucanis’ own emotions and what seemed to also be his own kind of feelings regarding Rook. 

“Rook, I told you, it’s not your fault you’re sensitive to the tea…” Lucanis tried to keep his voice calm and even when he spoke. “It’s Davrin’s fault for bringing an unchecked recipe to a date,” he scoffed.

Rook looked at him wide-eyed. “A date? Do you think Davrin thought of that as a date?”

“I…don’t know…” Had he assumed things? He’d been pretty sure Davrin wanted a date with Rook. He tried to hide how upset he was at the idea “I thought so…”

“Oh…” Rook sighed, seeming worried. “Oh, I hope not…I just thought we were going to hang out in the forest, decompress, play with Assan…not a date, date.”

Lucanis didn’t know what to think of Rook’s words, there were too many emotions shimmering inside him, both his and Spite’s, and luckily Rook just kept talking without expecting him to say anything else.

“I mean, Davrin’s great and I really like him,” she began and Lucanis had to wrestle Spite down when he tried to take control of him. “Everyone’d be lucky to date him, but…turns out I don’t want to…”

Lucanis knew he shouldn’t smile at those words, but he couldn’t help how pleased he felt. What mattered if Rook didn’t want to date Davrin, though? It wasn’t like Lucanis could date her…he wanted to, he’d not lie to himself saying he didn’t, but he knew what a bad idea it was, how unfair it’d be for Rook, to get dragged into his mess, tangled with someone who could barely offer anything but death and trouble.

“It’d have been a nice date, though, a picnic in the beautiful woods,” Rook kept going, as if Lucanis didn’t have enough thoughts and feelings fighting inside him already. “But I think my perfect date would be different, I think maybe going to someone’s favorite café in his beautiful city.”

Rook wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, her eyes were on her coffee mug, and Lucanis was glad for it because, even though he tried to keep his expression neutral, he wasn’t sure he was succeeding. His heart had picked up his pace and some twirls were dancing in his belly.

He knew Rook was talking about when he’d taken her to Café Pietra. It’d been nice, even if it’d been for crow business, Lucanis had enjoyed being able to go back to his favorite café, and he’d been pleased to take Rook with him. It hadn’t been a date, yet he’d caught himself wishing it’d been, wondering about perhaps having a real one there, with Rook.

He’d tried to stop those thoughts and wishes but there he was anyway, they had just grown stronger as he spent more time with Rook.

“But I know that wouldn’t be everyone’s kind of date…” Rook said at his silence, moving back from the armrest and sitting straighter, perhaps taking his silence for rejection.

Lucanis knew he shouldn’t entertain his feelings or Rook’s and yet…he couldn’t help it… “It’d be my perfect date too,” he said quietly.

Rook looked at him with a smile that sent dancing twirls to Lucanis’ stomach again, before she looked back at her coffee, taking a sip, as if shyly trying to hide her growing smile.

“I think…” Lucanis began even if he didn’t really know what he thought anymore. “Once I’ve fixed everything, I’d like to go to Café Pietra again.” 

For fixing everything, he didn’t mean only saving the world and stopping the gods, as if that were a small task already, but also taking care of the crow’s businesses and loose ends, and especially, fixing whatever was going on with and Spite, if that was even something he could fix. He didn’t want to put Rook in danger, and it felt like that was all he could offer her at that moment…she deserved something more, something better, but Lucanis couldn’t stop his feelings.

“I’d like it if you wanted to come,” he finished, his voice low and husky.

“I’d love to.” Rook gave him another of those smiles that had Lucanis’ heart dancing.

“It’ll take me a while to fix everything.” That if it was even possible…Lucanis felt pessimistic about it yet whenever he looked at Rook, he couldn’t help but feel something close to hope.

“That’s alright, Café Pietra will still be there,” Rook said nonchalantly. “And so will I.” Her tone was softer now yet reassuring, just like her smile, and Lucanis couldn’t help his own.

This was a bad idea, probably, but the twirls in his belly and the beating of his heart didn’t seem to care. In moments like that, Lucanis had to wonder if Rook was real, or if maybe he had finally break in the Ossuary prison and he was making her and everything else up in his mind.

Lucanis didn’t know what to say, he was feeling overwhelmed by everything, by all his emotions, but Rook didn’t seem to mind his silence.

Slowly, she placed her open hand on the armrest, palm up. An invitation.

Lucanis looked at it for just a moment, before bringing his hand to hers. Rook gave him another of those warm smiles that had his heart dancing, and she closed her hand around his, intertwining their fingers.

Her touch was soft, comforting, grounding…safe, even.

She was real, she was there for him, and she was willing to wait until he could offer her something more than what he could then, something better.

It wouldn’t be easy, there was much to do, but with Rook at his side, her and on his, Lucanis felt more hopeful than he’d ever felt.

*

NA:

Both me and my Rook have fallen in love with this gentle, caring assassin and we want to hold him and protect him, but sometimes Rook needs to be taken care of too.

I think I want to write more for them.

If you liked the fic, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

[oh-clembo]

I still think this is the best art with Ascended Astarion.

