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rafesteddy · 8 days ago

Note

Omg DILF!RAFE and MILF!READER’s recent post was so good, imma need you to consider maybe making one where they’re on vacation and some younger guys try flirting with her, thinking she’s around their age (20’s) and Rafe stepping in. UGH you write beautifully I just can’t

Hi bb!!! Thank you for your ask 🤭💕

+18 -> smut | the two of you steal a night away in Miami. One dinner, one dance, and it all comes rushing back.

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: slight physical violence (not toward the reader), coarse language, pet name, unprotected p in v, possessive rafe, rough sex, breeding kink, jealousy, ownership kink, teasing, wet and messy, mentions of drinking, POV shift for smut, + dirty talk.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼 𝓟𝓞�� 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

ＮｉｋｋｉＢｅａｃｈＲｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ…

Rafe still couldn’t believe you were here. Miami. Same streets, same salt in the air, same stretch of beach where he used to watch you run circles around him with that mouth of yours and those damn cutoff shorts.

It’d been years, decades even. Four kids later. Half a life lived. And somehow, even today, you still had him looking at you like a fucking lovesick idiot.

You’d spent the whole day on the beach, just the two of you. Max and Winnie had the twins, and he hadn’t asked twice. He needed this. Needed you. The sun. You in that tiny black swimsuit, laughing in the surf, making him ache like he hadn’t been married to you for almost twenty years.

Now, the sky was going dark, and you were sitting across from each other in one of those restaurants you loved. Five stars, full white linen, candles flickering. You in that red dress.

He felt like he was twenty all over. Shit, younger than that. His palms were sweating. Ridiculous, really. Just watching you lift that damn glass to your mouth like you hadn’t already ruined him hours ago.

You sat by the window, bathed in the last stretch of sun, skin glowing, hair falling soft around your shoulders. Every time you smiled, it did something to his chest. Like his lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. And when you shifted in your seat, crossed your legs, glanced his way—he couldn’t stop staring. Didn’t even try.

Shit.

His hands dropped to his thighs. He couldn’t get a grip. Not with you looking like that. You were his wife. He had no business feeling this nervous. Your husband. Your safe place. The father of your kids. But here he was—nervous. Damn near vibrating with it.

It felt like your first date. Like if he said the wrong thing, you might just laugh and walk away.

Except you wouldn’t. You were his. He knew that in his bones. Had known it for years. But it didn’t stop the rush of it now—watching you sip that drink, those bare shoulders catching the light.

Whatever he’d ordered, he couldn’t taste it. Could barely remember what they’d ordered.

The sunset was sinking fast behind you. Throwing everything around you into this perfect glow that made his chest ache. He motioned to the waiter, sharp and distracted.

“Rafe? Are you okay?”

“Not upset, baby. Promise… Just gotta do something.” And he meant it, because if he didn’t get you out there on that beach, in that red dress, with that sun sinking behind you—if he didn’t catch this moment, keep it somehow—he was gonna lose his goddamn mind.

But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Not yet. Not until he had you exactly where he wanted you.

You were already giggling by the time he stood, napkin dropping carelessly on the table.

“Rafe,” you laughed, grabbing your clutch. “What’s goin’ on?”

He didn’t answer—just took your hand, lacing your fingers tight, tugging you gently toward the door. The host caught his eye, nodded with a knowing smile. Rafe hardly noticed. His pulse was still going—loud in his ears, steady, but off somehow.

The air outside hit different. The air had cooled. Still salty, but heavier now—like something was shifting, even if he couldn’t name it.

The sky was already losing color. That soft pink sinking into gray-blue in patches, uneven and fast.

Down near the water, two people walked the edge of the tide, saying nothing. Just dragging the moment out, maybe. Or maybe they weren’t ready to leave yet.

“Rafe,” you said again, each breath coming shallow, chasing the last, laughing even as you kicked off your heels onto the sand. “You’re acting like—” But you cut off when he let go of your hand and stepped back a few feet and lifted his phone. “Oh my God,” you gasped, cheeks warming up as you realized what he was doing. “Baby—”

“None of that, pretty,” he said, thumb hovering over the screen. “C’mon now. Don’t start.” His voice caught a little, that shaky edge of pure want bleeding through. “You look like a goddamn dream right now. Let me have it.”

You covered your mouth, blushing harder, shaking your head in the softest, sweetest way. But it only took you a second. Because he was looking at you like that—like you hung the damn sun yourself—and his voice was full of it, that heat that never failed to melt you straight through.

“Please, baby,” he said again, softer this time. “Need this. Just you. Right here, alright?”

And that was it. Your hands dropped and your smile bloomed as you started to pose—light at first, playful, laughing between shots as the wind caught your hair and the hem of your red dress.

Rafe could barely breathe, thumb snapping the shutter as fast as he could, desperate to catch every second.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “You don’t even know…”

But you caught the way he was looking—eyes dark, mouth parted just a little—and your smile shifted, just a touch. A tilt of your head. A sway of your hips. A glance through your lashes that had heat licking straight through his veins.

“Fuck, baby… There she is—” Rafe’s grin hit slow and crooked, heat sparking all the way to his fingertips. "How are you so perfect?”

Every pose, each shift of your hips, and glance through your lashes, you knew exactly what you were doing, and your husband was helpless to it.

“One with you too, baby,” you smiled, extending a hand. His breath caught. He tried to play it cool, huffing a soft laugh.

“Yeah? Yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat, stepping toward you, phone in hand, pretending like this wasn’t unraveling him by the second.

You reached for him, fingers curling in his shirt to pull him in beside you. The camera clicked, barely. You turned before the shutter had even finished, like it didn’t matter, like you already knew what came next. Your lips brushed his jaw—light, quick, but it stopped him cold.

He didn’t think. Just reacted. Mouth on yours before either of you had a chance to speak. He barely even noticed the phone—just shoved it in his pocket, hands already back on you, sliding down to your waist, gripping like he didn’t want to risk letting go.

Everything else blurred. The ocean. The quiet voices nearby. All of it faded the second your lips touched his. There was no restaurant, no phone, no years between you. Just this. Just you, pressed up against his chest, warm and breathless and smiling into his skin like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe after everything, you were still those same two kids who couldn’t go five minutes without needing each other.

He kissed you like he meant it—like if he held on tight enough, the world might stop right here.

ＢａｉａＢｅａｃｈＣｌｕｂＭｉａｍｉ…

The air changed the second you left the beach—hot and heavy, thick with sweat and rum. It clung to him, soaked into his skin. Music was already pounding through busted speakers, something old, too loud, and then there was you, walking in like the night was yours.

You didn’t wait. As soon as the bass hit, you took his hand and pulled him in, laughing, already moving, your body catching the rhythm like it was built into you.

Rafe just stood there for a second, watching. Throat dry.

He wasn’t a dancer. Never had been. But for you? For this—this one damn night that felt like college all over again—he’d do it. Easy. Anything for you.

So he followed you into the crush of bodies, hands finding your hips like instinct.

You started slow, teasing him as you always do, rolling against him in time with the beat, hips grinding back into him, arm slipping around his neck, mouth grazing his ear.

Rafe let you take over, didn’t care who saw. He closed his eyes for a second, pulling you in tighter. It hit him like déjà vu—that first summer in Miami—sneaking out when you’d found a babysitter, slipping into clubs just like this one, you laughing against his neck while he pretended to hate dancing and really just wanted you like this… It hadn’t changed. If anything, you looked better now. Stronger. Warmer. Somehow even more his. Like you didn’t see the tired in his eyes or the gray at his temples. Just him. And maybe that’s why it ruined him even after all these years, you hadn’t stopped choosing him.

You tipped your head back to smile up at him, face flushed, eyes bright with it all.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” you said, your fingers brushing his chest without really thinking.

He blinked, still a little dazed. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll grab a table.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, watching as you disappeared through the crowd.

Rafe made his way off the floor, weaving between groups of bodies until he found an empty booth near the edge. He slid into the booth, chest still warm from the floor, from you. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling his phone out without thinking.

Wallpaper? Changed—immediately. That shot from the beach, you in that damn dress with the sun behind you. Christ. He didn’t even hesitate.

He shot a quick text to the kids—Goodnight. Love you. Be good.

He glanced up—and there they were. Frat boys packed in by the taps, loud as hell, tossing arms over each other like they ran the place. Rafe just shook his head, couldn’t help the smirk. Same Greek letters from his old house. Hell, they probably knew his name, even if they didn’t know they knew it.

And then—you came back out. You had a whole group with you now, girls barely old enough to drink, laughing like you were one of them. And you were right in the center, flushed, glowing, smiling that smile, lighting up your whole face.

You caught his eye, gave a little wave toward the booth, but one of the girls tugged you toward the bar, mouthing ‘just one drink’.

Rafe leaned back, arm slung over the booth, watching. That old twist pulled tight in his gut.

It started slow. One guy at the bar caught sight of you, elbowed his buddy. Then another. The second one’s jaw actually dropped. Rafe saw it. The third leaned in, whispering behind a grin. A couple more straight-up turned around to watch you walk.

His hand curled tighter around the table’s edge. He exhaled, slow, steady. Yeah, he was proud. Damn proud. You looked… unreal. That glow, that dress, the way you moved—no one in the room could ignore you. But that didn’t mean it was easy to watch.

That old edge crept in—possessive, sharp. He’d felt it before. Years ago. Weeks ago. Days even… Too many times to count.

How many nights had it been just like this? You turning heads without even trying. And him standing there, the guy who got to take you home. Except now, there was a diamond on your hand and a couple of kids with his eyes asleep at home.

He laughed to himself—quiet and dry. Took a long drink just to cut the heat. And then he saw the kid. One of them broke off from the group—broad-shouldered, all confidence, that smug, slow swagger of someone who thinks he’s God’s gift.

Rafe clocked him instantly. President type. Probably the type who gave pep talks about leadership and thought a wink and a beer could get him whatever he wanted.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He stood up, easy, but with purpose. Eyes locked. Let the kid try. Just once.

𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓟𝓞𝓥 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

You barely made it to the bar before the girls had you fully pulled into their circle—arms linked through yours, laughing, warm and tipsy already.

“We loved your lip combo,” one of them gushed, tugging your wrist toward her. “Tell me what that is—seriously. I need it—”

“—Wait, no, first you have to do my hair. I’m hot as fuck.”

Without thinking, you were sliding your fingers into her curls, twisting them up like second nature.

“There,” you smiled. “Perfect.”

“She’s ours now,” one girl grinned. “Not yours.”

You were mid-laugh, drink halfway to your lips, no idea what was heading your way until it was already there.

You looked up—and that’s when he walked in. Tall, tan, broad through the shoulders. Hat turned backward. Shirt clinging to him, far too tight. He smelled like sweat and weed, cheap cologne layered on top like that could fix it.

Two of his buddies flanked him like backup. One already smirking. One fixing his chain, sizing you up like you were something to claim.

“Hey,” the tallest one grinned, eyes dragging over you. “Didn’t think they let models in here.”

“Ewww,” one of the girls drones. “Leave, thanks. She’s with us—”

“She looks like she could use a real drink,” one of the boys shoots back.

Another cuts in, leaning way too close. “You come here with anyone, princess?”

The tall one grabs your arm this time, wanting you closer. “What’s your major, sweetheart?” His voice dipped, slow, like he thought he was already halfway there.

“I—I don’t go to school here.”

“No way,” one said. “C’mon. Don’t play—”

“FIU? UM?” Another tossed out. “You totally look like a UM girl… That vibe.”

“Yeah, you party here a lot?” The third cut in, resting his hand on your lower back. You opened your mouth, about to answer, but the girls weren’t having it—one shoved a shot in your hand with a wink.

“Take this,” she whispered. “Quick, before they ask if you live in the dorms.”

You barely caught the glass before a voice cut through the crowd—low, sharp, cold enough to crack ice.

“Baby—”

Everyone turned and there was Rafe. Broad shoulders cutting through the bodies, jaw tight, eyes hard as glass. No smile. No play. Just pure, protective heat rolling off him in waves.

One of the guys let out a short, nervous laugh. “Oh shit. Is this your dad?”

Rafe’s brows pinched tight, nostrils flaring in disgust, scoffing at the ridiculousness of the question as one of the girls gasped, clutching your arm. “Damn, babe, is that your dad?” Her voice, intrigued, way too interested if the answer was ‘yes’.

You were buzzed, breath short, pulse hammering—and when you saw him, the grin just happened. You tilted your head toward Rafe, voice sweet as sugar. “No, hun,” you said, laughing softly. “That’s my husband.” And just like that, the air behind you shifted.

Rafe’s arm came around your waist, hard and fast. No sweet little touch. No show for the crowd. His hand spread on your hip, fingers digging in like even air between you might kill him.

You sank into him without thinking—whole body going soft against his chest. Your heart was thudding, your smile stretching so fast you couldn’t stop it if you tried.

“Damn,” the frat boy grinned, not an ounce of sense left in him. “You’re married to that?” He tipped his chin at Rafe, lifted his fist like he expected a bump.

“Well, fuck me,” another laughed. “You don’t look like a wife.”

“You a mom, baby?” One slurred, loud enough to turn heads—voice slick and drunk. “Shit... That’s even hotter.”

Rafe’s laugh broke out sharp and mean, no warmth in it. “She’s got four,” he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

“Well, sweetheart… if you ever get bored—” CRACK. It landed clean, fast, and final.

The frat boy staggered, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide—like he’d just been snapped out of a dream he had no business having.

Rafe didn’t follow up the slap. Didn’t move. Just stood there, calm and steady, like he’d barely spent the energy.

“You don’t talk to her again,” he said, voice flat and even. “You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her.”

No threat. No raised voice. Just fact.

He turned to you like none of it mattered. Like the moment was already behind him.

The second his eyes landed on you, something shifted—locked in, grounded. His hand found your waist, pulling you flush to him, thumb dragging slow against your ribs.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low, warm, only for you.

You gave a small nod, still a little dazed, breath catching as it hit you.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he kissed your temple—slow, steady—his mouth trailing down to your jaw like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

His hand found yours next, fingers curling around it gently before he lifted it, slow and deliberate, like showing the world mattered just as much as holding on. The ring caught the light.

“You see this?” He said, voice low and scraped raw. “That means she’s not lookin’. Not tonight. Not ever.”

“We’re sorry—”

“Open your mouth again,” he said, cool and razor-sharp, “it’ll be your last.”

Your breath caught. Your hips shifted instinctively into his hold, body already giving in to him without thinking.

He moved in slow, hand sliding into your hair, mouth brushing your ear. His voice dropped, rough and close. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hand tightened in your hair—firm and steady—just enough to keep you right there. “And these boys?” He growled, low and rough. “They can sit here all night with their dicks in their hands thinkin’ about you. Won’t change a damn thing.” He dragged his mouth along your jaw, slow. “You’re gonna be in our bed, takin’ every inch of me. Full of me. Understand?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Just looked up at him—flushed, giddy, heart pounding out of rhythm.

A helpless smile bloomed across your mouth, too soft and full to hide.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, voice breath-worn and thick. “Let’s get you the fuck outta here.”

ＴｈｅＬｏｅｗｓＭｉａｍｉＢｅａｃｈＨｏｔｅｌ…

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Rafe had you; arms wrapping around your waist, spinning you so fast your shoulder thudded against the wood—sharp enough to knock a gasp out of you.

And then his mouth collided with yours, stealing whatever breath you had left.

You whimpered, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt like you were trying to hold your ground, the other already in his hair, tugging hard. He groaned into your mouth. Hips pressing into yours, craving the friction.

He groaned deep into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. “Mine,” he muttered, breath hot and jagged against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, voice shaking as he growled, “You belong to me, you hear me?”

You could barely speak; barely breathe. Every inch of you was aching. “Yours,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Always yours.”

Then you were in the air. Rafe scooped under your thighs, the other braced tight across your back. You gasped, arms flying around his neck, your heart pounding like it was trying to escape your ribs. “Rafe—”

“— Shut up, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing your cheek as he carried you deeper into the room. “Been waitin’ all fuckin’ night.”

Your panties were already soaked, body burning, barely sure you’d even make it to the bed before he took you. But he made it—barely. He carried you through the room, tossed you down, and mounted you in one fluid motion; knee driving into the mattress, his big body looming above you, hands spreading wide across your thighs.

You looked up at him, breath shallow, chest heaving. And Rafe stared back—like he could never get used to seeing you like this, like he’d never be done worshipping you—it stole your breath, cleaned out your lungs.

“All night you just… Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse and thick, “You sat there all fuckin’ night lookin’ like this. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about your mouth. The taste of you…”

You whimpered, legs falling open on instinct.

“Want you naked,” he said, eyes dark. “Need to see all of you.”

You reached for the hem of your dress but he caught your wrists before you could move; his grip was firm and possessive. “That’s mine to take off.”

You nodded fast; your whole body humming with need as his hand slid slowly up your inner thigh. Rafe paused at the edge of your panties, fingers trapped between skin and lace, tracing just enough to make you tremble.

When he brushed the fabric and you felt him stop; the breath hitched in his chest as he rolled out his neck. “Fuck,” he muttered, eyes locked on the damp spot already bleeding through the fabric. “So damn wet…”

You arched toward his touch, hips shifting like they had a mind of their own.

“M’I teasin’ you, princess?” He asks through a teasing sigh, tracing the wet with his eyes set on yours. You bit your pouted lip, eyes pleading with his. “Hmm… I’ll make you a deal then, yeah? You stop bein’ so wet for me. And, I’ll stop teasin’ you,” he taunts as he peels your panties down slowly—agonizingly so—dragging them over your thighs inch by inch, eyes fixed on every part of you he uncovered. “We both know that ain’t gonna happen,” he mumbles as he tosses them to the floor, his palms coming right back to your skin, sliding up, chasing the heat.

“Arms up,” he murmurs. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

You obey, lifting your arms as your dress bunches higher. Rafe pushes the fabric up slowly, pausing to kiss your stomach; to stroke his tongue along the curve of your breast, savoring every inch. When he finally tugs the dress over your head, and flung it aside, your whole body trembled beneath him.

He sat back on his heels, eyes sweeping down you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his voice raw. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. My girl.”

Then he stood, hands going to the buttons of his shirt. Your mouth went dry.

He caught the look on your face and smirked. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he said in that low, Southern drawl that always got to you. “Wanna watch me undress?”

You nodded, lips parting. “Good girl,” he hummed.

One button. Then another. He yanked his shirt off without thinking, undershirt right after, like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. You watched the whole thing—watched the way his skin caught the light, the way his chest rose with each breath.

He watched you watching him, grin darkening. “Love the way you look at me,” he murmured. “Like you’re starvin’.”

You reached for him, needing to touch something but he just smirked, stepping back a little as he undid his belt with one hand, slow like he had all the time in the world. The leather hit the floor with a low thunk, and you whimpered.

“Can’t even sit still, can you?” He teased, unzipping his pants slow as sin. “Barely even touched you yet.”

Rafe dragged them down, boxers clinging tight, cock already straining. When he pushed them down and stepped out, your breath caught.

Thick, flushed, his cock hung heavy, and you whined at the sight of it. His gaze darkened. He didn’t speak. Just climbed back over you, slow and controlled, body sliding between your thighs like it belonged there.

He bit down gently beneath your jaw, making you arch into him. “How the hell did I get so lucky, huh?” His hand moved up between your legs—fingers slicking through your folds, slow and teasing. You gasped, thighs jerking. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Please—”

His fingers circled your clit, barely brushing, just enough to make you reel. “Not yet,” he breathed. “Gotta be quiet for me, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear. “You remember this is a suite, yeah? Everyone’s asleep. But I know how fuckin’ loud you get when I make you cum.” You nodded quickly, breath ragged, hips twitching. “Can you stay quiet?” He asked, voice like gravel. “Can you be good for me?”

“Yes—Yes, I’ll be good.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, lips at your temple. “You say that now…”

You reached for him again—traced your fingers down his abs, caught the muscles flexing under your touch.

“Wanna hear you beg,” he rasped, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit, watching your body jolt.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asked. “Want this cock?”

“Please,” you gasped. “Rafe, please—I need it—”

He lined himself up—pressing just enough for you to feel the stretch—and held still.

“Eyes on me,” he growled. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You forced your gaze up, lips parted, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pushing in slow—inch by inch—stretching you open. “So tight, baby. Made for me.”

You sobbed, nails digging into his back as your body fought to take him.

“Shhh,” he whispered, mouth hot at your ear. “You promised me.”

You nodded fast, lips parted, breath held, just trying to be good. Trying so hard not to make a sound.

“That’s it,” he hums, voice low and rough. “You’re doin’ so good. You’re my good girl, remember?”

Another thrust—deep and slow—dragging a choked cry from your throat.

He growled, hips rolling. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. Deep in this perfect little pussy—right where I fuckin’ belong.”

Your body arched, shaking, overwhelmed.

“Please,” you sobbed. “I need—”

“You need it?” He rasped, pace beginning to pick up. “You’ll fuckin’ take it.”

He drove in deep, grinding against your clit, hips slamming again and again.

“Wanna be loud?” He taunted, breath hot against your cheek. “Wanna let ‘em hear? Want every fuckin’ man in this hotel to know who owns you?”

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

“Shhh,” he murmured, gentler now. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Just stay with me.”

You nodded fast—submissive, desperate, right on the edge.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed, driving deeper. “Take it all for me. Let me see how sweet this pussy is.”

Your whole body locked—hips jolting, back arching, your orgasm tearing through you hard and fast.

He felt it—felt your cunt clamp down tight, fluttering around him.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “That’s it. Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

He didn’t stop. Just kept fucking you through it. “Wanted this, didn’t you?” He growled. “Wanted me to fill you up?” You sobbed against his palm, overwhelmed. “Take it,” he groaned. “I’m gonna give it to you, baby. Every fuckin’ drop.” Your vision blurred, heat crashing through you in waves. “Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he growled. “Keep you full for days.”

Your walls clenched again, another wave building, sharp and uncontrollable, and Rafe snapped. He groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock twitching as he spilled into you. “Take it all,” he growled, staying buried, driving so deep your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. You whimpered, too spent to move, body trembling under him.

His breath came hard against your neck, his voice softening with every second. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You hear me? Fuckin’ perfect.”

He eased his hand from your mouth to brush your cheek with his thumb as he tilted down and kissed you slow. You kissed him back, never more satisfied, still full of him, clutching onto his body, not wanting to let go.

And he didn’t move—not yet. Just held you open, his cum warm inside you, his voice gentle in your ear. “Gonna keep you like this,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Full of me. Just the way I like you.”

You shuddered under him. And in that moment—with his hands on your body, his breath in your ear, and his body still one with yours—you had never felt more his… More Rafe’s.

#dilf!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #dilf!rafe #dad!rafe #dad rafe #older rafe cameron #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #my library ᝰ.ᐟ #rafe cameron #rafe #outer banks #obx #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#rafe x reader smut #rafe fanfiction #ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ dilf!rafe x milf!reader au

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junojoel · 3 months ago

Text

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 9.4k

Summary: You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, THEN oral (f!receiving), outdoor sex, joel is a widower, sorry i accidentally made it really sad, joel is also soft for reader, and a romantic

this is the product of me playing stardew valley and reading the pumpkin spice cafe. enjoy :)

The city had a way of hollowing a person out.

You realised it the morning you woke up with your cheek pressed against your desk, a half-finished cover letter stuck to your forearm, and the acidic tang of stale coffee burning your throat. Four years of late-night study sessions, unpaid internships, and networking events had earned you a shiny degree and absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The job offers were there if you wanted them. Cubicle farms with fluorescent lighting and managers who'd call you honey in meetings. Apartment leases with paper-thin walls and neighbours who played bass-heavy music at 3am. A life measured in subway delays and happy hours that weren't happy at all.

So when you found the ad for Miller Ranch buried in the classifieds—Help needed. Room and board. Quiet place for quiet souls—you didn't overthink it. You packed your duffel, left a vague note for your roommate, and pointed your car west until the skyscrapers melted into golden fields.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The ranch wasn't what you expected.

You'd imagined something from a postcard—red barns, cheerful horses, maybe a friendly dog trotting up to greet you. Instead, you found a sprawling property that looked like it had been wrestled from the earth itself. The main house was all rough-hewn logs and a sagging porch, the wood weathered silver by decades of sun. A few outbuildings dotted the land, their roofs patched with rusted tin. And beyond it all, endless stretches of pasture fading into shadowy pines.

You were still sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel, when the screen door creaked open.

He moved like the land did. Slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with anyone else's pace. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, his faded flannel rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scars. His beard was more grey than brown, his hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. But it was his eyes that caught you: dark, assessing, the kind of eyes that had seen too much to be impressed easily.

He studied you with dark eyes that missed nothing. Your clean sneakers, your manicured nails, the way you squinted against the sunlight like you'd never truly seen it before.

"You lost?" His voice was rougher than you expected, like gravel under tires.

You lifted your chin. "Are you Joel Miller?"

"You the one who called about workin' here?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that settled low in your stomach.

You swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh—I emailed last week."

He didn't smile. Just nodded once and stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

You learned fast that Joel Miller didn't waste words.

He showed you the ropes in silence—how to check the fence lines for breaks, how to tell if a horse was favouring a leg, which tools to use when a storm knocked a branch through the chicken coop roof. His hands were always moving, always working, rough fingers handling everything with a care that surprised you.

"You ever done any of this before?" he asked on your third day, watching you struggle to coil a rope properly.

You wiped sweat from your brow. "Does petting a pony at a county fair count?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. "Guess we're startin' from scratch, then."

He didn't baby you, though. When you spilled a bucket of grain, he made you sweep it up. When you misread the clouds and left the hay bales uncovered before a downpour, you spent the next afternoon hauling soggy bundles to the compost. But he never yelled. Never made you feel stupid. Just showed you, again and again, until your hands stopped shaking and your muscles stopped burning.

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You found him in the kitchen at 2 AM, the old percolator hissing on the stove.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, lingering in the doorway.

He didn't turn around. "Old habit. Used to take night shifts checkin' the herds."

You padded closer, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon—he'd been baking earlier, you realized. There was still flour dusting the counter.

"Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Then he reached into the cabinet for a second mug.

You sat at the scarred oak table while he poured, the steam curling between you. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.

"City girl like you," he said suddenly, sliding the coffee toward you. "What made you come out here?"

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin. "Needed to remember what quiet sounded like."

"Why'd you really come out here, darlin'?"

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

You watched the horizon lighten from black to deep blue. "I think... I needed to prove I could."

His knuckles brushed yours as he reached for the bottle. Neither of you moved away.

For the first time, Joel looked at you—really looked at you. And you saw something flicker in his gaze, something warm and understanding.

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The sky turned the colour of a fresh bruise an hour before the twister touched down.

You were repairing the chicken coop roof when the wind kicked up, sending your hammer tumbling into the dirt. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Joel's shout carried across the yard. "Get to the cellar! Now!"

You'd never seen him run before. He moved like a man possessed, boots pounding the hard-packed earth as he closed the distance between you. His arm hooked around your waist just as the first hailstone struck your shoulder, a marble-sized bullet of ice that left your skin throbbing.

The storm cellar doors groaned in protest as Joel wrenched them open. Damp, cool air rushed up to meet you as he practically carried you down the stairs.

Darkness.

Then the single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and, oddly, a stack of well-loved paperbacks.

"You okay?" Joel's hands were suddenly everywhere, tilting your chin up to check your pupils, running down your arms to inspect for injuries, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I'm fine," you breathed, though your heart was trying to escape your chest. "Just... just scared."

The admission hung between you as the storm raged overhead. The bulb flickered again, then died completely, plunging you into blackness.

Joel's voice came from closer than you expected. "Ain't nothin' in this world can hurt you while I'm here."

You reached out blindly, your fingers finding the rough denim of his shirt. His breath hitched as you fisted the fabric.

Somewhere above, the world was ending. Here in the dark, something was beginning.

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The cellar doors groaned as Joel shouldered them open, releasing you both into a world transformed. Dawn painted the ravaged landscape in pale gold, revealing the storm's cruel artistry. A century-old oak now lay uprooted across the north pasture, its massive roots clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fence posts had been plucked from the earth and scattered like straws, barbed wire curling in dangerous spirals across the mud. The chicken coop roof had taken flight, landing thirty yards away in a splintered heap.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. He rotated his left shoulder unconsciously—the old injury from a mustang bucking him off always acted up before rain.

"Gonna need to—"

"Check the livestock first," you finished.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Two months ago you'd asked if cattle could swim during a flash flood. Now you knew ranch priorities.

The work was brutal. By noon, your shirt clung to your back with a mixture of sweat and residual storm humidity. Joel moved with relentless efficiency, his forearms corded with muscle as he wrestled fence posts back into alignment. You watched the way his wedding band caught the sunlight when he wiped his brow, the silver chain glinting against his sun-darkened skin.

At the third post, your blisters burst.

You didn't make a sound, but Joel's head snapped up like he'd heard something. His eyes dropped to your hands, where blood seeped through the leather work gloves.

"Goddammit." He was in front of you in three strides, peeling the ruined gloves off with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the raw flesh of your palm, and you hissed involuntarily.

Joel's mouth tightened. "Should've said something."

"You would've told me to toughen up."

"Would've told you to take a damn break." He rummaged in his saddlebag for the medical kit he always carried. The antiseptic stung, but his hands were steady as he wrapped your palms in gauze. "Stubborn city girl."

The way he said it sounded almost like praise.

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The next week passed in a haze of exhaustion and unexpected discoveries.

You learned that:

A properly sharpened axe sings through wood with a sound like a breath being released

Joel's coffee preferences involved exactly two sugar cubes (never spoonfuls)

Your body could ache in places you didn't know existed

Each evening, Joel would appear at your elbow with some new remedy; a salve made from beeswax and lavender for your sunburn, a stretch to ease the knot between your shoulder blades, a cold beer pressed into your hand with a quiet "You earned it."

Tonight, you found him at the workbench, repairing a bridle by lantern light. The golden glow softened the lines of his face, catching the silver strands in his beard. He didn't look up as you approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly when you set a fresh cup of coffee beside him—two sugars.

"Thanks." His voice was rough from disuse.

You leaned against the bench, close enough to smell leather and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Show me?"

Joel's hands stilled. For a heartbeat, you thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space for you at his side.

"Watch close," he murmured, his shoulder pressing against yours as he demonstrated the intricate stitch. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the needle flashing in the lamplight. "This part's gotta be tight enough to hold, loose enough to flex."

You tried to focus on the technique, but his proximity made concentration impossible. The heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred your hair when he leaned in to correct your grip—

The needle slipped.

"Shit." A bead of blood welled on your thumb.

Joel reacted before you could, catching your wrist. His calloused thumb brushed the droplet away, his mouth set in a hard line. "Ain't paying you to bleed on my tack."

But he didn't let go.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the barn wall—two silhouettes frozen in the amber light, fingers intertwined.

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Betty the nanny goat had taken a disliking to you from day one.

Today, she'd decided to escalate hostilities.

"You're gonna want to—" Joel's warning came too late as you bent to refill the water trough.

Betty's horns connected with your backside with the precision of a missile strike. The world tilted violently as you face-planted into the mud, the entire herd erupting in gleeful bleats that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Strong hands hauled you upright before you could drown in three inches of water. Joel's chest vibrated against your back—the bastard was laughing.

"Told you she don't like people looming over her," he said, voice thick with barely-contained amusement.

You wiped mud from your cheek, glaring. "You could've warned me sooner."

"Where's the fun in that?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, his eyes widening slightly at his own audacity.

Something warm unfurled in your chest. This was new—Joel teasing, letting his guard down. You retaliated by flicking a glob of mud at his shirt.

His jaw dropped. "Did you just—"

The second mudball hit him square in the chest.

For one terrifying second, Joel looked genuinely pissed. Then his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, city girl."

What followed was a mud battle worthy of any childhood memory, complete with strategic retreats behind hay bales and Betty the goat serving as an unwitting double agent. By the time you both collapsed against the fence, breathless and filthy, Joel's laughter rang out clear and unguarded—a sound you'd only heard in fragments before.

The setting sun painted him in gold, his smile lines crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. Mud streaked his cheek, his shirt clung to his torso, and his eyes—

His eyes held yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

The moment stretched, thrumming with something unspoken. Then a cold rivulet of mud slid down your neck, breaking the spell.

Joel cleared his throat, suddenly business-like. "Better clean up before supper." But his fingers lingered on your elbow as he helped you up, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

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The generator sputtered its last breath during the season's first real cold snap.

You found Joel in the living room, already building a fire with the economical movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The flickering light caught the silver in his stubble, the strong line of his nose, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he worked.

"Got extra blankets in the cedar chest," he said without turning.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of the flannel you wore—his flannel, the soft blue one that had been hanging in the hall until you'd "borrowed" it three days ago. The one that smelled faintly of his soap and the woodsmoke that always clung to his clothes.

Joel turned then, freezing when his eyes landed on you. His gaze darkened as it travelled from your bare feet to the oversized cuffs swallowing your hands to the way the fabric draped off one shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second stretching taut between you. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Outside, the wind howled through the pines.

Joel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You—"

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment shattered.

"Should check the livestock," he finished roughly, grabbing his coat with unnecessary force. The door clicked shut behind him with deliberate finality.

You sank onto the couch, pressing your face into the flannel's collar. His scent surrounded you, warm and familiar and utterly intoxicating. Outside, the temperature dropped steadily, but your skin burned as if touched by sunlight.

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The invitation arrived on a Thursday, creased and coffee-stained, delivered by old man Henderson when he came to pick up his repaired plough.

"Annual Harvest Social," the flyer read in looping script. "Music, supper, and dancing at the Grange Hall. All welcome."

You were elbows-deep in soapy dishwater when Joel tossed it onto the counter with a grunt. "Town nonsense," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to your reaction.

You wiped your hands carefully, studying the faded print. "We going?"

The silence stretched so long you thought he hadn't heard. Then:

"You wanna go?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you noticed the way his thumb worried at a callus on his palm.

The image flashed unbidden—Joel in a clean shirt, his large hands warm at your waist, moving to music under paper lanterns. Your throat went dry.

"Could be fun," you managed.

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "I'll dig out my good boots."

The night of the dance, you stood frozen before the hallway mirror, suddenly unsure. The dress—a thrifted floral sundress—felt foreign after months of denim and flannel.

A knock rattled the doorframe.

"Ready or not, we're gonna be—" Joel's voice died abruptly as you turned.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his good white shirt half-buttoned over a clean undershirt, his usual scuffed boots replaced by polished ones. His gaze travelled down your bare legs with the weight of a physical touch before snapping back to your face.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You... uh." He cleared his throat. "We're gonna be late."

The truck ride into town was silent except for the staticky country station and the sound of Joel's fingers tightening rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The Grange Hall glowed like a lantern against the prairie night, alive with fiddle music and laughter. You felt every eye on you as Joel guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back—his touch burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Miller!" A grizzled rancher clapped Joel on the shoulder. "Ain't seen you at one of these in—" His gaze landed on you. "Well I'll be."

Joel's fingers flexed against your spine. "This is—"

"His ranch hand," you supplied, watching the older man's eyebrows climb.

The music shifted then—a slow waltz, all aching strings and longing. Joel stiffened beside you.

Across the room, women whispered behind their hands. You caught snippets—"...that Miller..." "...never brought anyone since..." "...still wears Tess's..."

Joel's jaw clenched. "We should—"

"Dance with me." The words left your lips before you could stop them.

His eyes went wide. "I ain't much for—"

"Please."

Something in your voice broke his resolve. With a shaky exhale, Joel took your hand and led you onto the floor. His right arm slid around your waist, his left hand cradling yours like something precious.

"You're supposed to—"

"Just follow me," he murmured into your hair.

And God help you, you did.

Joel moved with surprising grace for a man who claimed to hate dancing, his body swaying in time to the music. The heat of him surrounded you—the cedar and leather scent of his cologne, the scratch of his collar against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed.

The song ended too soon. Joel made to pull away, but you clung to his hand.

"One more?" you whispered.

In answer, he drew you closer, his lips brushing your temple as the next song began.

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The truck cab was thick with unspoken words as Joel navigated the dark ranch roads. Moonlight painted his profile in silver, catching the tension in his jaw.

"You okay?" you ventured.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Tess loved those dances."

The name hung between you like a ghost. You'd never asked about the wedding band he still wore, about the locked bedroom door at the ranch, about the way he sometimes stared at the horizon like he was waiting for someone.

The truck rolled to a stop outside the darkened house. Joel didn't cut the engine.

"I should tell you about her," he said hoarsely.

You reached across the seat, covering his hand with yours. "Only if you want to."

His fingers turned, intertwining with yours. For a long moment, you sat there in the quiet, two sets of breath fogging the windshield.

Then Joel killed the engine.

You sat in the stillness, your hand wrapped around his, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind through the trees, the hum of the distant creek, and the distant calls of coyotes. For a second, you both just... sat. Neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. The weight of the unspoken words between you felt like an uncharted territory neither of you were willing to navigate just yet.

Joel’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a subconscious comfort more than anything else. His gaze shifted to the darkened ranch house ahead, his eyes narrowing as though the past was pressing in, refusing to let go.

“Tess was…” He started, then paused. The words seemed to choke him for a second. “She was my world, y'know? Before…” He swallowed hard, and you could see his jaw tighten as he forced the rest of it out. “Before she died.”

Your breath caught, the weight of the sudden revelation hanging thick between you. You could feel him pull away into himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were trained somewhere in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular.

“She was the love of my life," Joel continued, his voice low, raw. "We had a house, a future... hell, we had plans. Then…” He trailed off, his hand tightening briefly around the steering wheel, like he was holding onto something for dear life. “She got sick. Fast. One minute, she was fine. The next, she was gone. Just like that."

You stayed quiet, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to ease the weight of that kind of loss. The kind of grief that ran so deep it felt like it might swallow him whole. Joel had always been a man of few words, but this? This was raw.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That it was too late. I kept telling myself I should’ve known... that I should’ve noticed sooner, that maybe I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. And now…” His voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure, even as his hands trembled on the wheel. “Now, it’s just me. And sometimes I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be. Just a guy who lost everything.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching for him. The grief, the loss—it was so much more than you’d ever imagined.

His gaze flicked to you, but only for a moment, before he looked away again, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that told you he was holding himself back from saying more. From letting it all spill out.

“I don’t talk about her much," he muttered, his voice hoarse, like the words had been locked away for far too long. "Tess… she was everything to me. I don’t know how to move on from that. I don’t know if I ever will.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his hand, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on to him, his rough fingers curling against yours as if you were grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

“I’m not asking you to forget her,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand, your voice steady. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, either.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw the rawness of the man behind the rancher—the weight he’d been shouldering for so long, and the part of him that was still fragile, even if he didn’t show it. His eyes softened, though there was still that quiet wariness in his gaze. He hadn’t let go of the past, not entirely, and maybe he never would.

But maybe, just maybe, he could let a little of it slip away.

“You remind me of her,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “The way you... the way you care. Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned in, your hand still holding his. "I'm here, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the truck’s engine and the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world had paused, just for that instant, to let the weight of the moment settle.

Eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the silence with a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “Guess it’s getting late,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure, but his voice was still rough, thick with something unspoken. “We should get inside.”

You both climbed out of the truck, and Joel led the way into the house, his hand brushing against yours once more as you followed him inside. The warmth of the fire hit you immediately, the familiar scent of woodsmoke mingling with the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Joel stopped by the fire, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared into the flames. You stood beside him, not speaking, just being there. A quiet presence, a steady hand in the darkness.

After a long while, Joel spoke again, his voice low. “You remind me of the way things used to be. Before…” He let the sentence trail off, like he didn’t want to finish it.

You didn’t press him. Instead, you simply nodded, letting him find his own pace.

For a while, neither of you said anything, but there was something in the silence now. Something warm. Something that felt like the beginning of something new, something fragile but real.

Eventually, Joel turned toward you, his eyes dark but not empty. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment before he pulled back, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you like that.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. "For listening."

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel quite so alone.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room as the shadows danced across the wooden walls. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt more like a kind of peace settling in around the two of you. Neither of you spoke for a while, as if the silence had become its own conversation.

Joel stood by the fire, staring into the flames, his posture a little less rigid than it had been before. His hand rested on the mantle, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline, but the tension in his body had softened. He looked different somehow, less burdened. Maybe it was the weight of his grief being shared, maybe it was just the comfort of your presence, but something in him had shifted.

You stayed quiet, sitting on the couch, your eyes watching him, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between you. You didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words—it felt like a space where both of you could just be.

But eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the stillness with a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to work through something in his mind.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y’know?” he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself more than to you. “I’ve been running on autopilot for so damn long... Just trying to make it through the day. But lately... everything feels harder.”

You could hear the weight of exhaustion in his voice, the kind that had settled deep in his bones over the years. He wasn’t just tired from the work—he was tired of the constant struggle, of carrying everything on his own.

You stood up slowly, walking over to him. Without saying a word, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough. He stiffened for a second, but then his shoulders relaxed, and he glanced at you, his eyes softening.

“I don’t know how to fix everything for you, Joel,” you said quietly. “I can’t take away the pain, or bring back what you lost... But I’m here. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing you in a different light—maybe not just as someone to lean on, but as someone who was offering him something he hadn’t realised he needed. A way out of the solitude he’d built around himself.

You reached up then, gently cupping his face with your hands. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and his breath hitched for a second, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him there, your eyes locked with his, letting the words settle between you.

“Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm you could sense in him. “Maybe we can just... take it one step at a time.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. And then, almost imperceptibly, Joel leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, like he was allowing himself to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the weight of the past.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were both a confession and a plea. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You smiled gently, your thumbs brushing the roughness of his skin, your heart aching for him. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Joel. You don’t have to fix everything. Just... be here. With me.”

The tension in his body slowly ebbed away, and for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to lean into you. To let someone else carry a small piece of the burden. The moment was fleeting but meaningful, a quiet understanding passing between you both.