I see how many people draw whole comics about how bad everything will be with him in the future. I understand someone love angst, but sometimes I want a simple "they are both evil, they love each other and everything is fine with them" ^-^ artist: Schrodinger Cat

[oh-clembo]

unedited,

bakugou who says 'I'll do a circle around the parking spot, I'll be here when you're done' as he hands you his card and a peck on the cheek as you go pick up the food you've both ordered late at night.

you don't use his card, only nestling it into your pocket and fishing your own to swipe and pay. you've never used his card through the hundreds of times throughout the years where you run in a small business to fish out an item, his card always placed in your pockets.

it's years after once he realized this, the numbers aren't adding up and he notices that he has more money than he should. it send him into a frenzy, did he get promoted? did someone hack into his account and start randomly giving him money?

hes muttering when you sneak behind his home desk. "hi," you peak at his phone and watch as his fingers move quick to see every transaction he had concluding in 'food & drinks'. bakugou hums and rubs against your cheek, grumbling about how 'f'king weird' something is in his bank account.

"what's up?"

"did you use my card when we went to go pick up that sushi from sunday?"

your heads are facing each other now, he's got a pout on his lips and you ponder before shaking your head, "no, why?"

"huh? what'd ya pay with?"

"my card?"

and he's genuinely upset about it the entire month. having not realized that every time he's sent you to go pick up the food the two of you've ordered, you've never used his card once.

bakugou never let's you go in by yourself now, telling you to be quiet as he spends an extra 5 minutes looking for parking for you to walk in, his card in his hand and the other gripping yours.

"y're telling me that y've been paying these past years when i give you my card? to use?"

[oh-clembo]

saw this tiktok that said "when she's used to always hearing 'yes' and you said no to her for the first time" and i thought of katsuki and his spoiled gf <33

SO TRUE !!! never says no because he never needs to and never wants to. i always imagine these conversations in the car so he’s not realising how confused and upset you are because he’s trying to drive at the same time.

first time he says no you think you misheard him because it’s never been in his vocab with you. to everyone else, yes but never you.

“no.”

“huh? what?”

“i said no. i’ve got no time.”

“you had time last week though?”

“n’ it’s a new week. i’ve got new shit to do now.”

you’re pouting, grumbling under your breath, arms crossed and thighs pressed together. you’re frowning out the window and don’t dare to look at him.

“if you wanted to, you would make time.” you spit and katsuki’s flicking his eyes over to you with an eyebrow cocked.

then he smirks, leaning back with only one hand on the wheel.

“i’ve spoiled you too damn much. you’ve never heard no with me.”

you’re not offended by his comment, it’s true you are spoiled but you’re still upset, “don’t make this frequent bakugou. you know i really wanted to go.”

and he’s so weak for you, you’re acting like a child for god’s sake. he knows if you were standing up you’d probably be stomping your foot and tugging his sleeve. your round puffed cheeks are cute and even your glare at the trees zooming by the windows makes him smile.

so he grabs your hand out of their crossed position to press a kiss to your knuckles and hold it in his lap. “stop fuckin’ frownin’, i’ll see what i can do.”

obviously, you both end up going.

[oh-clembo]

Happy Bday RedRiot-kun!! 

[oh-clembo]

i love haikyuu i wish volleyball was real :(

[oh-clembo]

▰𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈 ⑈▰

●───𝖉𝖆𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖆⠀:⠀𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬⠀҂

[oh-clembo]

✻ P R E V I E W - below the cut ✻

“Bo…”

Hearing his own name never sounded so good. The way it barely slipped past her lips was no louder than a whisper, barely audible but loud enough. Bokuto used one large hand to undo the clasp of her bra before latching himself like a man starved to her chest. His other hand slipped beneath her skirt, reveling in the fact that there was nothing obstructing his fingers from her warm, wet core.

“Oh fuck.” Her hips moved in sync with his hand, desperate to bring herself to relief. “Please Bo…”

There was a weight to her words, thick like honey as they dripped past her lips.  

honey

pairing: bokuto koutaro x fem!reader

inspo: honey // halsey 

between my fingers, she leaves then she lingers / if she’s gonna go, well, then i’m goin’ with her… down the back of my throat and on the front of my mind / and well, she’s impatient and i’m complacent… but she’s hell in a basket, just makin’ a racket / i love every second, it’s fuckin’ fantastic

♡ COMING SOON - taglist open ♡

[oh-clembo]

he.

[oh-clembo]

Hang in there Hinata!

[oh-clembo]

fallen stars

pairing. haitani ran x f! reader  themes. established relationship, modern au, bonten! ran, hurt with comfort (?), reader is toxic, jealousy warnings. implied cheating on both sides, toxic relationship, manipulation, gaslighting, haitani ran’s existence wc. 1.3k summary. you like to remind your boyfriend that you weren’t like him — a cheater.

entry for the collab GASLIGHT. GATEKEEP. GIRLBOSS | @sunhee-sun

RAN       10:34 PM  Can we go home?  I think you had your fun now  Let’s go home Love?  Answer your phone

4 MISSED CALLS FROM RAN. 

RAN      10: 47 PM I don’t like how that man has his hands on you.

Keep reading

[oh-clembo]

My fav bois😔💙💖

[oh-clembo]

super like 🔥

[oh-clembo]

the feminine urge to release a gut-wrenching scream from the depths of your soul

[oh-clembo]

honey

pairing: bokuto koutaro x fem!reader

inspo: honey // halsey 

between my fingers, she leaves then she lingers / if she’s gonna go, well, then i’m goin’ with her… down the back of my throat and on the front of my mind / and well, she’s impatient and i’m complacent… but she’s hell in a basket, just makin’ a racket / i love every second, it’s fuckin’ fantastic

♡ COMING SOON - taglist open ♡