“I’m not promising anything, but…” Joel trailed off, his gaze softer now, something more vulnerable creeping into his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start trying. For once.”

You nodded, your heart full of quiet hope, and took a small step closer to him. “One step at a time.”

Joel didn’t answer, but his hand reached for yours, his grip gentle but firm. He didn’t let go when your fingers intertwined. It was a small gesture, but it meant something bigger than words could convey.

The fire crackled again, casting more dancing shadows on the walls, but it felt like the start of something new. Something fragile but real. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were alone either.

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You woke early, as usual, the first light of dawn peeking through the curtains. You could hear Joel already moving around downstairs, the familiar sound of boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the old chair at the kitchen table. You stretched and pulled yourself out of bed, the chill of the room pushing you into motion. It was another busy day ahead—feeding the animals, checking the fences, mending what needed mending—but you found yourself looking forward to it more than you had before.

You made your way downstairs, the aroma of brewing coffee filling the air before you even reached the bottom step. Joel was standing at the stove, his back to you, flipping pancakes in a skillet with an ease that came from years of practice. The warm, golden light of the morning spilled through the windows, making the kitchen glow.

"You’re up early," you said, leaning against the doorframe, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at you, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not much for sleepin’ in." He turned back to the skillet, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Figured I’d get a head start today."

You crossed to the counter, grabbing the mug Joel had already set out for you. "I could get used to this," you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "You know, waking up to pancakes and coffee."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes catching yours for just a second. "Don't get too comfortable. I’m not much of a cook. You might end up makin' these yourself sooner or later."

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around the warm mug. "I think I could manage."

There was an ease in the way the two of you moved around each other now. Where once you’d felt like a stranger in a new world, now it felt... natural. Even the hard work didn’t seem quite so overwhelming anymore. You knew the land better, understood its rhythms, the way it demanded respect without asking for much in return. And Joel—well, Joel was becoming something you hadn’t anticipated. He was still the man of few words, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was a gentleness in him now. A trust.

You sat down at the table, watching him finish cooking, the way his large hands moved so gracefully despite their size. There was a quiet confidence in him now that made your chest tighten, and it wasn’t just because of his strength. It was because, for the first time in a long while, he seemed like he was allowing himself to be here—really here—with you.

"After breakfast," Joel said, setting the last pancake on the stack, "we need to check the horses. Haven’t seen 'em this morning."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee. "Got it. I’ll grab the gear."

The work felt familiar now, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t just about chores anymore—it was a way to connect, to feel part of something larger than yourself. You and Joel worked together, side by side, fixing fences, checking the cattle, and tending to the land. It was a steady rhythm, one that was comforting in its predictability.

By midday, you’d found your stride. You’d mended a tear in the barn roof, helped Joel move hay bales, and checked the water troughs. And when the sky turned to gold with the setting sun, you both found yourselves leaning against the fence, the last light of the day painting everything in warm hues.

Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he shifted, and for a moment, you felt like the world had quieted completely—just the two of you, standing in the vastness of the land you had come to love, connected in a way that felt timeless.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be this comfortable with someone around. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people work with me before, but it’s different with you."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze now—something deeper. "I think I’m finally getting used to the quiet, too," you admitted. "And to you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Joel."

Joel’s lips twitched, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I’m just a stubborn old cowboy," he said with a hint of humor, though there was something more sincere in the way he said it, like he was offering a piece of himself you hadn’t seen before.

You shifted closer, the space between you shrinking. "I don’t mind stubborn," you replied softly. "It’s... kind of endearing."

Joel's smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The evening air was still and cool, the sound of the crickets chirping blending with the distant lowing of the cattle. The world was small here, simple. But somehow, it felt full.

When you reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, your hand grazed Joel’s arm. He stiffened just slightly, and for a heartbeat, you both seemed to hesitate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached out again, this time more deliberately, and placed your hand on his forearm, your fingers lingering.

Joel’s gaze flickered down to where your hand rested, and then back to your face. There was an unspoken understanding between you now—no more games, no more hesitations.

"Don’t go getting any ideas," Joel said, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might end up stickin' around for good."

A light laugh bubbled up from you, and you squeezed his arm. "I’m already stickin' around," you said, your voice more certain.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the horizon as you and Joel made your way back from the creek. The day had been long, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—a quiet contentment that settled in your chest. Now, as the evening light bathed everything in gold, the two of you walked in silence back toward the house. The barn loomed behind you, and the fields stretched out endlessly before you, a peaceful canvas of green and brown.

You were both tired, but there was an energy between you that felt new, something that tugged at the edges of your thoughts. It was the way your heart seemed to race just a little faster every time Joel’s presence shifted around you. The way your breath caught in your throat when you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Joel stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his boots kicking up the dirt, and turned toward you, his face softening in the fading light. The warmth of the day was still lingering in the air, and the world around you seemed to hush, waiting.

“You’ve been here for a while now,” Joel said, his voice low, like he was considering each word carefully. “I’ve seen you adjust. You’ve done more than just fit in. You’ve... become part of this place.”

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quickening at the seriousness in his eyes. "I never thought I’d find a place like this," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "And I never thought I’d meet someone like you."

Joel stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the dirt. His presence felt different now—closer, more intense. He stood just a few feet away, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joel said, his voice softer now, like he was letting down a barrier. “About how much you’ve changed things around here. Not just for the ranch, but... for me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. And in that instant, the world seemed to still, the sounds of the ranch fading into nothing.

With a slight movement, Joel reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. It was a soft, almost tentative gesture, but there was a strength to it, an undeniable certainty in the way his thumb brushed across your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, igniting something that had been slowly building since you arrived.

Before you could think, before the moment could slip away, you leaned in.

Joel’s hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world around you melting away. His lips were warm and insistent, and the gentle pressure of his kiss sent a thrill rushing through you. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the world and all its distractions faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something new, something that had shifted in the space between the two of you.

Joel’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You smiled, your chest full, heart racing. “I think I’ve wanted you to.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “You’re not what I expected, you know that?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, before stepping back just slightly, your fingers brushing his. “Neither are you.”

You were up earlier than usual, moving through the kitchen in a daze of thoughts, your mind still racing from the kiss. The silence of the ranch was comforting, almost like a cocoon, wrapping you up in the stillness of everything around you.

Joel hadn’t said much when you parted ways the night before, but the look in his eyes—intense, yet soft—had told you everything. It was clear that neither of you had expected the shift that had come so naturally, but now, there was no denying it. Whatever had just begun, it wasn’t something you could walk away from.

You heard the soft sound of boots on the porch, the familiar rhythm of Joel’s steps as he made his way toward the house. You turned around just as he entered, the sight of him bringing an unexpected rush of warmth to your chest.

He smiled, a little shy, a little unsure—like he was still figuring out where to stand in all of this. You both were.

“Mornin’,” he greeted softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet sincerity.

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a smile that felt more like home than anything else.

By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was filled with the scent of eggs and bacon, the soft clinking of plates as you set the table.

“Want to head out to the fields later?” Joel asked, his voice casual but with a hint of anticipation.

You nodded, your stomach fluttering with excitement. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel smiled, that familiar warmth returning to his expression.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as you and Joel made your way out into the vast expanse of the ranch. The air had warmed up since the early morning, and there was a gentle breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As you walked beside him, your thoughts drifted back to the peaceful breakfast you’d shared. The conversation had been easy, flowing naturally between you, but there had been something comforting in the silence, too.

When you reached the edge of the field, you stopped, your eyes falling on a patch of grass where Joel had already laid out a blanket. There, in the middle of the field, with nothing but the sounds of nature around you, he had set up a picnic. The scene was simple, but there was something about it that felt intimate, like a secret just for the two of you.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of sharing a meal together only adding to the sense of peace that seemed to settle over you both. After a few moments, Joel reached for the book beside him, holding it out to you with a slight grin.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

You took the book from his hands, glancing at the cover—The Secret Garden. Your heart warmed at the thought of him wanting to share something so personal. It felt like an invitation to step into his world, to see the things he held close.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Joel settled back against the blanket, the sun casting a golden glow over him, and you curled up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The moment felt so simple, but in its simplicity, it was perfect. The world outside this small bubble you had created seemed to fade away as he began to read aloud, his voice deep and steady, the words flowing smoothly into the air.

As he read, you let yourself relax, the sound of his voice weaving a sense of comfort around you. There was something incredibly romantic about the way he read, each word filled with a quiet intensity, like he was sharing a piece of himself with you in each sentence. The book’s story was a good one, the characters coming to life with Joel’s voice, but it wasn’t just the story that held your attention—it was the feeling of being here with him, in this moment, with nothing else to do but listen and be present.

You could hear the occasional breeze stirring the trees, the distant call of a bird, but everything else seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself wrapped up in both the story and in him.

Eventually, Joel turned a page, pausing for a moment as he glanced at you. “You comfortable?” he asked, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

You nodded, lifting your head slightly to look up at him. “I’m perfect,” you said, and it was true. There was no place you’d rather be than here, beside him, feeling the warmth of the day and the gentleness of his presence.

Joel gave you a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned to the book. He continued reading, his voice almost a soothing hum against the backdrop of the quiet ranch. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way he spoke with such focus and care. It was moments like this—quiet, intimate, with no rush—that made everything feel so right.

As the story unfolded, you both became more absorbed in the tale, but time seemed to stretch, becoming less important. The whole world could have passed by, and you wouldn’t have noticed. It was just the two of you, sharing a peaceful day in the fields, wrapped up in a story and in each other.

When Joel finished the chapter, he closed the book and placed it beside him, his hand gently resting on the blanket. He looked over at you, his expression soft.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice a little hushed.

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I did. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of quiet, a small but meaningful silence that held everything you both hadn’t yet said, but didn’t need to. You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your gaze catching his. You could feel the subtle change in the air between you, the quiet understanding that had been building all morning, now palpable.

Slowly, as if it had always been meant to happen, you leaned in, closing the space between you. Joel’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then, without any more words needed, your lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that lingered in your soul long after it ended.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together, both of you breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think I could get used to this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel smiled, his eyes soft with affection as he gazed at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

"You’ve... you’ve got a way of making everything feel a little different," Joel said, his voice catching slightly as he looked into your eyes. The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his words settling between you like a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of something growing deeper between you both.

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. The way he was looking at you now was unlike anything you’d seen before. His gaze was hungry, but not in the way it had been before—this was more. More raw, more real.

You didn’t say anything in response. Instead, you let the tension build, your breath shallow as you reached for him, cupping his jaw gently in your hand. His breath hitched as your thumb traced the line of his jaw, and you couldn’t help but lean in just a little, your lips barely brushing against his.

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the storm that had always been present was even clearer now. You could see the restraint in the way his body was coiled, like a man holding back the tide.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Joel didn’t need any more encouragement. His lips crashed against yours, hot and urgent, a mixture of relief and longing as if he were finally giving in to something he’d held at bay for far too long. The kiss was fierce, as though he were trying to make up for all the time spent keeping his distance.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him with a strength that made your breath hitch. The heat between you two grew, making the air around you seem almost too thick to breathe. You could feel the solid weight of him against you, the way his chest pressed into yours with each kiss, the way his hands wandered across your back, memorising every curve of you.

His lips left yours only long enough for him to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me," Joel murmured, his voice rougher than usual, the words a low growl.

You laughed breathlessly, your hands still resting on his chest. "I think I’m starting to get the idea."

The blanket beneath you was rough against your bare thighs, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as Joel hovered over you, his body casting a shadow that made the gold in his eyes burn even brighter. His lips had just left yours, swollen and wet from the way he’d kissed you—deep, consuming, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, voice rough, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was already fighting the urge to take more.

In answer, you arched up against him, your chest brushing his, and Joel let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips. "Out here like this—anyone could—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding against the hard length of him, and Joel cursed, his restraint snapping.

His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher until his calloused fingers met bare skin. You gasped as he traced the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing, maddening.

"Joel—"

"Tell me what you want," he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before dragging down your neck, teeth scraping lightly.

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shirt. "You. Just you."

That was all it took.

His hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you already wet, already aching for him. He groaned against your throat as he stroked you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips jerked against his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, watching the way your body responded to him. "Look at you."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers worked you with a precision that had your toes curling. But just as you were teetering on the edge, Joel pulled back, leaving you empty, desperate.

Your protest was cut off when his mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided your hand to his belt.

"Wanna feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle, then the button of his jeans, and when you finally freed him, Joel hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking into your touch.

He was thick, hot in your hand, and when you stroked him, his entire body tensed, his grip on your thigh tightening almost to the point of pain.

"Fuck—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "Gonna ruin me."

You smiled, squeezing lightly, and Joel growled, his patience gone.

In one swift motion, he yanked your underwear aside and pushed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Joel stilled, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, his voice strained.

Joel's breath was fire against your neck, his body trembling with restraint as he waited for your answer.

"More than okay," you gasped, arching into him, needing him deeper.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joel moved with a roughness that stole your breath—deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jaw clenched tight with pleasure. The sight of him—undone, wrecked, yours—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

"Joel—"

"Know what you do to me?" he rasped, his thrusts turning slower, deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you. "Fuckin' ruin me."

You clenched around him, and his control snapped.

With a groan, Joel flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he surged into you, his rhythm turning desperate. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter—until you shattered, crying out his name.

Joel followed with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then Joel exhaled, rough and unsteady, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Christ," he muttered, voice wrecked.

You grinned, still trembling beneath him. "That a complaint?"

Joel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Ain't even close."

His touch gentled as he traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the inside of your thigh—checking, silently, for any discomfort. When he found none, his hand returned to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You good?" The question was gruff, but his eyes—dark and liquid in the low light—held an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Better than good."

Joel’s throat worked. He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, nothing like the frantic heat of before. This was something else—a claiming, a promise, a thank you that didn’t need words.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Gonna take care of you," he murmured, already moving to slide down your body.

You caught his shoulder. "Joel—"

"Shhh." A kiss to your sternum. "Let me."

His mouth was hot as it traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping deliciously. You gasped when his tongue laved over you, slow and thorough, his hands spreading you wide.

"Joel—"

His grip tightened. "Told you," he growled against your skin. "Gonna take my time."

And he did.

By the time he was done, you were boneless and breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair as he crawled back up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the flutter of your pulse.

"Still good?" he asked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your limbs heavy with pleasure.

Joel smirked, that rare, real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"Rest," he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. "I got you."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

As you drifted, Joel reached for the spare blanket, draping it over you both. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—circles, spirals, the occasional brush of his knuckles—as if memorising you by touch.

Joel’s lips brushed your forehead. "Stay?"

Not a command. A question.

You curled closer, your leg hooking over his. "Try and make me leave."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, his arms tightening around you. "Wouldn’t dare."

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in the heat of him, you realised—

You were home.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction

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skippitydippity · 2 years ago

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MY GRANDMA GOT ME A CLOTHING GIFT CARD IM SO EXCITED

#on one hand. it is a fast fashion website #on the other hand I'm wearing a pair of pants from there that I've had for four years with a hole in the crotch rn #fast fashion bad but i use the clothes until they're in tatters and then reuse them for patching other clothes or dying or whatever #skippy shut up

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cressidagrey · 9 days ago

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Mother Nature

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Oscar wants some peace and quiet after the Miami GP.

Warnings and Notes: Do I like Hiking? Nope. But I feel like this is something Felicity and Oscar would actually do. Also one mention of a past eating disorder.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

The woods were still. Dew clung to the undergrowth, sunlight dappling in long golden patches through the trees. Birdsong filtered gently through the canopy. Somewhere far behind them, the world was still spinning—grid gossip, media soundbites, and Miami’s pastel chaos—but here, there was just the rhythm of boots on soil, the rustle of breeze, and Bee humming softly behind his ear.

Oscar exhaled.

They’d been walking since early morning, starting near Leith Hill Tower, climbing steadily through the forest. He could feel the weight of Bee in the carrier against his back—her chin tucked sleepily on his shoulder now, fingers tangled in the strap of his hoodie. Nearly four, and still not quite ready to do the whole hike herself, but stubborn enough to demand she start on her own legs before eventually giving in to the ride.

Felicity walked just ahead of him, hair tied in a loose braid, a thermos clipped to her backpack and mud already splattered up her leggings. She turned slightly to look back at him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. He nodded—still good—and she smiled before turning back to the path.

God, he’d missed this.

No cameras. No ring lights. No microphones shaped like martini glasses. Just trees, and silence, and the two people he wanted most.

They used to do this nearly every week. During the Enstone year, when everything else was grim and grey—when the apartment walls were too thin and the furniture too cheap and Oscar’s future too uncertain—they hiked. Surrey hills. South Downs. Sometimes just long walks through fields behind the village shops. Back then, Felicity was the only thing steady. She kept him grounded, even when everything else felt like scaffolding ready to fall.

In 2020, when Bee was born, and those first weeks were a blur of monitors and sterile NICU silence, Oscar had felt like he was held together by tape.

When they finally brought her home—tiny, scarred, brilliant—he started running with her. Not to get fitter. Not to train. But because movement meant control, and control meant he didn’t fall apart. Sometimes, when Bee couldn’t sleep and Felicity hadn’t eaten, he’d strap her into the jogger pram and run until her breathing slowed and his own heart calmed.

She’d grown up like that—wrapped against him as miles passed. He wasn’t sure she even knew that most dads didn’t take their toddlers running on country roads while naming trees and talking about downforce.

Ten miles in, and she was still content, even if sleepy. Occasionally mumbling “leaf,” or “mud,” or once, “Papa sweaty,” with absolute disdain.

Oscar huffed a laugh, glancing at Felicity again. She was crouched by a small patch of wildflowers, showing Bee something—a bee, probably, or a rock that looked like a dinosaur. She never pointed out grand things. Always the quiet ones. The hidden ones. And Bee absorbed it all.

They hiked in silence for a little while longer. The trail narrowed, and Oscar adjusted Bee’s weight, listening to her snuffle behind him.

He didn’t say it out loud—he rarely did—but these were the moments that made it all feel worth it. Not the podiums or the contracts. Not the headlines or the hype. Just this.

By the time they reached the zenith,Bee was fast asleep.

She’d nodded off somewhere around mile 10, one chubby cheek smushed against Oscar’s shoulder, her breath warm and rhythmic against the nape of his neck. Her tiny hands still clutched the strap of the carrier, though her fingers twitched every now and then like she was dreaming of climbing trees or chasing chickens back home.

The trail on the way down was easier. Looser, winding, gentle underfoot.

Oscar shifted his weight slightly, careful not to jostle her. He could feel the soft heaviness of her sleep against him, her body completely relaxed in that trustful way toddlers had when they felt safe.

He slowed his pace just a little.

Ahead of him, Felicity had paused by the edge of the trail to wait for him. Her hair was falling out of its braid, and she had a leaf stuck to her sock. She looked up and smiled at the sight of him trudging down the path, their daughter a bundled little koala against his back.

“She’s out?” she asked softly.

“Completely,” he said. “Didn’t even fight it this time.”

Felicity grinned. “Must’ve inherited my stamina.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “She sprinted through a patch of nettles earlier. You were the one who stopped to name all the moss.”

“It was rare moss,” she said, mock offended. “And I was educating your child.”

“She fell asleep halfway through your speech about root systems.”

“Honestly, so rude of her.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. Felicity brushed a few strands of hair off Bee’s forehead where they’d stuck to his hoodie. Her fingers lingered for a moment, just long enough to fix the strap, and then dropped.

They kept walking.

Below them, the hills began to roll out into open fields. A dog barked faintly somewhere in the distance. The world was waking up.

Oscar didn’t say much on the descent. He didn’t have to. Felicity’s arm brushed his every now and then. Bee’s tiny exhales tickled the back of his neck.

The gravel crunched underfoot as they finally stepped into the small car park near Leith Hill’s edge.

Oscar’s legs ached — that deep, familiar pull from too many miles and not enough downhill grace — but he didn’t mind. Not when Bee was still fast asleep, a warm, limp little weight against his back, her curls damp with sweat and her hand tucked under her chin like she was curled into bed.

Felicity walked a little ahead, already fishing the car keys out of her jacket. “She’s really not going to wake up, huh?”

“Out like a light,” Oscar murmured. “I think we broke her.”

“We did let her climb half the hill like a goat before remembering she’s three.”

“She insisted on it. Said she wanted to beat her personal best.”

“Her personal best is usually a tree stump.”

Oscar laughed quietly as they reached the car. Felicity opened the back door with a practiced flick, then held it open with her hip while reaching up to help unbuckle the carrier.

“Okay,” she whispered, hands gentle on the straps. “Let’s tag-team this.”

Oscar tilted his shoulders, careful not to jostle Bee, and crouched slightly. “You take her arms, I’ll handle the leg straps.”

“On three?”

“One… two…”

Bee gave a soft snore.

“Abort,” Felicity said quickly, freezing mid-unclip. “She’s twitching.”

Oscar paused, holding perfectly still as their daughter’s brow furrowed slightly in her sleep — then settled again, cheek smushed adorably against his hoodie.

They both exhaled like they were defusing a bomb.

Felicity tried again, this time even slower, managing to slide Bee’s arms out of the straps without waking her. Oscar crouched lower, catching her under the arms as she slowly sagged into him like a sleepy sandbag.

“She’s dead weight,” he whispered, adjusting his hold. “Like carrying a damp loaf of bread.”

“A very cute loaf,” Felicity murmured, brushing Bee’s curls off her face as she flopped sleepily against Oscar’s chest, her thumb halfway to her mouth.

“Think I can strap her into the car seat without waking her?”

“You drive F1 cars for a living,” Felicity said. “I believe in you.”

Oscar grinned.

Between the two of them, with the skill of sleep-deprived parents everywhere, they managed it. Bee stirred once — a little whimper, a scrunched brow — but Oscar whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, Bumblebee,” and stroked her back, and she settled again like nothing had happened.

They both shut their doors quietly.

Inside the car, the air was cooler. Bee’s head lolled to the side, soft breaths misting the window. Oscar twisted in his seat to check her one more time.

“She’s still out,” he said, voice low.

Felicity glanced back too, then smiled, soft and proud. “That was her longest hike yet.”

Oscar reached for her hand across the center console and laced their fingers together. “She’ll be climbing mountains soon.”

“She already does,” Felicity said. “Just on your back.”

Oscar leaned his head against the seat and smiled.

This.

This was what peace looked like.

Not headlines. Not trophies.

Just this.

***

The drive home was quiet.

Bee stayed asleep the entire way, her head slumped to the side in her car seat, thumb still curled near her mouth. Felicity had kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her on the passenger seat, absently scrolling through photos on her phone — most of them blurry shots of Bee pointing at squirrels or Oscar carrying her up the ridge trail like a human pack mule.

They’d barely cleared Dorking when Oscar turned into the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Felicity blinked up. “What are you doing?”

“Making an executive decision,” Oscar said solemnly.

“I literally made lentil stew last night,” she muttered. “We have prepped meals. We have hummus.”

“We also just walked nearly twenty miles with a toddler and haven’t eaten since noon.”

“You had trail mix.”

“I had five sad almonds and a raisin.”

Felicity opened her mouth — paused — then closed it again. “Fine.”

“You’re not going to make me a chart about preservatives later, are you?” Oscar asked as they waited.

Felicity just sighed. “Only if you order fries.”

Oscar pulled up to the speaker. “Can I get one chocolate milkshake and two vanilla, please?”

Bee stirred faintly in the back.

“Make that one vanilla, one strawberry,” Felicity said. “Vanilla is her sleepy choice.”

Oscar grinned at her. “So you do want one.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

The voice on the speaker confirmed the order, and a minute later, Oscar was handing over three sweating plastic cups with those too-thick red straws. He passed one to Felicity, who took it like someone receiving contraband.

“I can,” Oscar said cheerfully, taking a long slurp. “You made your own peanut butter last week, you’ve earned it.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes, but the first sip hit her tongue and she visibly wilted. “Oh no. It’s perfect. This is why I don’t let myself have them.”

Oscar glanced sideways at her — head tipped against the window, ponytail loose, cheeks pink from the wind, lashes smudged slightly under her eyes. She looked tired, and soft, and so, so alive.

He thought — not for the first time — about the girl she used to be.

When they were 14 and she was so thin that she looked like a gust of wind could carry her away. When she didn’t eat because that felt like the one thing in her life that she could control.

Teenage Felicity would have looked at a McDonald’s milkshake like it was poison.

And here she was. 23 now. Ponytail falling out, curls soft around her face, pink-cheeked and barefoot in his passenger seat. Drinking vanilla milkshake without apology.

His heart ached with how proud he was of her.

“Don’t tell the sourdough,” she sighed.

Oscar laughed.

“Bee,” Oscar called gently. “Want a milkshake?”

His daughter’s eyes opened in slow motion, and the second she saw the cup in his hand, she sat bolt upright like she'd been summoned by sugar-based witchcraft. “Strawberry?!”

Felicity sighed. “You have created a monster.”

Oscar passed the cup back. “And I love her.”

Bee clutched the milkshake with both hands and immediately slurped like it was her life source. Then she leaned her head against the side of her car seat and sighed in bliss.

Oscar looked over at Felicity, who was halfway through hers now and trying to look unimpressed. “You can admit it. McDonald’s milkshake is your weakness.”

She took another long sip and gave him a deeply betrayed look.

“I’ll deny everything,” she said. “This never happened.”

Oscar raised his cup in toast. “To our health queen, momentarily dethroned by the glory of vanilla extract and industrial-grade dairy stabiliser.”

Felicity bumped her cup against his with a resigned sigh. “God help me if Bee remembers this.”

Bee, licking artificial strawberry off her straw, chirped: “Best. Hike. Ever.”

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs.

And right now, it tasted like strawberry milkshake and everything being exactly enough.

***

Instagram Post - @/oscarpiastri ✅

Comments:

@/maxfewtrell: 🤨 i blinked and oscar turned into a poet

@/yourgfcarla: she’s SO PRETTY it’s giving forest nymph who knows how to rebuild a gearbox

@/brakebiasfanclub: he really said: you don’t get to know her, you just get to witness that she exists 🫢

@/formulawives: "still the best part"??? WE'RE SO UNWELL

@/f1updatesdaily who took this picture of oscar’s mysterious engineer wife. was it oscar. is oscar the wife guy of the year. discuss.

@/sourdough_sinners not her looking like a woodland elf who makes spreadsheets for fun

@/f1wifelore why does this feel like a Victorian love letter via Instagram

@/felicitysfanpage i am once again asking for her skincare routine and engine oil preferences

@/danielricciardo she’s out of your league. respectfully.

@/maxverstappen1 did you hike or was this just a nature photoshoot disguised as cardio

@/mclaren Nature looks good on you, Oscar 🍃

@/sophiagracewrites this feels like page 237 of a novel where the main character realizes they’ve been in love the whole time

@/user193847 you guys he’s in love love 💀💀💀

@/f1girlsbookclub oscar piastri hikes??? like with boots and effort????

@/tiregirlie420 idk what i expected from him but it was NOT forest-core husband energy

@/slowpitstopfan excuse me?? he hikes?? regularly??? does McLaren know about this??

@/gaslythotwife I thought he got his cardio in by being emotionally evasive 😭

@/helmetontilt the real plot twist isn’t the mystery wife. it’s that oscar piastri willingly walks uphill in his free time.

@/brakesbeforeboys nah the idea of oscar being like “let’s get some air” and just vanishing into the HILLS is doing things to me

@/be.forreal do we think he uses a hydration pack. i need to know if oscar piastri owns a hydration pack.

@/gridwivesanonymous HE’S NOT EVEN TAGGING HER BUT HE IS GIVING HER “SOFT FOCUS IN THE GOLDEN HOUR LIGHT” ENERGY. THIS IS MARRIAGE. THIS IS A HIKE-BASED LOVE STORY.

@/notyourpitstop just realized that means he wears fleece. like fleece and hiking boots. i’m so unwell.

@/pitlanepropaganda

me: he's a calm analytical driver with an insane corner exit

also me, looking at this post: HE’S A WHIMSICAL FOREST HUSBAND WHO HOLDS HER HAND OVER TREE ROOTS

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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forthelorewick · 5 days ago

Text

Another one couldn’t hurt… right?

Daddy Joel but not in that way

WC 7.8k - Warnings/content: no outbreak!au, domestic fluff, established relationship (Joel and reader are married), husband!joel x wife!reader, some physical descriptions, results of childbearing, mentions of pregnancy, unprotected p-in-v, oral sex (f receiving), breeding kink (even if your eyes are wide open, you don’t need to squint), age gap relationship, reader is 32 & Joel is 46 (met at 19 and 33),

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

You and Joel decide to take your kids for ice cream on a restless night.

Usually the kids were in bed by 9:00pm, but for some reason, the house was wide awake on this particular Saturday night.

Even you and Joel, who usually hoped to be in bed at 10pm since you both like waking up early and enjoying a quiet early morning together.

Your son, who is currently in his “obsessed with daddy” phase (you wonder if any of them would truly grow out of that, seeing as your now 6 year old daughter still favors him over you…. traitors) clings to Joel’s legs as he plays with them, trying to wear off all of the sugar they just consumed.

You watch from the picnic table outside the ice cream shop which happens to stay open until midnight, watching your kids play in the grass. They’re running around and throwing themselves at Joel, who catches them and rough houses with them.

You see him glance over to you as he’s now perched on all fours, his chest heaving from the exertion of playing with energetic kids, the two youngins take this opportunity of distraction to jump on his back. You hear a “humph” of strain from the man who still hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. He smiles that devilish smile, the one you know all too well. The one that made three kids to begin with. You roll your eyes and absent-mindedly bite your lip as your youngest watches her oldest siblings from your lap.

You shake your head as he stands up, sliding the two wily children off of him, and motions the two of you over to join the chaos, your son and daughter his biggest cheerleaders in his endeavor. You set your toddler down gently as she wiggles in defiance, attempting to escape your grasp. She makes a mad dash for it (as fast as a thirty-two month old can realistically dash…) and you chuckle, following her over to the grass.

“How’s daddy doing over here with these menaces?”

“I’m not a menace!” Your son says as he grabs Joel’s legs, attempting to take them out from beneath him.

“No?” You hear giggles erupt from your children. They had now somehow managed to get your husband to the ground, and were stubbornly sitting on his back again.

You tsk your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“I’m fine…” Joel grumbles from beneath them, sighing in faux defeat before glancing back up at you and smirking. He’s recruiting you to help ‘get them off me’, his big, brown eyes plead.

You get into character immediately, the infamous lion they call “mommy” emerges as she grabs each youngling and drags them back to her cave which is just a separate patch of grass,“You’re mine now, what will you do!”

They plead for daddy, whilst giggling infectiously. Your youngest reaches her hands up for her dad who is watching with his hands on his hips and a wide grin. “Alright, c’mon…” he leans down to pick her up and extends a hand to help you up off of the ground.

The giggles begin dying down but your son keeps randomly getting bursts of the giggles… and that’s how you know you successfully wore them out.

“Let’s get you little cubs home.”

You look over to Joel whose eyes are already on you, he gently motions his head to your youngest who is already snoozing against his shoulder as he carries her back to the car. Your four and six year old have managed to climb into the car and you give each of them a kiss on their cheek as you buckle them up in their car seats. “You and daddy are always fun…” your oldest daughter grumbles sleepily.

“Well, we’ve got some fun kiddos like you to keep us young.”

She smiles at this and nods gently, “I’m ready for bed now, mommy.”

“So am I, sweet pea, let’s get home.”

Joel patiently waits in the driver’s seat after getting the youngest into her car seat. You climb into the passenger's seat and let out a sigh. “Wore me out…” you lean your head against the headrest and look over to Joel.

He raises a singular eyebrow “too worn out?”

You shake your head lightly, “I could be persuaded otherwise.”

His hand meets your thigh, squeezing it firmly then sliding it higher and higher… “you’re such a good mama.” His thumb trails circles on your thigh, you hum contentedly at his gentle and soothing touch.

“You’re a wonderful daddy,” and he should know how much you adore him. How much you know his true calling is being a dad to the three munchkins now sleeping in their car seats.

“Can I have another one?”

Your jaw slightly opens in disbelief, “Seriously? Four? Could we even handle that?”

“I mean don’t you like the intervals? Two, four, six….” he tilts his head and a sly smile spreads on his face…. “we’re due for another.”

You playfully swat at his arm. “I’d be forty-six when the last one even reaches high school.”

You watch as Joel calculates the numbers and his eyes light up as he looks back at you briefly with a shimmer of mischievousness appearing in them. “Is that a yes?”

You roll your eyes.

“How about once we potty train little miss Ellie and we can… discuss it,” you knew she was getting close to being fully potty trained. She was rounding nearer to her third birthday and it had been pretty smooth sailing. You wanted to make sure no regression would happen if you and Joel decided to have another. That is why you spaced them out in the first place, even if it was only two years between.

“Whatever you want to do, baby… I can deal without too.” He crooks his finger and motions for you to lean closer so the kids can’t hear what he’s about to say. “Just want to see your tight, sexy pregnant body one more time… it will be the last time, I promise.”

Your face flushes red, reminiscing on the absolute ferality that emerges from Joel when he sees the evidence of the seed he planted deep within you take root and bloom. “You said that last time…” you scold, reaching your hand behind his head, your fingernails finding his scalp, scratching and massaging his head just how he likes it.

You hear a groan of approval and appreciation, quiet enough so they kids can’t hear, but loud enough that you could as you lean in closer.

“I think you’re warming up to my idea, aren’t ya.. I’ll take good care of ya, promise.”

And he does take such good care of you, especially when you’re pregnant… catering to your cravings, your insecurities, even helping you exercise since you can’t stand the recovery your body had to go through with your first one. Now that was a rough pregnancy, and the first usually is.

The other two had been seemingly a breeze in comparison. No tears and no leftover scars, the other natural changes you thought were truly beautiful. Stretch marks, a little bit of loose skin that has slowly been going away as you continue exercising, but you know it will never truly be gone. No one told you how strong your arms, thighs, and back would get, you have pretty defined muscles in those areas due to lugging around children and whatever they came with to their different activities and outings. Even your calves looked crazy to you, like you had gone back to your youthful soccer days.

But you still felt insecure about your body, even whilst knowing the reality of “bouncing back” is a misogynist view on childbearing completely… you wish you hadn’t gained the last twenty pounds, even though they do look good on you.

They filled in your breasts and ass, and Joel… well, he surely had no complaints. Evidence of bearing his children and being a realistic mama who was able to bounce back into shape out of necessity for your job and for the energetic kids who now outnumbered you.

You had been a small thing, really, compared to him at least… he had found that sexy as hell too. Meeting a young thing like you so independent and sure of yourself. Melting him and wrapping him around your finger in a way he had never intended but had no regrets. Your preference for older men was rooted in your need for someone who could hold their own against you, who could handle your spitfire mouth, your need for emotional, mental, and physical enrichment. Could handle the fact that you made more money than he did, that you had the ambition that could drive you endlessly.

He had enjoyed your youth and your energy being solely reserved for him and for the first four years of marriage– until you decided you were ready to grow your family, to expand the love you shared for each other into raising children. Pregnancy really did look good on you in every regard. Even in its rougher moments. Being a mom looked even better on you in Joel’s opinions. Even, especially, in its rough moments. Your ability to handle yourself, yet asking for help when you needed it was so fucking sexy to him.

“Just get me home, daddy,” you never said that word in any way but referring to him in front of the kids, or in the context of making him one… you watched as he shifted in the driver's seat, his pants tightening at your words.

He pulls into the driveway a few moments later, his grip causing his knuckles to turn white as he opens the garage door, pulls the car in, and hastily, yet as calmly as he can as to not rouse the children… begins to unbuckle them to take them to their beds. The faster they’re settled, the faster you two can get some much needed alone time.

“Goodnight my little gremlins, sweet dreams,” you heard him from outside their room. The house was large enough for them to have their own rooms when they wanted them, but even your oldest insisted it helped her sleep knowing her siblings were right there where she could hear and see them.

You think she might have a little bit of anxiety, especially since she was the only child who had experienced a death in the family, at least one that she could semi-understand.

Joel’s mother passed away when Sarah was four, she was curious and incredibly empathetic of her daddy who was visibly distraught and mourning the loss. She didn’t quite understand it, how could she? It was confusing to such a young child, going to a funeral and seeing her grandmother who smelled of warmth and cookies… suddenly cold and in a box. It felt almost cruel to bring her, hoping to distract her with the snacks and treats they had provided the family in the back room.

You didn’t want to shield her from reality, that wasn’t the point, but it wasn’t right to force her into processing death when she was just beginning to process life. Artie had only been two at the time, and though you don’t want to discredit his experience as a baby observing the world— you knew he didn’t process it like Sarah did. And you had been pregnant with Ellie, it felt wrong to receive “congratulations” from relatives you rarely saw or had any real acquaintance with. Celebrating new life and the life of a loved one who had passed on simultaneously.

Regardless, Sarah liked keeping her younger siblings under close supervision, and it warmed your heart to know how close she and her siblings were. What would you not give to have a relationship like that with your siblings? And well, Joel and Tommy, as strained as their relationship got at certain points, they had grown up and were as thick as thieves at this point. Tommy, still the trouble maker, but had redirected his tendency for trouble into kid-friendly mischief and your kids adored him for it.

But it wasn’t his brother on your mind right now, it was the ever-capable, supportive, nurturing, and patient brother whom you had fallen in love with. The strong, broad, and stern man who made your legs weak as you watched his tenderness with your little ones.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him lay your oldest down gently in her “big girl bed”, you can’t help the smile that spreads on your face. You’re sure the term to describe the way you looked at him was ‘dreamy’, wondering how the hell you got so lucky.

He gives each kid a kiss on the forehead and makes sure the nanny cam is on, every night…

As he turns to leave, he catches you staring, he always does, and that cocky smirk of his shows up right on cue.

He quirks an eyebrow then raises them playfully, his hands find your hips as he pushes you backwards, and briefly turns back around to close the door to their room gently, leaving you alone again, finally.

“Think we tired ‘em out, they’re out cold” his voice is low and suggestive, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands grip your waist tighter, your back meeting the wall opposite of their door.

You feel his hot breath on your cheek as he gently presses his lips to it.

“I love you,” he presses kisses down your chin and to your jaw, then proceeds to nuzzle his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His arms wrap tightly around you.

Your fingers run through his hair, the soft, grey curls at the back of his neck were one of your very favorite things in this whole world.

He hums at the sensation, contentedly remaining where he was in the crook of your neck, you press a kiss to his temple.

“You seem tired, baby,” you say softly, your hands cupping his face and bringing him up to where you could see his eyes.

He smiles sleepily, “No ‘m not.” It was the least convincing denial you’d ever heard.

His eyes are searching yours, the sparkle of adoration so visible in those big brown eyes of his. So soft, so perfect.

“Okay, big brown eyes, let’s go to bed,” those same eyes light up and he complies, allowing you to lead him to the master bedroom.

He gently leads you to the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you collapse onto it together. He peppers kisses wherever he can reach, causing you to giggle infectiously. “Baby…” he croons, his arms loosening as his arms start to wander. His fingertips finding the hem of your sweatshirt and slowly… slowly tracing the waistband of your shorts.

You can’t help the little sounds you make as soon as he touches you. It’s an involuntary response that he just adores. His touch is an aphrodisiac to you. Intentionally or not, he melts you.

“Just a… a practice round, yeah?” And those doey eyes looking up at you send a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs, “Please, darlin… I’ll be real good, promise.”

God, and the way he begs. Your hands find his hair and your fingers run through his beautiful greying hair. You pull him to you, his eyes searching yours with that grin pulling at his lips.

“Need to hear ya, baby… you too tired?”

You shake your head, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he settles between your legs, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your lower belly, causing you to shiver. His eyes enraptured with the sight of his skin against yours.

“Not too tired.” You finally say, perfectly content just watching him.

“What’d’ya say, darlin, wanna get out of these?” His fingers hook under the waistband of your shorts and you nod your head in encouragement, lifting your hips in order for him to slide them down and off your legs.

“Look at’cha… what a mess f’me.” His eyes scan over you as his fingers smooth over the smooth skin of your thighs, humming as he touches you.

He always makes you feel so beautiful.

“Joel, please.”

“Somethin’ ya need, sweetheart? Just enjoyin’ the view.” He leans his head down and presses a kiss to your navel causing you to shudder beneath him. He groans at that, pressing a longer, messier kiss to your hipbone, flattening his tongue against your skin and dragging upwards from your hip.

“Get up here,” your hands cup his face and you’re dragging him up your body. You pull him against you, lips crashing against yours and you groan in satisfaction. His tongue sliding out to open you up for him. You happily oblige, humming contentedly as one hand grips your hip, the other sliding beneath your sweatshirt. You can feel the tension through the denim pressed against your inner thigh and you can’t help but arch into the sensation, but his grip on your hip keeps you flat against the bed.

“I’ll get there, y’know I’ve gotta get’cha ready first, darlin’.” And with that… his hand is trailing down from your hipbone and pushing your legs wider… the back of his fingers teasing up the softness of your inner thigh.

He shimmies down, and looks up at you before dragging his eyes over your spread legs for him.

“Take off your shirt, let me see you…”

You quickly do as he says, sliding off your sweatshirt and your sports bra you had on beneath it.

His eyes immediately drinking you in, his head dipping down to press kisses to your skin again, trailing them up… and up… until he reaches the taut peaks of your nipples, his tongue flicking out to tease them, then gently biting down on one, your body arches into him, unable to help the gasp that rips from your throat.

“Jesus, Joel—” You whisper it like a confession, one hand threading into his hair as he lavishes your breast with his mouth, greedy and unhurried like he’s got nowhere else to be.

He hums low against your chest, dragging his tongue across your nipple before kissing lower. Down your ribs, your belly, every inch of skin he can reach with lips and teeth. You swear he’s trying to devour you in pieces, like if he takes his time, he won’t lose control too fast.

“You’re always so soft here,” he murmurs against the dip of your stomach, hand smoothing over your hip. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

And then he’s settled between your thighs again, pressing a kiss right over your clit before dragging his tongue slowly and deliberately between your folds. You gasp, hips twitching, but he pins you easily with a hand splayed across your belly. His hands are so big compared to you…. covering almost your entire torso below your breasts.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs. “Lemme take my time.”

He moans at your taste, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring it. Then he dives back in, tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles before flattening against your clit. Your back arches into him, chasing that sensation, but his grip was firm in keeping you flat against the mattress.

“Joel, fuck…” Your voice breaks as your hand fists in the sheets, the sensation already too much and not enough all at once,

He grunts against you, tongue fucking into your entrance before he pulls back and slides two fingers in deep and slow, like he’s prepping you for something bigger. Which he most certainly was.

“Gotta get you ready,” he mutters, almost to himself, curling his fingers just right as his mouth finds your clit again. “Get this sweet pussy nice and open f’me. Gotta get you good and full tonight.”

You whimper, thighs starting to shake around his head. He feels it, hears it, and doubles down, licking and sucking, practically wringing the orgasm out of you by force. Like he needs it, needs to taste you fall apart before he lets himself have you.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he growls against you, tongue relentless. “I know you’re close. Wanna feel you cum all over my tongue.”

Your whole body tightens, your orgasm crests so fast you barely have time to warn him before it crashes down on you—loud, breathless, soaking.

He groans as you cum, lapping at everything you give him, not stopping even when you’re shaking and whimpering from overstimulation.

Finally, he pulls back, face wet and eyes heavy. His fingers slide out of you slow, gently, and he presses a kiss to your thigh.

“Always so fucked-out just by my tongue…” When he crawls back up your body, you can feel him, hard and hot through his jeans, practically throbbing against your skin.

He’s breathing heavy, mouth slick, eyes wild. He looks at you like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“You’re mine,” he mutters, like it’s a warning. Like it’s the only truth he knows. He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours as he pants. “You hear me, baby? Mine. Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

You nod in agreement, dazed, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. “Yours. Always.”

That does something to him. He growls low in his throat, almost like he hurts with it, grinding his denim covered erection against your thigh. His hands are frantic now, undoing his belt, dragging his jeans down and stepping off of the bed just enough so he could drag his shirt over his head and kick his jeans off. He crawls back over you, his cock thick and heavy against you, already leaking. He hisses as he rubs the head through your slick folds, not pushing in yet, just teasing, watching how you twitch for it.

“Joel, please,” you whimper, trying to lift your hips. But he pushes you flat again, one hand splayed over your lower belly, right where he’s planning on making his seed stick… right where he’ll watch another baby of his grow inside you.

His grin is dark, his eyes filled with adoration and affection, his voice dripping with possession. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it. Tell me you want me to fuck a baby into you.”

“Please, give me another baby…”

Satisfied with your plea, he drives into you in one smooth, brutal thrust, forcing a sob from your throat as he fills you to the hilt. So deep you feel like he’s split you open, and he fucking loves it, you love it.

“Christ,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder as your cunt clenches around him. “So tight… made f’me.”

He pulls out slowly and slams back in, grinding his hips against you, deep and punishing. “This is mine,” he hisses, fucking you like he’s trying to carve the truth into your bones. “This pussy, this body, this fuckin’ womb‘s mine.”

You’re gasping, clawing at his back, and he doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay steady, possessive, deep enough to bruise. Every time he bottoms out, his hand presses into your belly like he’s trying to make room for what he’s giving you.

“Gonna knock you up tonight, baby,” he groans, voice breaking as his pace falters just a bit. “Gonna fill you up ‘til I see it start takin’, won’t stop ‘til I do.”

“Joel, fuck, give it to me, please…”

“I’m going to,” he grits out, slamming into you one last time and holding, grinding, staying deep. “Fuckin’ take it, baby. Take all of it.”

He moans into your neck as he cums, cock pulsing inside you, heat spilling deep. His whole body shudders with it, broken and desperate, like he’s giving you everything he has.

He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t even move. He just stays there, cock still buried inside

“Gonna keep it there,” he mumbles, almost drunk on it. “Keep you like this. Stuffed full.”

—

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped up in him, the only sounds are your mingled breath and the quiet thump of his heartbeat against your chest.

He’s still inside you, still thick and warm, as you pulse around him faintly. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, fingers stroking lazy paths along your scalp like he’s trying to soothe both of you back down to earth.

“Y’alright?” he murmurs, voice gone gravel-soft, lips brushing your temple.

You hum, barely a whisper. “More than alright.”

Joel smiles against your skin, you feel it before you see it.

“Good girl.” His hand drifts lower, resting over your lower belly. Just resting there, like he’s grounding himself in the possibility of what he just gave you. “You feelin’ it too?”

You nod, breath catching when his palm presses just a little more firmly. “Feels warm,” you whisper. “Full.”

His eyes flick down to where your bodies are still joined, and he groans quietly like the sight alone is going to undo him again.

“Gonna take,” he says, almost reverent. “I know it will.”

You reach up to touch his face, fingers brushing his scruff, “You really want another little one, huh?”

He leans into your touch, eyes going a little soft, a little faraway. “Want another you,” he says simply. “Little baby with your eyes and my stubbornness…”

That makes you laugh, your body shaking against his. “We already have three of those.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, curling closer around you. “And I’d take ten more. All of ‘em runnin’ around, lookin’ like you…”

His voice catches there, low and wrecked, and his hand in your hair stills for a moment. “You remember what we said we’d name the next one? If it was a girl?”

You blink up at him, heart lurching. “You remember that?”

“‘Course I do,” he murmurs. “Been thinkin’ about it ever since you told me you’d maybe wanna try again while holding little newborn Ellie in the hospital.”

His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, “Rosalie.”

You feel something tighten in your chest. The way he says it. Soft and hopeful and his.

You whisper it back to him, “Rosalie.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Rosie,” he tests out the nickname, “God, I’d spoil the hell outta her.”

“You already spoil all of them.”

“Not like I would her,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “She’d be our last. I’d make damn sure she knew she was daddy’s girl. The baby girl of the family.”

You grin up at him, but before you can say anything, you feel him twitch inside you.

He sees the realization on your face and groans. “Shit.”

“What?”

He presses his forehead to yours, “You keep squeezin’ me like that and—fuck, baby—”

Your legs shift around his hips. Just a little. Just enough to make both of you moan at the sensation.

“You gonna fuck another one into me?” you whisper, kissing along his jaw.

His breath stutters, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

This time it’s slower, but not gentle.

He draws back just a bit and thrusts forward again, deeper than before, the kind of grind that feels like he’s trying to fit even more of himself inside you. Your body’s already open, already slick and aching and so sensitive, but he fucks into you like he still needs more. Like his body doesn’t know how to stop wanting yours.

You moan, clutching at his back. “Joel, god, feels so full…”

“Yeah?” He thrusts again, sharp and slow, hips tilting just right. “You feel me there, sweetheart? Right where that baby’s gonna grow?”

Your body clenches around him and he growls, snapping his hips harder.

“Wanna be round with my baby again? Let everybody see what I did to you?” his voice drawls in your ear.

You can’t answer. You’re gone, lost in the rhythm, in the weight of him over you, in the heat and the stretch and the promise of it all.

He kisses you then, slow and filthy, rocking into you like a man in love and in heat all at once. Like he’s not just trying to get you pregnant, he’s trying to become a part of you.

Again. And again. And again.

His tongue brushes yours while his cock sinks in and out of you, slow but heavy. His hands frame your face like you’re fragile, like he’s holding onto something holy.

And still, his hips keep grinding into you, deep.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck as you whimper into his mouth. “God, Joel, feels so good like this…”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made f’me, made for my cock to fill you up.”

He pulls back just far enough to look down, to watch the way your bodies move together. The way you cling to him. “Can’t get enough of this pussy,” he murmurs, rough but tender, “All fucking mine…”

His hands slip down to cradle your hips, thumbs brushing the crease of your thighs as he adjusts his angle and fucks up into you just a little harder.

That angle makes you gasp, your body tensing beneath him.

“Right there, huh?” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Yeah, I know.”

He finds it again. And again.

His cock drags over that spot with every thrust, and you swear you feel him everywhere… not just inside, but in your blood. In your lungs. Under your ribs.

“Joel,” you gasp, hands scrabbling at his back. “I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna cum… ”

He shushes you softly, nuzzling your cheek. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His pace stays steady, deep and rhythmic, and he keeps whispering to you, low and reverent, coaxing your body toward the edge like he’s guiding you through it.

“Let me feel you cum on my cock. Let me feel this pussy milk me dry, baby, fuck, that’s it.”

Your orgasm tears through you like a wave, blinding and loud, your back arching off the mattress as you cry out his name. Your body clamps down around him and he swears, eyes rolling back.

He groans, fucking you through it. “Goddamn, y’feel that? Y’feel what ya do to me?”

You’re still trembling when he starts to lose it, his thrusts get rougher, deeper, more desperate. His mouth presses to your neck, open and hot, biting down gently like he’s trying to anchor himself to you.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grits out, hips stuttering. “Gonna fill you up again. Gonna fuck you full—shit—”

You reach up and cup his face, forcing his eyes on yours. “Cum inside me, Joel…” you whisper, pulling his lips to yours and swallowing his moans.

That’s all it takes.

He slams into you one final time and stays there, buried deep as he groans through clenched teeth, spilling into you again with so much force you feel it. Heat floods your core, thick and warm and relentless, and he keeps rocking through it— slow, possessive, like he’s grinding it further inside, fucking his spend further inside you, urging it to stick.

When it’s over, his whole body goes slack on top of you, chest heaving. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t even think of pulling out.

Just buries his face in your neck and breathes you in.

You both lay there tangled in each other, the room thick with sweat and heat and the scent of sex. His cum already starting to slip from you, and yet he stays, hand over your belly like he’s already guarding something precious.

“I hope it took,” you murmur after a while, dazed and raw.

He kisses your cheek, “It did.”

You smile at the ceiling, tears prickling your lashes from the high of it all, “You sound so sure.”

“I am.” His voice is hoarse, but warm. Certain. “’Cause I want it too bad for the universe not to give it to me. And I’ll fuck you full ‘til it does.”

You both lay there for a while, tangled up in silence, his weight warm and grounding on top of you, cock still nestled deep where he left himself. His hand strokes gently over your belly, thumb moving in soft circles like he’s already trying to calm the baby that might be forming there.

After a few minutes, you speak, quiet and a little breathless. “She’d be perfect.”

“Rosalie,” Joel says, like it’s already real. “A little girl with your smile, my eyes, and your fearlessness… god help us.”

You giggle softly, your fingers brushing through the sweat-damp curls at the back of his neck.

There’s a pause, “But if it’s a boy…”

You meet his eyes. “Then he’d be perfect too,” you whisper. “And loved just the same.”

Joel smiles, eyes crinkling. “Damn right.” He kisses you again, slow and deep, “Think we should try as often as possible,” he murmurs against your lips, “Just in case.”

—

You must’ve drifted off like that, limb-locked and sated, your head tucked beneath Joel’s chin and his arms wrapped around you like you might float away if he let go.

The sun’s just starting to bleed through the curtains when you stir again, a warm, heavy pressure still nestled deep inside you. Joel’s breath fans against your temple, steady and even, his cock still inside you, just barely hardening again with every subtle shift of your hips.

You hum softly, content, and press a sleepy kiss to his chest. He tightens his arm around you in response, voice rough from sleep.

“Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“Morning,” you whisper. “You stayed in.”

“Damn right I did,” he grumbles, hand smoothing over your lower belly. “Gotta keep it there. Lock it in.”

You laugh, nose scrunching as you curl into him. “That’s not how it works, y’know.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Still tryin’.”

You’re about to reply… something soft, something stupid and married and in love…. when it happens.

SLAM.

“MOMMY!! DADDY!!” a voice shrieks from down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of two smaller sets of feet thundering toward your door. “Can we have pancakes? Artie said you said we could!”

Joel’s eyes snap open.

Your eyes go wide.

You barely have time to gasp before the doorknob rattles.

“Shit, Joel!”

“Goddammit…” he grumbles against the skin of your neck.

He flails out one arm blindly and lobs the nearest pillow straight at the door like it’ll magically lock it on contact. It hits the wood with a thud and flops to the ground uselessly.

You’re already wheezing with laughter, dragging the sheets up over both of your heads as the door creaks open.

“Nope!” Joel yells, voice panicked and muffled under the covers. “No entry! everybody turn around or no pancakes!”

You hear giggles ripple through them as Sarah blocks her younger siblings from breaching the door and closes it again.

Joel hurriedly slides on a pair of shorts, looking back at you briefly and giving you an appreciative once over before he leaves the room to give you time to get decent.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, Joel’s already at the stove, flipping pancakes like it’s a sport. Shirtless, hair still a mess, a little bite mark just above the waistband of his shorts still healing from nights before.

Artie is perched on a step stool next to him, stirring the batter with the intensity of a scientist solving time travel.

“Daddy said I could help if I focus,” he informs you, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m focused.”

Sarah’s at the table, drawing furiously with a red crayon. You peek over her shoulder and smile.

“Whatcha got goin’ on over here?” you ask.

“It’s a menu.” She beams up at you. “For our restaurant. We’re calling it Pancakes and Pickles.”

You glance at Joel, but he doesn’t even look up.

“Ellie likes pickles and pancakes,” Sarah says matter-of-factly.

From her high chair, Ellie yells, “Cancakes!” Close enough.

Joel finally turns, a spatula in one hand, a coffee mug in the other, “I’ve lost control of the house.”

You kiss his cheek, brushing past him to pour juice for the kids, two sippy cups and one regular glass for Sarah, “You never had it.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes drifting down your body, voice lower, “You’re wearin’ my shirt.”

“And you’re wearin’… not enough.”

He groans and flips the last pancake onto the plate, “Didn’t have the time or the brain power to care enough. Why, got a problem with it?”

You smirk, sliding in close beside him as he adjusts the skillet and turns off the stove. “Not a problem,” you murmur, trailing your fingers just barely along the waistband of his shorts, “just an observation.”

Joel turns his head slightly, catching the curve of your smile, eyes glinting with something decidedly not breakfast-related. “Mm. That right?”

You simply nod and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your hands leaving his warm body as you turn and help Artie step off of the stool.

It takes some effort, some light wrangling, and one minor debate about whose pancake was ‘most circle-shaped,’ but eventually, all three kids are seated and eating.

Ellie is completely absorbed in tearing apart a pancake with her hands. Artie is humming between bites, feet swinging beneath the table and syrup already on his chin— he’s the messiest eater of the bunch. Sarah dips her pancake in syrup with one hand and reaches for her cup of orange juice with the other.

You and Joel finally sit down, mugs of warm coffee in hand. He exhales and nudges your knee under the table.

“I think we did it.”

You sip your coffee and smile, “You say that now. Wait ‘til the sugar kicks in.”

But for now, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after a storm of small feet and tiny demands, when every little body is fed and content and distracted by their own mess.

And just like that, the morning keeps rolling, pancakes disappearing, syrup clinging to little fingers and through it all, Joel stays close. Always touching you. A hand at your waist, a brush of his thigh. Not in a rushed way… just the quiet, unshakable comfort of a man who’s exactly where he wants to be.

As soon as he’s done eating, Artie hops down with a bounce and immediately scampers off toward the living room, yelling, “I’m a race car!” as he makes screeching noises and slides across the hardwood in his socks.

Joel watches him go with a slow shake of his head. “He’s gonna crash into the coffee table again.”

“He’ll learn,” you say, handing him a dish towel as you set the syrup bottle back on the counter.

“Will he?” Joel raises a brow, then a thud echoes from the next room, followed by Artie’s cheerful, “I’m otay!” You adored his little ‘otays’.

You wince at the sound of him crashing though, “he’ll learn… eventually. That’s why we don’t have any pointy edges.”

Sarah skips past next, not even looking at either of you as she makes her way to the toy box and grabs an array of plastic food. “We’re playing restaurant in the living room now. I’m the boss.”

Joel steps up behind you as you begin rinsing the plates, his hands settling on your hips, “Remind me again how we ended up outnumbered?”

You lean back into him, sighing contentedly. “Lack of impulse control and your dangerous hands.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He hums, mouth grazing your shoulder, “I still want another…”

“Daddy!” Sarah’s voice rings out from the living room. “We need a customer!”

Joel sighs theatrically, peeling himself away from you with a lingering squeeze to your waist. “Duty calls.”

You finish tidying the last of the dishes and wander into the living room to find Joel seated at the kids’ play table, knees to his chest, while Sarah takes his order with a notepad and Artie stands behind her wearing a blanket-cape, calling himself Chef Lightning.

Joel glances up at you with a smirk, clearly suffering but in that happy, ‘I’d die for these gremlins’ kind of way. “I asked for pancakes and coffee ‘n I’m gettin’ glitter spaghetti and orange juice in a bowl.”

Ellie toddles up to you, and you scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead and settle on the couch, watching your husband pretend to eat imaginary food and nod gravely as Artie explains the “flavor” of a crayon as he pretends to feed it to his Superman action figure.

Joel catches your eye and smiles, slow and warm, the kind of smile that still makes your stomach flutter after all these years. He holds up his fake fork, gestures to the invisible plate, and mouths, ‘best thing I ever tasted’.

You shake your head, grinning widely at the antics of your creative kids, your heart so very full.

Ellie giggles in your lap, Sarah starts setting up a “drive-thru” by the window, and Artie decides he doesn’t want to work in the restaurant anymore and climbs up, then plops down next to you on the couch.

It’s loud, messy, and perfect. It’s yours.

Joel looks at you again, eyes lingering just a second too long, like even surrounded by noise and spilled toys, all he sees is you.

Before too long, Sarah decides her restaurant is short-staffed and kicks Joel out, much to his dismay.

He finds his place next to you and stretches out, legs kicked up on the ottoman.

Ellie’s babbling turns into quiet humming as she settles between the two of you.

You turn your head to find Joel already watching you. His expression is pure warmth. Eyes just a little tired, just a little dazed with contentment. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his hand slide along your thigh, fingers curling gently over your knee.

You lean into him again and let the moment hang there, the two of you tucked into the soft center of the life you built. No rush. No noise you can’t handle. Just love… loud, syrup-sticky, and golden.

And eventually, Joel shifts. Not to get up, not to chase anyone, just to lay back. Arms folded behind his head, one foot still hooked lazily on the edge of the ottoman.

Sarah’s the last to join after she cleans the play kitchen to her standards, which really means she just stuffed things into the ovens, then climbs up at the other end of the couch and curls her legs underneath her.

It’s not silent, it’s not even still as your oldest two argue briefly about who’s going to be the boss next time. But it’s your kind of peace.

And when Joel lets his hand drift across your belly, not suggestive, just… present, you know he’s thinking what you are:

There’s no place else he’d rather be.

—

The late morning sun stretches high by the time the kids are herded outside to enjoy the early fall weather.

Joel’s got Artie on his shoulders who’s arms are out like wings. Sarah’s leading the charge across the backyard with a stick she insists is a wizard’s staff, and Ellie’s tottering through the grass with you .

The backyard adventure starts with fairy hunting, turns into mud stomping, and ends in a dinosaur chase Joel doesn’t remember agreeing to. You’re on lookout duty from the porch now, sipping another cup of coffee and grinning as Joel jogs after Sarah, pretending to roar while Artie hollers from the playground, “Youll never take us alive!”

Ellie is tucked happily into the baby swing, chubby hands wrapped tight around the chains, feet kicking gently at nothing. She watches the chaos around her with that quiet, wide-eyed wonder she’s always had. She’s content to observe, to exist in the stillness while her siblings thunder across the grass.

Joel now keeps a hand on her swing, giving it the occasional gentle push. He leans in every so often to press a kiss to the top of her head, lips brushing over those soft, wild curls.

The same curls he has.

They’ve got the same lazy bend, the same unruly softness that no brush can tame. And there’s something else too, something unspoken but unmistakable in the way she watches the world from behind those big eyes.

She’s like him.

They all carry pieces of him and of you, that’s how the whole thing worked, after all.

Sarah, your eldest, is halfway up the tree in the far corner of the yard, her hair wild, her legs scraped, her voice clear and bossy as she calls down rules for a game she’s entirely making up on the spot for the fifteenth time today alone.

Joel says that’s she’s your mirror. She’s fierce and clever, filled with words and opinions, her independence sharp-edged and bright. She wants to lead everything. Needs to know why, and how, and what comes next. But she’s soft in the ways that matter most, tender with her siblings, always aware of who needs help and who needs space.

Joel watches her sometimes with this quiet awe, like he can’t believe someone that bold came from him.

And then there’s Artie.

Artie, who runs too fast and feels too hard. Who tells stories with his whole body. Who cries big and laughs bigger. He’s dramatic, yes, but his heart is massive. When he loves something, he means it. And he gets that from Joel too, the intensity of it. The way he’ll throw himself headfirst into any cause, any game, any cuddle pile.

He calls Joel his best friend.

He crawls into his lap mid-sentence, and drags his blanket across the house just to sit next to him while he drinks coffee in the mornings before work.

You still can’t believe it… these three little people, formed from your bodies and held together by your love. Bits of you and bits of him, but entirely themselves.

You couldn’t wait to see Ellie’s personality continue blooming into whoever she’s meant to be.

And the thought of it, of another whole little human, another perfect blend of you and Joel growing quietly inside you, made your heart ache in the sweetest way. You’d carry a dozen of his babies if you could, if time and space and biology weren’t pressing in at the edges. But you knew this would have to be the last.

Joel was nearing fifty… he didn’t look it, didn’t act it, still moved like a man years younger, and fucked like he was even younger than that… but the years were stacking. Your own clock ticking even faster beside his.

If it was going to happen… it had to be now.

One more baby. One last time to feel full in every sense of the word.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Quick break from the angst, just wanted a fluffy one-shot for my unapologetic baby fever, I’m ovulating okay!! Heavily based off of me and my husband who don’t have kids yet because just like these two we wanted to wait a little bit to just enjoy our marriage and our youth hehehe. He’s only 37! He’s just a baby!

#joel the last of us #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #no outbreak au #no outbreak!joel miller #joel miller smut #the last of us #joel miller fluff

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aleese1111 · 1 month ago

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hii!! i love the way you write the whc boys so much. can you do something with the eunjang quartet x fem!reader but in a platonic way. like she is there to patch them up and treat them to some food or something after every fight (especially after the last one they had with the union - which she was understandably worried about)

after the storm | eunjang!quartet x fem!reader

summary: after the brutal fight against the union, they show up at her family’s restaurant—bloodied but alive. she worries, she scolds, she patches, she feeds. in between, there's banter, comfort, and something quiet and tender that lingers in the silences.

warnings: [platonic?] canon-typical violence aftermath, light blood/injury description, hurt/comfort .

author's note: this is so wholesome :(( . requests ,,

the familiar scent of frying oil and garlic wafted through the air as she wiped down a table by the window, cloth in one hand, mind far from the rhythms of the restaurant. the neon sign of her family’s fried chicken place buzzed softly behind her, but the usual comfort it brought her felt distant today. she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it—the fight. the one she wasn't supposed to know about, but of course she did. she always did when it came to them.

her hand slowed over the tabletop, worry nesting in her chest. the late afternoon sun spilled golden light through the glass, casting long shadows and warming the wooden floors, but it did little to settle the twist in her stomach. she had checked her phone twice in the last hour, hoping for a message, even just an emoji. nothing.

just as she turned to the next table, she caught a glimpse of movement outside. her breath caught.

the four of them.

yeon sieun, stoic as ever; baku, somehow still smiling even with dried blood on his brow; jung tae, bruised but beaming; and go hyuntak, his arm slung carelessly over sieun’s shoulder, eyes bright with the adrenaline of victory.

she dropped the rag.

"are you serious?!" she half-shouted, half-squeaked, rushing to the front entrance, throwing open the door so fast the bell above it clanged in protest. she stormed outside, arms flying in disbelief.

"what the hell happened to you guys?! look at your faces! jung tae, are you even walking properly?! baku, your lip—! gotak! you're bleeding through your shirt! and sieun—" she stopped at him, heart clenching at the sight of crimson staining his temple. "you too?"

they all looked at her like she was a sight from a better world. baku chuckled, reaching forward to ruffle her hair with a bloodied hand. "missed you too."

she slapped his hand away with a huff, eyes wide with exasperation but soft with relief. "you're all idiots. absolute, complete idiots. come inside before you all faint on the street."

they followed without protest, brushing past the bell once more as she ushered them to the back of the restaurant where it was quieter. her parents peeked in from the kitchen, and she waved quickly. "can you make extra portions? they need food. a lot of it."

"rough day again?" her father asked, already pulling out the pans.

"something like that," she muttered.

she dragged out the first aid kit and moved toward the table where the boys sat—some slouched, some upright, all bruised. gotak was the first she started with, dabbing a cloth gently over his cheek.

"you didn’t even try to block, did you?"

he grinned, his hand naturally resting on her thigh like it always did, no thought to the gesture, and she didn’t mind. "didn’t need to. we won."

"that’s not the point," she said, flicking his forehead.

"ow," he chuckled, his eyes catching hers for just a second longer than usual. her hand lingered a beat longer too, thumb brushing just under his jaw. he didn’t flinch.

she cleared her throat and moved to sieun next. he sat perfectly still, letting her tend to him like he always did. their eyes met—no words exchanged—but he gave the smallest nod. she returned it with a faint smile. he never needed to speak much. he always understood. but something in the way his gaze lingered today made her chest tighten. like he was reading more than he let on.

jung tae winced as she pressed antiseptic onto a scrape on his neck.

"don’t be a baby."

"you’re treating me like one."

"because you are one," she said, patting his cheek. "you’re lucky i don’t swaddle you in bubble wrap."

he flushed, muttering something about being strong as she moved on to baku, who held out his arm with a dramatic sigh.

"you should open a clinic," he teased. "but only for good-looking guys."

she smirked. "so i guess i’ll be closing after today, then."

"ouch. that’s cold."

they bantered easily as she wrapped gauze around his forearm. it was always like this with baku—like talking to a much older friend who still knew how to laugh like a kid. he leaned a bit closer as she tied the final knot in the bandage.

"you’re really good at this, you know?" he said more seriously, his voice low. "you keep everyone stitched up, not just with tape and gauze."

she blinked, taken aback by the sincerity. "you’re just saying that because i’m your free nurse."

"nah. saying it ‘cause it’s true."

food arrived not long after, filling the air with sizzling spices and warmth. plates clinked. drinks poured. for a moment, the chaos of the outside world paused.

gotak’s hand stayed on her thigh as he ate, casual and unthinking, but every so often his pinky tapped against her knee like he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he looked. she leaned slightly into him without thinking. it was just how they were—but tonight, the warmth of him beside her seemed to sink deeper into her skin.

sieun sat across from her, meeting her gaze occasionally with the tiniest of smiles. that was enough. except this time, he didn’t look away as quickly. his eyes lingered. she looked down at her plate, suddenly aware of how warm her ears felt.

jung tae animatedly talked about how he “almost” knocked a guy’s tooth out, while she poked fun at his exaggerated expressions.

"you should’ve seen me! the guy was huge. i mean, hulk huge."

"and you? what, ant-man?" she laughed, nudging his side.

"i’m tall!" he protested.

"you’re adorable."

he groaned, dropping his chopsticks in defeat. "why does everyone call me that?"

"because it’s true," gotak chimed in with a grin, ruffling jung tae’s already messy hair.

and baku, between mouthfuls, reached over to ruffle her hair again.

"you’re good at worrying," he said.

she rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. "and you’re good at making me do it."

as the night wore on and the plates grew emptier, the energy shifted into something slower, softer. gotak leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers, and she didn’t move away. when she yawned, he tilted his head toward her.

"tired?"

"a little. long day."

"want me to carry you upstairs?" he teased.

she rolled her eyes but laughed. "you’d trip over the first step."

"still worth the offer."

across the table, sieun watched quietly, fingers tapping against his drink. their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, everything felt still.

it was nothing. probably nothing.

but maybe it wasn’t.

the table bubbled with quiet laughter again. they were beaten, bruised, borderline limping—but they were together.

and that made everything feel okay again.

#weak hero class 2 #class 2 x reader #whc2 #whc2 x reader #eunjang!quartet x reader #yeon si eun x reader #go hyuntak x reader #gotak x reader #baku x reader #park humin x reader #seo jun tae x reader #aleese1111

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roseandxanderfics · 3 months ago

Text

“Stay With Me” — Tim Bradford x Single Mom Reader

Summary: A routine call turns personal when Tim responds to a terrified 4-year-old reporting their mom collapsed. He finds you barely conscious—and realizes you’ve been fighting alone far too long.

————————

The 911 call came in just after seven. Late enough that most emergencies were winding down, but not so late that anyone relaxed. Tim Bradford had been running paperwork, thinking about grabbing dinner, when the dispatcher’s voice clipped through the radio.

“Child caller. Four years old. Mother unresponsive. Possible medical.”

That was all it took. One word—“four”—and Tim’s blood turned cold. He barely heard the rest before snatching up his radio.

“1-Adam-07, patch me through. I’m on it.”

⸻

The kid’s voice was barely a whisper when it crackled through.

“H-hello?”

Tim inhaled sharply. “Hey, buddy… This is Officer Tim. Can you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.”

That tiny sound hit him harder than it should’ve. “Good job, Eli. I’m coming to help you and your mom right now, okay? Real fast. Can you tell me… is she breathing?”

“I dunno… I scared.”

Tim forced his voice steady. “It’s okay to be scared, kid. You’re really brave. Can you touch her? Tell me if she feels warm or cold?”

Rustling. Sniffles. Then a small, broken sound. “Cold… Tim, s’cold.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he flipped the sirens on. God, please…

“I’m almost there, Eli. Can you unlock the door for me?”

“I try.”

⸻

By the time he screeched to the curb, his heart was hammering. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. Dim porch lights. Empty driveways.

The front door creaked open a sliver. A tiny face peeked out—tears streaked, cheeks blotchy.

“There you are, buddy,” Tim murmured, crouching low. “You did so good. Where’s Mom?”

Eli didn’t answer. Just… pointed.

Tim pushed the door wide and stepped inside—one hand instinctively hovering over his holster, the other reaching back for the kid. “Stay close, okay?”

The house was small. Lived-in. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge, a stuffed bunny abandoned on the couch. And there—on the kitchen tile—was you.

You were pale. Too still.

“Shit,” Tim breathed, rushing forward. He pressed two fingers to your neck, searching—there—a faint, thready pulse.

He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got the subject. Female, early thirties. Pulse is weak. Roll EMS, now.”

“Copy, 1-Adam-07. EMS en route.”

Eli whimpered behind him. “Mommy?”

Tim glanced back, softening. “Hey, buddy. She’s okay. She’s breathing. I need you to be my big helper now, alright?”

The kid nodded, lip trembling.

“Can you grab me that blanket?” Tim pointed. Eli scrambled, dragging it over with tiny hands. Tim tucked it around you, jaw tight.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured—half to you, half to the kid. “Just stay with me.”

⸻

Minutes felt like hours. Tim didn’t leave your side, one hand checking your pulse over and over, the other resting protectively over Eli’s shoulder.

EMS burst through the door—young, efficient. They worked fast, lifting you onto the stretcher. Tim stayed kneeling until they moved past.

Eli’s eyes filled again. “I come?”

Tim didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. You’re with me.”

⸻

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Eli sat curled in Tim’s lap, face buried in his chest, fists gripping the dark fabric of his uniform.

“She okay?” the little voice finally asked.

Tim swallowed hard. “She’s gonna be. You did good, Eli. You saved your mom.”

⸻

The ER was bright. Too bright. Tim hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise. But he stayed. Watched as nurses buzzed around you, checked monitors, whispered words like “dehydration” and “exhaustion” like they were medical diagnoses and not just proof that life had beaten you down.

⸻

You woke slowly. Blinking against the light, brow furrowing.

“Easy,” a deep voice murmured. “You’re okay.”

You turned your head—and saw him.

The cop. Tall. Broad. Blue eyes way too gentle for a man who probably carried a gun for a living.

“Your son’s right here,” he added, voice soft. “He’s… he’s been really brave.”

Eli popped his head up, face blotchy. “Mommy!”

Your eyes welled instantly. “Eli… oh god…”

Tim helped him onto the bed, watching as tiny arms wrapped around your neck.

“I… I’m sorry,” you rasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tim cut in. “You’ve been running on empty. Doc says exhaustion, dehydration… You’ve been doing too much on your own.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t… even know your name.”

“Tim.” He smiled faintly. “Tim Bradford.”

A beat of silence.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Didn’t feel right to leave.”

⸻

They discharged you hours later. Tim was still there—Eli wouldn’t let go of him.

“I’ll drive you,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a question. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

⸻

Your house felt colder when you returned. Tim helped you in, set Eli on the couch, and knelt in front of you one last time.

“I meant what I said. You’ve been doing too much alone.”

You stared at him, exhausted tears threatening. “That’s… just how it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he muttered. “I’ll… check in tomorrow. Groceries. Whatever you need.”

You tried to argue—but Eli’s head flopped onto Tim’s shoulder mid-yawn.

Tim smiled, slow and soft. “You good if I hang around until he’s out?”

You nodded, too tired to fight it.

⸻

And just like that… Tim Bradford became the first safe thing you’d known in a long, long time

#tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #comfort #hurt/comfort #the rookie x reader

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itzpookiepooh · 3 months ago

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Anyone but You

Zayne gets the call

Don’t steal my work

You ask and you shall receive <3

The blaring ring of his phone goes off waking him from his deep slumber. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep because he was waiting for you to get off work. He came home and showered due to just getting off of a 12 hour shift. You told him not to worry about waiting for you because you were assigned an important task right before getting off work. He groggily looks at his watch to see it was the middle of the night, 2am to be exact. He got home at 9 and stayed up an extra hour but his body could barely hold on.

You still weren’t home.

He grabs the phone seeing it was Akso Hospital. They might be calling him in for a late shift. Nothing he wasn’t use to, he answered waiting for the person to speak. It was Grayson, he sounded panicked making it hard for Zayne to hear him let alone understand him. Grayson didn’t know how to calm down and speak calmly in this situation.

“Slow down, I can barely understand you.” Zayne tried to reason with Grayson.

“They need her primary care physician.” Grayson’s voice trembled. Zayne was confused still drowsy from his slumber.

“Wait—primary—what’s going on?” His voice low and confused as he pinches the bridge of his nose trying to wake up.

“They brought in your girlfriend. She’s badly hurt and I mean bad. We had to call you, you’re her physician and her emergency contact.” Grayson spoke quickly, his eyes shifting as he watches them put pressure on her wounds.

Hearing this Zayne perked up, every ounce of drowsiness evaporating from his body. He couldn’t move fast enough, put on shoes quick enough. He couldn’t change into scrubs at the hospital but he needed to get to you immediately. Zayne has never felt this much emotion not in a long time. He sped out of the driveway, running every light and dodging every car to get to you.

When he arrived he was swarmed with doctors. They explained the situation to him as quickly and as simply as they could. You were put on a last minute assignment and it was imperative that you completed it. You were fighting the biggest wanderer you’ve ever encountered and boy was it strong. It was four times bigger than you.

It escaped a no hunt zone and began to terrorize the city. You should have waited for back up but there were civilians at risk. You had to lure the wanderer away and fast. It nearly cost you your life, as you led it away it powered up and shot at you striking you in the chest. You staggered but luckily for you back up showed up at the right time. You collapsed due to your major and minor injuries on top of your body being drained of energy because of how much of your evol you used.

The surgery was long but Zayne remained calm as he did his part. The ticking of the clock was loud, louder than the beeping. He tried his best to be as steady as possible, he didn’t want to make this any worse. He waited for the rest of your wounds to be patched up. He paced his office waiting for updates.

He should’ve called.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

He should have picked you up.

Something. He should have done something.

His mind raced endlessly. He wanted you to wake up. He needed you to wake up. What would he do without you? He didn’t want to think that way. A life without you was a life he couldn’t imagine. It was a closed door with an iron lock for him. Never to be opened under any circumstances.

Bless his heart when he found out they had to resuscitate you on the way here. The shock was too much for your body. A cold shiver runs down his spine at the thought of you slipping away from him. It felt like he was chasing after you but you were getting farther and farther away. He needed a coffee, he needed to be awake.

When you were done he rushed to see you. Ignoring everyone who called out to him he ran towards your room. Your eyes were shut as if you were sleeping making him feel a bit of relief. He slowly pulled up a chair next to your bed and clasped his hands around yours. He sighs shakily before kissing your knuckles.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered, his voice quivering from the events of the last few hours.

He moved your hair from your face and sighed. He felt hopeless because all he could do was wait. He didn’t want to wait he wanted you awake and aware. He wanted you to talk his ear off. He wanted to hear you laugh and talk about your day. He wanted you to nag him about working so much. Most importantly he needed to hear how much you loved him.

“I’m here.” He mumbled into her hand with his head down. The only sound filling the room is the soft beeping of the heart monitor along with Zayne’s aching heart.

So sad I know :(

#zayne #zayne fic #dr zayne #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #doctor zayne #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #love and deepspace #love & deepspace #love & deepsace x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds #zayne x mc #pookie n’ lads °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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lefteagleblizzard · 11 days ago

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𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔣𝔢, 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔦𝔰 Remmick x male reader

Summary: He came to your doorstep burning, hunted, half-dead and you let him in. Now you’re bleeding, fucked open and ruined by the monster who calls your name like a prayer and kills for you like it’s love.

Tags: set years before the main events of the film. Strangers to lovers. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Hints of stalking. Protective Remmick. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Anal sex. Riding. Vampire stamina. Overstimulation.

Part 2

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 10000

The morning hadn’t come yet, you’d been out in the field since god knew when, still in boots damp with dew, thighs sore from the bent squat you held as you weeded patches of yellowing wheat that shouldn’t be dying, but they were nonetheless.

From the porch behind you, the barn loomed skeletal and you were reminded of the time it had creaked full of life, livestock restless in the dark, but now it held barely a pair of half-blind goats, hens too dumb to lay proper anymore and a horse so old his back dipped like a broken bow. You still fed them all and hauled their water.

Each season you turned the soil, tilled by hand, rain or no rain, with blistered palms and still the wheat came up thin, the corn patch went to rot and the beans curled yellow at the edges.

You were about to pack in for the hour, maybe sit on the porch with black coffee, when the wind stopped and soon a loud sound followed.

A dragging noise that came out of nowhere. You squinted into the tall grass that bordered the back acreage. Something was moving. Not walking, dragging.

You were already on your feet before the porch made a crack like a board snapping under pressure. Something slammed on it hard.

There was a moment where you thought maybe a coyote had gotten into the trash again but then your eyes found the trail.

A long, shallow dent carved through the dirt, like something had been pulling itself forward with little strength, all leading to a crumpled figure past the steps.

Brownish tank top clinging to a body cut with lines too harsh to be healthy, twisted over one shoulder and torn. Skin pinkish and scraped raw in places like it had been burned badly.

A groan peeled out of his throat, ugly and guttural. His hands scrambled against the wooden steps. His arms shook, muscles twitching as he tried to haul himself up before stopping. His head slumped as his gaze drifted across the tall grass, to the edges of your broken field.

You followed it and there, small at first but growing clearer, was a group on horseback. Four, maybe five riders, all slow and scanning the horizon.

They were looking for something, or someone.

A hitch in his ribs as he shifted again, another low groan forced between clenched teeth. His face turned to you, still slack with exhaustion, but his eyes were not human.

Gold, lurid and lightless. They flickered once before sliding shut, his whole body slackened as he collapsed against the porch rail.

You stepped back, one foot on the soil, sinking slightly into the trail he’d carved, one heartbeat thudding into the next as something cracked open inside your head.

The blood in your head roared, thoughts came in floods.

You should’ve called out right then, raised your voice and flagged the riders combing the fields. Or hell—the porch was soft, the wood old. One kick could snap a plank in half to plunge into the exposed part of his chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, just like you.

The sun had started to crawl up the slope of the field. It was touching the lower stalks now and the tall grass still sheltered most of the porch in patchy shadow, but the light was rising too fast.

A beam lanced across the steps and touched his arm first.

It immediately began to burn.

You didn’t remember deciding to move but your knees were soon on the wood and your hands pressed flat to his big biceps.

He groaned against your touch, his head lolled and fell against your shoulder. The weight made your spine bow as you pulled with everything you had.

Your lips were near the shell of his ear, voice smaller than you remembered it ever being, even when you were a child hiding behind barn doors from men.

“You can come in.”

Palms slick against the dark line of his shoulder, one hand clutched too tight around the burnt curve of his bicep while the other braced awkwardly to keep his head from rolling to the side as you began to drag him backwards through the door all the way down to the cellar.

You let him slump against the far wall, trying not to drop him too hard but unable to control the last fall. His back hit the stone with a heavy thunk and he didn’t stir.

There was a bucket placed under the leak like always, catching the rain that slipped through the warped ceiling beams and you took advantage of that to splash the water across his shoulder and over the burn, the water hissed when it hit him, steam rose fast.

You dipped a rag in what was left and wiped at the worst of where the skin had pulled back, where the blood had dried into thick crusts.

Under your hands, his chest rose in steady breaths. His pulse flickered faintly in his throat and his face remained slack. High cheekbones, brows low and tight even in sleep like he’d never relaxed a day in his life.

You leaned in close enough to see the edge of one pupil under his lashes twitch.

With shaking legs as you stood, you went back up outside the house to get some fresh air and something else for him.

The old goat, the mean one with the single bad eye, shifted in its pen and gave a low, disturbed grunt. It didn’t want to follow and you had to tug hard on the collar.

The walk back was slow as it pulled against the lead once, twice. Then reluctantly came with you.

When you opened the cellar door, the goat stepped in as you let go of the rope and closed the door immediately.

Hands braced flat to the wood, heart pounding. Still not sure what you’d done.

Three hard knocks were heard. The door didn’t rattle, no voice came through.

You moved down the hallway, the door handle felt warm when you opened it, the light struck you square in the eyes, bright after the cool of the parlor.

Those men were dressed in long oilskin coats dark with wear, silver buttons tarnished black. One had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow, the edges feathered by years of weather.

Another kept one hand on the stock of a rifle strapped tight across his back.

“Morning,” the middle one said, voice even, polite the way barbed wire is.

You nodded.

“We’re tracking something dangerous,” he said. “Something we saw came through this region. Likely came down from the ridge. Might’ve crossed your back field. You see anything strange this morning?”

You crossed your arms, one hand over the other, trying not to make it look like a shield.

“Been up since four,” you said. Your voice came out calm. Steady. “Working the field. Haven’t seen a damn thing I didn’t put there myself.”

His eyes flicked down to your hand.

You hadn’t noticed it until now the dried blood on it.

His gaze didn’t change but something behind his eyes clicked.

“You alright there?” he asked, as if casual. “You get hurt?”

You let out a breath through your nose and shook your head.

“One of my animals went into labor,” you said, voice thick with irritation. “Didn’t go clean. Took half the morning. Made a hell of a mess out back. Field too.”

You let your eyes harden slightly, like a man tired of being questioned. That was the trick, you couldn’t play it soft.

“Shame,” he said, stepping back. “Hope she pulls through.”

“She won’t,” you said quickly. “Too old. Should’ve been put down last season.”

The man in the coat gave a grunt that might’ve passed for sympathy.

He turned and took one step.

Then stopped and looked back over his shoulder, head tilted and eyes narrowing slightly.

“I hope,” he said, “you didn’t let him in.”

The words fell like wet stones in your chest while you said nothing.

“There’s no saving that one,” he murmured. “That thing doesn’t just feed. He twists someone from the inside, leaves holes in the memory where people used to live. Whole families are gone because of him.”

You could have sworn you heard a creak from behind you, a soft groan of wood strained under weight.

Could it have come from the cellar stairs?

The blood in your veins ran cold and you did your best effort in offering them a tired smile, one you practiced after seeing it so often on your parents' faces.

“Well,” you said, voice pleasant. “I’d best get back to it. Still a mess to clean.”

He nodded once more and didn’t thank you this time, just turned and walked away.

You shut the door carefully, felt your palm against the wood and exhaled.

The sun was already bleeding out behind the ridge by the time you came back.

The old road back from town ran crooked between black pines and fields gone brittle with drought. You hadn’t made much from the morning’s haul, but it was enough for salt, some oil and garlic.

You’d picked it out yourself, heavy bulbs still clotted with dirt. It took you most of the late afternoon to crush it, pressing each clove into the mortar until they burst into pulp until you grounded it into powder, packed it dry into a paper pouch and shoved it deep into your pocket, ready to see if he was gone with all the time that had passed.

Maybe you expected the walls painted with what used to be the old goat and nothing else.

What you didn’t expect was to get slammed against the rough wood of the wall there. A hand clamped around your throat and claw curled into your hip as he pinned you against him.

His body was pressed close, towering over you, heat pulsing off him in waves.

He was covered in blood, soaked completely. Dried at the corners of his mouth, thick around his chin, darker still where it had run down the exposed column of his throat.

It had soaked into the fabric of his tank top, darkening it from chest to hem, clinging to every plane of muscle beneath.

His chest was bare in places, the shirt torn in places and allowing you to see a sliver of his scar already healed from the morning’s burn, new skin glowed faint and pink beneath the drying blood.

His face was sharp, high cheekbones flecked with grime and dried gore, lips parted, dark and bloodstained, the edges drawn tight with restraint and those golden and lurid eyes locked on you, but not focused exactly, because his face was pressed against your neck.

Mose dragging slowly along your skin as he inhaled deeply, the shudder of breath making your hair stand on end.

His mouth brushed your pulse and you felt his fangs resting with pressure to make it clear they could end you in a second.

He didn’t bite even though he could have. His jaw was tense, the muscles shifting under your fingers where they trembled against his chest.

The bloodlust he felt for you was immense, hence why it surprised you when his breath hit your lips and he pulled back to meet your gaze, face only inches from yours.

The fangs were out, fully exposed, long and lethal, still wet at the root and lips curled slightly in something conflicted.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” His voice was hoarse and raw, scraped low in his throat, heavy and desperate.

Your lips parted but didn’t know what to say. Nothing came, not even breath as his eyes dropped to your mouth and lingered, drawn and mesmerized.

You could feel the warmth of his breath, panting now, his chest rising faster, whole body tensed like he was fighting something.

He took one step back while his hand stayed on your throat before throwing you against the wood.

Silence flooded your ears as the breath left your body for the second time in seconds. Your vision blurred, a sick blackness curling at the corners as you hit your head.

When you woke, it was due to the whisper of curtains rustling. Soft morning gold filled the room.

You blinked, groaning, the back of your skull throbbing with a dull ache. The pain was manageable, surprisingly so, but your whole body felt stiff. Your limbs were heavy, your mouth dry and your fingers curled instinctively into the sheets around you.

You were in your bed.

Maybe it had been a dream, that one hell of a day had just been a dream all along.

Except, you saw dark and dried stains on the bed, two handprints. One to either side of where your body had laid, too large to be yours and pressed down as though someone had hovered over you and watched.

You stood weakly, stepped toward the mirror and noticed droplets of blood on your shirt and at your neck, just below the collar, dried and rust red.

Your gaze drifted to the window outside, the yard stretched long and quiet, automatically counting your old and weak companions.

One…two…three-four-fiv—

You were missing some.

Yep, definitely missing some.

He was gone completely. Maybe he’d fed, healed, moved on and silently thanked you for your hospitality, but even that lie came half-formed because something was still watching.

At first, it was your own shadow shifting wrong at dusk. You’d glance left and see movement to the right.

A shape among the trees, you’d think it was nothing.

When the sun dipped fully and the land fell into that deep amber haze, you’d look up and you’d see two dots glowing, low to the ground, far off past the fence line.

Gold, twin and sharp. Too symmetrical to be lanterns and too still to be fireflies, you’d blink and they’d be gone.

One evening, you found yourself in the barn again.

The sun was low and slow, fat rays of honey-colored light poured through the hatch, catching in the dust motes that danced weightless through the barn air. You’d climbed up out of old instinct, your boots knowing the ladder before your mind caught up. Same perch as always: back braced against the inner slats, one leg dangling over the open drop, the other curled close, elbow resting on your knee.

It was too high and never safe but it had always been yours.

A loop of frayed rope sat to your left, half-tangled through a rusted pulley. The hay down below was thin now, barely a pad against the ground if you slipped.

The wind was sweet, full of grass and old flowers, sun-warmed and still clinging to the scent of day.

“Y’don’t get any less strange, do ye now?” A voice casual and drawing.

Your breath caught and your eyes opened slowly.

He stood below you, hidden from the golden light due to the high plants, shirt wrinkled, collar open and slack, a white undershirt visible beneath the cotton where it clung slightly damp to the shape of him.

The first few buttons were undone and you saw the line of his chest, the faint ridges of muscle moving with his breath.

His curls were dark and wet, still dripping at the ends like he’d just walked through rain or worse, rinsed off something red in the stream.

He grinned too wide, lips stained faint with something that might’ve been berries hadn’t you known what he really was.

His eyes tonight were not glowing but no less inhuman.

And he held a banjo. It looked as old as the barn. The rim dulled, rimmed with brass so worn it had turned brown at the edges. The skin was taut, marked with the small nicks and divots of long, hard use. You could see faint finger-oil stains on the wood.

He strummed a lazy chord, dissonant and loose before stopping and tucking it behind his back, letting the strap slide over one shoulder.

He stepped into the barn and without warning he floated until his boots touched the edge of the loft’s beam not two feet from you, not even trying to hide his nature.

He tilted his head, watching you.

Up this close, the skin of his face was too smooth in some places, too rough in others.

“Darlin’,” he said at last and the way the word wrapped around his teeth made your chest clench.

“That day,” he murmured, accent thick like it’d been pressed in whiskey, “all that blood, y’holdin’ me like I were somethin’ worth savin’, an’ I never asked ye your name.”

He blinked, slow.

“Can’t have that, now.”

He gave a mock bow, hand splaying across his chest.

“Name’s Remmick.”

The way he said it made your stomach turn over. You swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of it and the fact that he even cared.

You quietly answered your own name and he repeated it under his breath once, like he was testing it in his mouth, weighing it on his tongue. A small exhale slipped through his teeth and he looked at you again, this time with something darker curling behind the faint gold in his eyes.

“Mm. Suits ye too well.” He took a step forward, eyes never leaving yours.

You said nothing but your jaw set tight, you couldn’t afford to let him see how your breath hitched when he called you that. Not when your spine still remembered the feel of that wall, his hand on your throat, the flash of teeth and blood.

“What are you doing here?”

He chuckled, low and amused, like your question cracked something open in him he didn’t bother hiding.

“Y’make it sound like I’ve got a plan t’ finish somethin’.” He said, boots creaking faint on the old wood as he took a step closer.

Your hand curled tighter over your knee, your nails digging into soft fabric. “Don’t you?”

He grinned wider, flashing just the tip of his fang, no threat.

“If I wanted ya dead,” he said softly, voice dropping, banjo shifting across his back, “I’d’ve ripped your throat out the second I had ye under me that night. Ye remember it, don’t ya?”

Of course you remembered it, the fear had never fully left your limbs, but it didn’t change the fact that you’d dreamed with your mouth open, lips parted for fangs that never came.

You didn’t answer with words and he noticed, eyes flickering down to your throat, then back up again.

“Been lookin’,” he said, voice low and strange. “Y’know, since that night. T’find anythin’ t’tell me who you were, what you are. Found nothin’ on your bloodline.”

Your stomach turned while your hands clenched.

His gaze softened dangerously.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, “how d’you manage t’live this long bein’ so…” His tongue clicked. “Unnoticed.”

He grinned again but this time, it wasn’t mocking, rather curios.

“My parents owed the wrong people,” you said quietly, eyes on your hands. “They never registered me. Not just because they didn’t plan on me. A kid’s a liability when your house is already balanced on rot, it gives the enemy leverage.”

Once the first sentence slipped out from your mouth, there was no stopping it.

“So they taught me to hide.” How well you’d learned. You told him about the floorboards your father marked with chalk when they squeaked, the way you memorized engine sounds like lullabies, the rules about lights and shadows.

“I worked the fields when no one was looking, learned to lie properly—”

You didn’t realize how tightly your hands were curled until the knuckles turned white.

“Last year—” Your throat closed for a second. “Last year, I was up here just like this. The sun had gone down and I was thinking about sleeping up here again. Then I heard them coming.”

You didn’t need to describe the truck or the boots.

“It all happened so fast.” You looked at him and there was again that thing you hated most.

It was like a mirror.

You saw him that day broken, slumped, oozing blood onto the porch with those hunters behind and it had hit you with recognition as you saw yourself in his shoes after hours of hiding that night.

For a second he looked so much like you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened, his now gold eyes never left you.

“I waited hours after they left to finally get inside.” Your voice had gone hollow.

“I didn’t know the whole story. Not right away. I found letters hidden in the kitchen drawers, receipts with names scratched off. That’s how I found out everything.”

You paused, fingers flexing on your thighs.

“Over the months, I visited the town to find them. The town doesn't ask questions if you got a hat brim low. You bring in things and keep your voice down and they give you what you need. That’s all.”

He had a thousand things to say, a thousand wrong things that clawed up the back of his throat and he couldn’t say a single one of them without breaking something.

You were made invisible because no one ever thought you mattered enough to remember. They tried to erase him by force, you were forgotten by design.

You could vanish tomorrow and the world wouldn’t even blink.

He hated it.

He hated the men who made you suffer. Hated the town that didn’t care. Hated the way you still looked at him like you were waiting for him to leave, too.

He wanted to bite it out of you, hold you down and remind you what it meant to be seen and wanted so completely it made your bones ache. He wanted to ruin solitude for you, make it so you couldn’t work through the day without feeling what he did to you.

Those unnatural gold eyes gleaming faint as he watched you with a strange, shifting tension.

“Who were they?” Simple words, but the way he spoke through his teeth like each syllable had to be restrained with a jaw clenched too tight, left a cold taste in your mouth.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your fingers clenched over the beams, knuckles pale. Your voice wavered in frustration, an exhaustion so old it had hollowed out a space behind your ribs and built a shrine there.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I’ve spent the whole year since digging for answers.”

Still not meeting his eyes, you shifted, boots scraping against the old frame, finding a foothold as you stood up tall along the crossbeam and the hayloft groaned below you.

You stood balanced between memory and impulse, arms slightly out, not steadying so much as existing and testing gravity.

“I come up here,” you said, voice tight, “every time it gets too quiet in my head.”

The wind teased your shirt, catching the edge like it wanted to help make the decision.

That was when you looked down at the ground. It was black beneath you now that the sun ran away, pure darkness.

“Some days I want to fight them,” you said, barely a whisper. “Tear the truth outta someone. Other times I’m not scared anymore of dying, not when I know it won’t change anything or that there’s not a soul who’d notice.”

The silence crept back in and your voice broke at the edge.

“What if I told ye there was a way t’see ‘em again?” His voice came soft and barely above a breath, interrupting your thoughts.

Your head turned slowly, spine still straight against the sky as you looked over your shoulder at him.

His eyes shimmered low-gold in the dark, steady and locked on yours. His tongue wet his bottom lip, fangs just visible in the motion.

“There are people,” he said, “who can bend the fabric o’reality with nothin’ but the right tune of music t’pull the dead back across the veil.”

You swallowed as he stepped closer now, almost directly beneath you.

“I’ve been chasin’ them,” he said, voice low and tight. “A long time t’bring back my people. My kin. What’s left o’them.”

He lifted his hand up toward you, not reaching blindly, rather offering.

“Ye want answers?” he said, the words low, rolling like smoke from a dying fire. “Then we do it right. You search in the light, scour every road, every shite town with a name. I’ll search when it’s dark.”

His eyes locked to yours, gold, unblinking and fierce.

“An’ when we find ‘em,” his voice dropped lower, softer and more dangerous, “…we’ll make sure yer mam an’ da ain’t just bones in some field no more. Ye’ll see them again. I swear it.”

Silence wrapped around you then until you asked, brittle, unsure but brave. “You think that’s possible?”

He didn’t laugh, just gave a crooked smile, bare but real.

“I know it is.”

Hope began to rickindle in your chest at the confidence in his words and you’d been turning, one hand on the railing, eyes already halfway down to where Remmick waited with that crooked grin.

The wind howled suddenly through the slats and you weren’t steady enough. Your balance broke, foot slipping and gravity yawned open.

The barn flipped sideways, the floor gone pitch-black beneath you while the wind roared through your ears as adrenaline flooded your system.

A brutal grip wrapped around your wrist, fingers locking bone-deep just as your other foot left the ledge and you were yanked forward not gently.

The impact was jarring, your chest slammed against his, breath ripped from your lungs by the sheer force of his catch. His arms closed around you with terrifying strength, pulling you flat against him.

Your heart was a war drum, hammering so hard in your ribs you could feel each pulse crash against his chest and he didn’t flinch.

His head was in the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, breathing you in like the scent alone steadied him.

The grip he held on your wrist hadn’t loosened, fingers digging into your skin. His other arm was a band across your waist, clenched so tight you could feel every tense muscle shaking faintly.

“Next time ye try that,” he growled, voice scraped raw, a rasp at the back of his throat that barely sounded human. “I won’t catch ye.”

“I’ll let y’hit the ground and stay there. I’ll wait ‘til you’re broke on the ground, drag what’s left up and make the rest o’ it hurts tenfold worse than the fall ever could’ve.”

The silence after was louder than any scream. You shifted slightly, breath rattling in your chest and he let your wrist go but that one arm still clutched around your waist.

You looked up and wished you hadn’t.

Full red eyes, no softness in them. Lips parted and fangs fully lengthened, the edges catching the faintest starlight and his thumb, longer than it should’ve been, dragged slowly up your cheek.

“Ye think death’s worse than me?” he whispered, followed by a smile you don’t want to see. “Go on, try it. I’ll show ya what it means t’beg for the end.”

The words chilled your blood and you yanked away hard and this time, he let you go.

You didn’t look back while jumping from one beam to another lower, boots slamming into the next support and then down again.

The ground met your boots and you staggered. Your knees trembled, the wrist he gripped ached, skin bruised in the shape of his grasp and you cradled it to your chest, breathing fast.

When you turned back, the barn loomed dark and tall, and there, high above and exactly where you’d been, he stood balanced perfectly in your place, eyes glowing down at you, watching and unblinking.

You didn’t know if you were afraid because he’d saved you or because he hadn’t let you die.

You hadn’t seen him in days, gone completely.

Still, like some goddamn fool, you did your part out there in town, faking smiles.

You grinned when you didn’t want to and shook hands you’d rather avoid. You nodded to women at the produce stand, asked soft questions about music of all things. If they knew of anyone in town who sang too well, played too often, left too much behind in their wake. It felt absurd and humiliating.

It almost made you laugh as you recalled what you were doing just for him while the sickle in your hand swung slowly, slicing stalks of tall grass, pulling bundles into rough armfuls to harvest for the dying animals still too stubborn to follow the quick ending Remmick could offer them. You’d wake up and count one less goat, one fewer hen.

Greedy bastard.

By the time the sky dipped into copper and rust, you were back on the porch, sweat dried to salt across your brow, the sickle’s curved blade hanging limp at your side. The last streaks of light stretched long over the dirt road, still visible and bright.

Heavy tires gritting over the gravel were picked from your ears, growling engine rolling low and mean, heavy and fed on oil.

Your whole body went cold as you forced your boots not to move. Your legs itched with the urge to run, to dive into the barn behind hay like you were ten again and still small enough to hide perfectly.

You stood there instead, heartbeat rising to your throat, scythe tight in your palm as the truck stopped and two doors opened.

The first thing you saw were their boots. Clean and polished in a way that didn’t match the mud, then the rest followed.

Two men stepped down and they froze when they saw you, faces shifting in subtle shock. The one on the left stepped forward slow, his coat brushing behind him in stiff gusts. His face was pinched tight in recognition. He looked at you like he’d already seen your face before.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asked, simple words and soft voice.

You licked your lips, tongue dry, chest tight. You tried to answer even and calm.

“Just workin’ my field.”

He scoffed, a bitter and ugly laugh.

“This field?” he repeated, gesturing out with a mocking sweep. “Hell, this field’s about to be ours. We’re just waitin’ for the last damn paper to go through now that the last two owners finally did somethin’ useful and died.”

The second he referred to the last two owners, he stopped and really looked at you.

A snicker came soon after, the one behind joined in, low and sharp as he played with the knife in his hands.

“You look just like ’em,” the man murmured, cocking his head.

The one behind chewed the inside of his cheek, smirking. “Your folks,” he said, “they used to check that barn like it was rigged t’blow. Every time we pulled up, they went white.”

Your grip on the scythe tightened.

The tallest man, rifle slung on his back, fingers twitching, stepped closer.

“You lookin’ to square their debt?” he said, voice was almost warm but definitely mocking.

The shame came fast of how little you had and the horror arrived with it because you knew now who these men were.

“Maybe it’s time you saw ‘em again,” the man said with a smile, hands moving behind his back. “Reunite the family. The last thing we need is an heir out of nowhere."

To your own shock you noticed how he was reaching for the rifle on his back when talking to you in a poor attempt to distract.

Fear overtook your body and the sickle snapped upward in your hand, arc perfect, aimed right for his neck.

He caught your wrist before the blade connected. His fingers snapped tight around your arm and turned it hard. You snarled, twisted, tried again, but his grip didn’t budge.

The other laughed harder as he watched his buddy redirect your own scythe and forced your arm back toward your own throat.

You struggled with all of your abilities, he was just stronger, drunker on cruelty. The blade crept closer and he slammed you into the side of the house hard.

The scythe glinted under the last shimmer of light, the sun dropped behind the ridge and darkness fell in your last seconds of life.

“You dumb little fu—” the scraping breath of the man trying to kill you ended abruptly and the pressure on your arm vanished suddenly.

His body jerked back too far, like something yanked him from behind and the blade in your hand turned, slipping through your palm and cutting you shallow there.

You gasped, stumbling sideways, blood trickling from your fingers, looking up to see Remmick standing next to him.

His face so still it might’ve been carved, so furious it looked downright terrifying, lips peeled back to bare the full length of his fangs.

The man’s jaw was completely shattered, bone split out beneath the skin like a hinge kicked off its frame and he barely had time to gurgle before Remmick sank his fangs into his throat.

The noise was wet and he was vicious as he tore the skin of the man’s throat wide. A gape opened, red and yawning, skin shredded like paper. Blood poured in sheets over Remmick’s lips, down his chest and into the ruined grass.

You staggered backward, sick already twisting your gut, hand that clutched your other one.

His shoulders rose and fell with each suck, each drawn pull from the dying man’s artery, curls soaked with droplets of blood now, shirt clung in streaks and mouth that shone crimson.

When he finally released the man, he collapsed in a heap, neck an open pit until no more air went through it.

The second charged, knife gleaming beneath the moonlight to avenge his buddy.

Remmick turned and caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. The crunch was sickening when he squeezed, bone and tendon collapsing as he reversed the knife to slide it into the man’s chest until the handle was buried deep in there.

The scream that tore out was cut short when Remmick took the neck next and bit harder on the jugular.

The man spasmed, twitched, to then go still and collapse on the ground.

Remmick turned to you, covered in blood and chest heaving, still dripping from his mouth. The light in his eyes flickered unstable like a candle flame caught in the wind that refused to die.

The once white shirt he had, already ragged before, now with the entire right side soaked through in scarlet. The fabric stuck to his body, plastered down over the curves of muscle, over the shifting planes of his torso as he breathed.

The veins in his neck pulsed, jaw twitching and lips parted slightly.

“Yer bleedin’.” The words hit like a whisper against your pulse. You looked down, dazed at your hand. The cut from the scythe throbbed as blood smeared your palm.

When you looked up again, Remmick was now in front of you. There was no restraint in his posture nor any pretense of humanity left. What stood in front of you was a monster, one who’d just torn apart two men for touching you and still, your chest only throbbed because he was finally here again.

You didn’t care about the wet copper smell clinging to his ruined shirt and splashed up his throat, still tinted red with someone else’s end.

Blinded by desire, it was your turn to move now, stepping into his space and lifting your hands and cradling his face like he hadn’t just killed for you.

His skin was burning hot under your palms, warm, blood-wet, trembling with barely leashed need and the second your touch landed, he let out a deep, possessive purr from the back of his throat, ragged and feral, bursting through bloodstained lips and twisting into a growl as he looped one strong arm around your waist.

He pulled you against him tight, your chest crushed to his, ribs against the firm weight of muscle soaked through with metallic and red liquid. His shirt clung to both of you now, ruined fabric pressing to your clothes, bonding you in blood and heat.

He caught your injured wrist and lifted your hand to his mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he licked.

Tongue hot, soft at first but insistent, dragging slow over the cut in a wide, possessive stroke. The moment he tasted your blood, his body shuddered and a groan vibrated from deep inside him, pressed right into your skin.

He licked hungrier and more aggressive, tongue flattened against your palm, then curled between your fingers to catch every trace of what you’d spilled. He groaned rougher now, needier and that sound went straight to your spine, made your legs unsteady and your cock twitch with heat.

His eyes fluttered shut, lips sucking the wound clean, mouth still hot and wet around the heel of your hand.

“Knew ye’d taste sweet,” he groaned into your skin, the words muffled by your hand but rough edged all the same. “Spent days thinkin’ on it. Dyin’ for this, darlin’.”

Your hand was still cradled between his fingers as he crashed forward, mouth catching yours in a heat, blood-tasting kiss so intense it knocked the breath out of your chest. His lips were wet and you didn’t care as you moaned into it, kissed back with everything you had, hands fisting in his ruined shirt as your teeth clashed and tongues warred.

His fangs dragged along your lower lip as he kissed you, sharp and wicked, cutting tiny slits when you leaned in too hard and that only made it worse, his groan deepened as soon as he tasted the blood you didn’t mean to give.

He invaded your mouth with his tongue, hot and greedy, diving deep to collect every drop of what he’d drawn, lapping at the cuts like a man starved, hands grabbing at your hips, possessive and grateful.

You whined when he pulled away from your lips and he chuckled into your mouth, full of teeth and want.

“Givin’ it t’me now, are ya?” he murmured, voice of all heat-soaked filth and velvet pride, “Knew I’d get a taste o’ye one way or another.”

Your own hand slipped away from him and wrapped around the scythe still clutched loosely at your side. This is to bring it up and press the cold, curved metal lightly to your own neck.

He froze, breath ragged as he watched you dragging the scythe’s edge across the side of your neck. A sharp sting that left a trail of red beading along the skin like pearls, you tilted your head to the side as you moved it again up over the hill of your shoulder, a second trail joined the first, bright red and fresh in the pale light.

His hands went tight around your waist, pupils blown now, eyes gone molten, teeth visible, saliva thick at the corners of his mouth and dripping at the corner of his bloody chin at the sight of the gift you made for him.

He surged forward.

The scythe clattered to the porch as he buried his face in your neck and began feasting. His tongue ran over the blood again and again in broad strokes, dragging every single drop you’d offered him.

You arched into him to allow better access, whined low in your throat as his tongue found the base of your neck and sucked, moaning openly against your flesh like the taste of you was killing him.

His mouth crashed against yours the second he pulled back, lips slick with your own blood, the taste of yourself lacing between your teeth as his tongue forced its way in.

He groaned into your mouth and it vibrated straight through your jaw and down into the center of your chest.

His grip tightened, arms locked around your frame and suddenly you weren’t on the floor anymore.

It felt like a lurch in your gut as the air dropped away, ground vanished beneath your feet. Eyes still shut, tongue still tangled with his, he lifted your body off the floor with a growl buried deep in his throat. You gasped into his mouth and he ate the sound, tongue dragging over yours again and again.

The wind cut around you for only seconds before your back slammed into the mattress and tangled sheets, the window behind him shattered light across the floor, curtains ripping as his boots tangled in them and landed on the floor of your bedroom.

Blood smeared across the floorboards where he stepped, where you’d landed, his hands never once letting you go. He tossed you down hard enough to bounce the bed frame against the wall with a crack and he was above you in seconds, blood staining the sheets.

He landed between your legs, one knee shoved them apart as he pushed forward, hips tight and low, the full press of his cock, heavy and huge through blood-soaked pants grinding slow against your own with purpose.

He grunted and rolled his hips once, dragging the thick length of him right along your own, the heat of it unreal, obscene through clothes already clinging with blood.

His eyes glowed gold and his fangs were gleaming and shining with your blood. He stared down at you like a thing reborn in ruin, expression contorted with hunger, lust and need.

His tongue dragged over the cut on your neck in hot, wet and long strokes alternating with slow and filthy kisses that left your skin smeared in red. He moaned low into you with every lap, every taste, pressing groans into your jawline, into your temple, his breath coming heavier the more he drank from the surface.

You felt every ridge beneath his tattered shirt with your fingers, every tremble from where he tried not to tear you apart too soon. You reached lower until your hand cupped him through his pants.

The sound he made against your throat wasn’t human, fangs scraping again and his hips jolted forward instinctively, grinding hard against your palm as you squeezed. He kissed you messier, licking the corner of your mouth where blood had trickled.

Your fingers dragged at the buttons of his shirt, the other hand still wrapped around the thick outline of his cock, feeling the heat of its pulse under your grip.

You got the fabric undone only halfway before giving up and peeling it off his sturdy build and soon you were working his pants open next, frantic and clumsy, all while he didn’t stop kissing your throat even once. Every breath from him came with a hiss, a grunt, a moan, mouth leaving trails of blood over your neck, your collarbone, dragging sharp teeth over the thin layer of skin where your pulse throbbed.

A groan passed through his fangs when he felt fingers wrap around his shaft, hips jerking into your grip as his teeth snapped bare centimeters from your throat.

You stroked once and he twitched in your grip, cock hard and drooling at the tip while you squeezed at the base, thumb circling under the ridge of his head. His hips rolled into it, breath stuttering hard and he pressed his forehead into your collarbone, growling through grit teeth as you began working him slowly, deliberately, up and down.

“Y’gonna make me lose it—fuck, I’ll fuck ye so hard yer name won’t come back t’ye for hours—” His voice crack and immediately he seized your wrist and pulled it away.

The loss of contact made your breath stutter in your chest, but before you could protest he’d taken your other wrist too and pinned them both above your head.

He held your wrists in only one hand, inspecting with pride the one still slightly bruised he’d left days ago.

They were still mottled purple, violet rings blooming under the skin and his stare sharpened, mouth curled slowly and fangs glinting.

Y’looked good like that, all marked from him. So fragile and delicate, so many ways to ruin and have fun with.

He leaned down until his nose brushed the edge of your cheek and the growl that vibrated from his chest wasn’t human as his mouth descended on your shoulder, hot breath huffing against your skin before his tongue dragged across the shallow wound you’d given yourself earlier.

The blood there was fresh as he drank over your skin in slow, needy laps. He traced the blood, followed it down to where it gathered in the dip of your collarbone, then further, pushing his face against your chest, licking long, wet stripes across skin even where the blood had dried all while smearing the crimson down toward your abdomen.

You bucked once beneath him and he growled in delight, tearing your shirt open without hesitation, seams splitting beneath his hands, buttons skittering across the bed like broken teeth.

“I won’t lie t’ye,” he mumbled in a husky tone, breathing hot across your abdomen. “I thought of ravishin’ ye right then that night ye saved me t’ thank ye proper.”

He tore your pants down next, fabric splitting at the seams as your thighs were bared to the cold air and the burning weight of his mouth dragging down your chest again, sucking at the skin above your navel, teeth scraping enough to mark.

A large hand moved down and grabbed your right thigh, digging into the muscles and spreading your legs wider with inhuman strength. His mouth met your inner thigh with an open-mouthed kiss, fangs scraping faintly over the softest skin there, right beside your cock and make your whole body tense.

One sharp claw was pressed to your thigh and then dragged sideways, a clean cut that was deep enough to let blood trickle.

His lips covered it and kissed your thigh like your blood was the wine he’d waited centuries to drink. Tongue lapping the new wound, curling around the trail of blood as it slid down the curve of your leg and you felt him moan into it, the sound vibrating into your skin and his other hand gripped harder, holding your leg still so he could kiss the bleeding mark again.

His other hand moved between your legs as it reached down and slid his fingers to your hole, two fingers slick with blood that pressed in shallow, then deeper.

The stretch was sharp at first, but your body welcomed it from the overwhelming need and he watched everything while licking and kissing your thigh seconds before adding another finger, circling and scissoring as his fingers fucked you deeper.

The moment his fingers slipped from your body you felt the emptiness like a wound, ache stretching where his touch had been.

Your hands fell limply to the bed, the imprint of his grip still red across your skin. He crawled forward like a predator who knew there was no longer any point in rushing.

When he rose above your wrecked body, your legs moved automatically, wrapping around his hips like your body knew what was coming and refused to be denied.

The head of his cock, slick with precome, pressed tight against your stretched hole, pulsing thick and hot against the tender rim.

He looked down, eyes golden and wide, burning like hellfire, fangs bared in something too savage to be a smile.

“Ye ready for it now, darlin’?” he murmured, voice thick with promise, “Ready t’feel every inch of what ye opened yerself up for?”

Your answer was a broken moan as he pushed in, the fat tip breached you first, spreading your entrance around him as your body clenched instinctively, trying to take him in but barely able to.

Every inch forced deeper as you felt the way he filled you, the width dragging against every nerve inside you.

You moaned louder, back arching off the bed and his hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart as he sank in the last inch and bottomed out.

Your hole stretched wide and raw, the girth of him keeping your rim open around the base of his cock, heat blooming inside you with each shudder of his breath.

He held still, buried to the hilt, your body pulsing around him in rhythm with your heart before he moved.

The first thrust was brutal, dragging himself out almost all the way, letting you feel every ridge and vein to then slam back in hard. The sound it made, wet and loud, echoed off the walls like sin made physical.

You cried out and he laughed breathlessly into your shoulder as he proceeded to fuck you hard and deep. Long strokes, hips grinding to make sure you felt everything. Your cock twitched between your abdomens, pressed between your skin and his blood-slick chest, every rut of his hips sending a bolt of pleasure right through your spine.

As he picked up speed, the rhythm turned rough and relentless, hands dragging your hips down to meet every thrust, skin slapping against skin, the stretch of your hole now wet, noisy and so fucking full.

His voice broke into curses, moans and snarled bits of praise in that ruined Irish drawl of his. “Ye’re takin’ me so good—hnnnnfuck—”

Your cock was leaking while he kept wrecking you from the inside, the head smeared with your own precome and your thighs trembled around his waist.

The heat in your belly snapped tight and then broke as you came hard. A cry punched out of your chest as you spilled between you both, ropes of it streaking your chest and his abs. Your whole body spasmed around him, hole clenching down so tight he roared and slammed in once more.

His cock jerked inside you, twitching, thick and so far in you swore it pushed against your lungs as he filled you, thick spurts of hot seed pumping, warmth blooming inside your abdomen as he grunted, cursed and pressed in even deeper, grinding as he emptied himself into your stretched, aching hole.

Full weight of him collapsed onto you, head settling into the crook of your neck (his favorite spot), breath ragged against your skin and fangs brushing your collarbone.

You felt the heat of his mouth as he resumed licking in lazy, indulgent laps along the bloodied skin of your shoulder, savoring the aftermath

His cock, still inside you, twitched as it hardened again and a low, devilish chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating into your body through the weight of him on top of you.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and ruined like honey over something burning. “The things ye do to me… You’re better than blood…”

He still wanted to enjoy you more, the night was young.

The bed creaked beneath him, wood groaning under the weight of his blood-soaked body as his hands found your back, massive palms seizing you, claws pricking already-tender skin and in one fluid, inhuman motion, he hauled you up.

Your legs clamped tighter around his hips on instinct as you were airborne again, back arching, head falling briefly to his shoulder as he turned.

When he sat back against the headboard, broad back pressing into the wood, you straddled him fully in his lap.

Your knees sank beside his hips, thighs trembling with exhaustion and overstimulation, your breath heaving as your hands braced against the wall of his chest and raised your head.

His eyes were fully red now, a deep, glinting crimson that swallowed the room’s light. His fangs had lengthened, almost too far to keep his lips closed around them, protruding wicked and sharp from his parted mouth.

Breath huffed out around them, steaming faintly where the last of your heat still clung to his face. Long, past finger-length claws that raked down your back, not to wound (yet), but to keep you held.

“Saved your pretty neck from those bastards, didn’t I? Now I think I deserve a little somethin’ back. A reward, aye?” Voice like gravel soaked in whiskey, vowels slurred from heat and hunger.

He was grinning, terrifying, wide and blood-slicked, eyes gleaming like stars seen from underground.

You leaned in, forehead pressing flush to his, hot breath ghosting between your mouths. You didn’t care about the claws, the blood or that look on his face that said he’d tear the world in half to keep you in it.

“Cut my neck for you,” Your fingers twitched against his shoulder, smearing fresh blood. “…sliced my shoulder without blinking. And now you want more?”

You laughed softly, tired and breathless.

“You keep takin’ like this, Remmick, and I’ll be out cold before you even get to the good part.”

His claws moved down from your back to your sides, then to your chest as they pressed.

A single line, then another. Small, deliberate cuts carved into your skin with terrifying care. Not meant to maim but to feed with the blood that welled fast, small rivers crawling down the slope of your sternum, over your stomach, glistening under your collarbones.

“Then I’ll just have t’make sure y’stay awake,” he purred, voice soaked in heat. “Don’t want ye missin’ a single second.”

His mouth found your chest and he fed, kissing and dragging laps of his tongue across the small rivers he’d summoned.

Mouth smearing through the blood, warm and reverent, sucking gently around one of the deeper cuts before drawing back to lick the trail it left behind. His lips were already stained from your dried blood from earlier, now rehydrated by the fresh.

Your head tipped back and your hands gripped his shoulders tighter, but your strength was fading, pulse slowing and limbs weakening.

Remmick felt it.

You saw it in the way his eyes flicked up mid-lick,his tongue lingered on your skin like it was trying to remember you before you slipped too far.

He lifted you only an inch, enough to line himself up beneath you again.

His cock was hard, thick and furious beneath you, pulsing between your legs as he angled himself and pushed in. You gasped, your body opening slowly, trembling with effort.

He bottomed out deep and you forced your eyes open even through the haze.

Red eyes burning up at you, mouth soaked in crimson with fangs stained and hair a wild halo of blood-damp curls.

You kissed him fully, open-mouthed and tongue against his fangs, groaning into him when you began to move up and down.

Each bounce sent a jolt through your core, your knees buckling, but you kept going gripping his shoulders. His cock dragged deep, each thrust catching at the edge of your limit and forcing past it.

You slammed yourself down again and came hard, cock pulsing, spilling across his stomach, painting both your chests in streaks of heat as your body clenched down around him and he followed.

With a growl ripped from somewhere older than language, he buried himself to the hilt and came again, flooding you, thick spurts of heat pulsing inside your spent body.

You shuddered and fizzled in saturation, your nerves couldn’t take more, veins too empty. The air began to hum and your vision fluttered like moth wings.

He held you close, arms easing you back onto the ruined sheets. You felt the warmth of him as he leaned over your chest, his lips pressing lovingly and possessively to the bloody skin there.

The first thing you noticed was the heat from your own skin, bare against blood-wet sheets that dried and cracked with the faint stiffness of clot. Your body ached in places you couldn’t name. Your thighs burned, stomach tight and chest still throbbing where his mouth had marked you with red and bruises.

Golden noon slanted sharp across the bed and for a moment you thought your eyes would burn.

The realization that he wasn’t there hit you hard, blunt and hollow in the chest.

No breath on your neck, just your own body sprawled across the wreckage of last night’s ruin.

You looked down and found marks everywhere. Long, shallow cuts trailing across your ribs. Mouth-shaped bruises on your shoulder, your chest. Your thighs were a mess of dark splotches and ragged scabs, inner skin streaked with blood that had dried in the shape of his mouth.

You grinned, wincing.

‘Thank you, darlin’.’ The mockery of his voice in your own head was both obscene and affectionate. You threw on a shirt and some briefs on, each movement made you hiss through your teeth, muscles stiff and slow from everything he’d done to you.

You padded downstairs barefoot and there he was, sprawled on the floor of the parlor, back against a chair, legs crooked and banjo propped across his lap.

He was plucking strings idly, no real rhythm, just lazy unconscious flicks. The shirt he wore was still the same from last night, soaked and stained where the blood had dried in thick patches.

It clung to him unevenly, buttons half-undone and seams pulled out, the collar dark and rust-colored where blood had soaked through. One side of the shirt hung open completely, exposing his broad chest, sharp with muscle, the skin pale beneath streaks of dried crimson.

Droplets of blood, dried to rust, speckled his pectorals, some smudged into the edges of old scars, some dried in thin runnels down the line of his ribs. He hadn’t bothered to clean up, like he wanted to keep wearing the night.

“The fuck are you doin’ down here?” you snapped, instantly going for the nearest curtain. “You tryin’ to die for real this time?”

He didn’t flinch or even stop strumming, he just looked at you with a crooked grin, eyes still drowsy from the night before.

“Ah, listen t’ye soundin’ all fretful an’ sweet. Ye know I could eat y’whole just fer that tone alone, don’t ye?”

“Remmick,” you hissed, jerking a curtain closed with one sharp tug. “There are four open windows. I am not scraping what’s left of you off the goddamn floor just ‘cause you wanted to vibe with your creepy-ass instrument in direct sunlight.”

You were about to slam the last window closed when you heard him hum.

“Wait,” he said.

You turned and the grin widened.

“Take a peek outside, aye? Left y’a wee somethin’. Gift from me t’you, darlin’. Still smokin’, if y’re lucky.”

Your brows pulled together, wariness prickled your spine. Still, you stepped to the window, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the last of the glare as you peeked between the slats.

There were two blackened bodies completely carbonized, twisted into unnatural shapes like they’d tried to escape the burn.

Those two men who came for your field and were about to take your life if you hadn’t already chosen your monster.

You turned back to him.

“All o’ it done for ye,” he whispered.

You barked a laugh and staggered once, shaking your head, still stunned by the casual and absolute violence while you took a seat on the floor right in front of him.

“You’re insane.”

He didn’t argue, just tilted his head, lips parted in that lazy, crooked curve like sin had decided to incarnate itself just for your benefit.

“Y’knew what I was when ye let me in.”

A melody was born as he began to play.

His eyes flicked up and stilled when he saw the edge of one of his bruises on your shoulder.

His pupils twitched, then elongated, irises burning inward as if lit from within. His lips glistened, mouth parting wider now, the edges of his fangs poking visible. Spit gathered in one corner as it trailed down his chin.

The banjo slid from his lap, the strings gave one last gasp of sound as they kissed the floorboards and he began crawling towards you.

His hands spread wide, palms dragging with cruel patience over the wood, knuckles brushing dried blood still left from last night’s aftermath.

He was over you completely now, arms braced on either side, knees pinning your thighs apart, hips hanging above yours, head tilted, that beautiful face twisted into something too close to devilish.

You reached up, one hand pressed to his jaw and you felt the inhuman twitch of muscle just beneath the surface as you kissed him.

His mouth opened against yours, fangs brushing your tongue, spit mixing with yours as he kissed you back and when he lowered you fully to the floor, his body covering yours, weight full and hands sinking to your waist, you didn’t resist.

In his head, he made a simple vow.

He would destroy anyone to protect you.

Anyone.

Except from himself.

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