Oh I Love This!!!

Oh I love this!!! 😍

What's at Stake

(Vampire!)MaxPhillips x (VampireHunter!)F!Reader (7.8K)

Fic Exchange - Request Suggestion:  readers a vampire hunter, one night she’s killed a bunch trying to take down Max, he casually strolls into area “All that blood looks good on you, brings out your eyes.” Hate fucking/ enemies to lovers esque, have fun with it 

Merry Christmas @xdaddysprincessxx 💚❤️💚❤️💚❤️

Warnings: Enemies to Lovers. Slow Burn. Made Up Vampire Lore. Monster fucking. Talk of blood, biting, sucking, and bleeding.

Struggling against the bindings holding you to the office chair, you try to ignore his whining voice prattling on about how you ruined everything. Sat in the middle of an abandoned office building, you look around the room for any kind of weapon, for an exit, for a way out of your predicament. Suddenly his breathy chuckle is right at your ear. 

“I told ya that if ya kept fuckin’ sniffin’ around, the Boss wasn’t gonna like it, didn’t I?” he whispers.

You turn your head away from his hot breath fanning across your cheek, smelling like cinnamon and nutmeg.

“But you’re too goddamn stubborn to listen to me, aren’t ya?” he continues as he rounds your chair and grabs your face.

Fuck you, Max. You mutter between his squeezing palm. You’re pretty sure he understood you by the way he devilishly grins.

“We don’t have time for that unfortunately sweetheart,” he lets out an exaggerated sigh, “and what a shame that is.”

He rakes his gaze over you from head to toe. You feel the urge to shudder, but resist. However, you can’t stop the goosebumps from breaking out all over your skin. How is he doing this? Letting go of your face, he turns towards the guys behind you, the same ones who brought you into this room. He speaks to them in rapid Romanian. Your Romanian is pretty shit but you’re pretty sure you hear the words “deep” and “water.” 

This doesn’t bode well for you. He’s been pacing back and forth along the floor, chastising you for not listening to him, since you were brought in here hand-cuffed, leg-cuffed, and dripping red from head to toe. You think he might be a little angry that you just took out a small cadre - only two dozen human men - of his boss’ protection detail. Or maybe he’s mad about the way you hacked their security system so easily. 

Now that you're thinking about it though, he’s probably mainly pissed that you killed no less than eight of his family - vampires - just to get the necessary information on where his boss was holed up. It’s not your fault the first seven were so loyal that they didn’t give you what you needed. Maybe if he had more disloyal family members, you wouldn’t have had to kill so many of them. 

He brings his face towards yours again, wafting his scent over you. He smells like crisp air, a warm hearth, and baked goods. Max leans his face in so his lips are just brushing the skin over your jugular and inhales deeply. He lets a low mmmmmm rumble from his mouth before he slowly licks a stripe up the side of your neck, tasting the blood drying on your skin.

“You come in here, trussed up and marinated like a fuckin’ Christmas Goose, and what? You think I’m not gonna take a bite?” He grazes his teeth over your neck. “Cuz sweetheart, ya really look good enough to eat.”

You let him continue on with his little charade. You know this is all for show, more a display of dominance for the men behind you than anything else. He’s not going to drink your blood. You both know that your blood, like the blood of the long line of Vampire Hunters before you, tastes disgusting to him and anyone like him. That’s not to say he couldn’t drink it. But most vampires - Max included - are far too vain to drink five pints of something they can’t stomach.

Honestly you’re more worried about this whole “deep water” thing. 

“Can we skip this part and just get to the part where you reluctantly let me go only for me to inevitably find you again later?”

You hope the smug sarcasm you laid on covered up the desperation in your question.

“Not this time sweetheart,” he murmurs, digging through some paperwork on his desk. 

He picks up a single file folder and shouts more orders in Romanian, causing five men with garbage bags to come into the room. They open the file cabinets and desk drawers and start removing any and all paperwork, stuffing them into the bags. The three men behind you grab you out of the chair and you can’t help the surprised squeal that escapes your lips. 

“Hey, take it easy!” Max barks at them. Gripping you tight, they lower you to stand on the ground in front of him.

“I tried to warn ya sweetheart, I really did,” He brushes his thumb over your lips, gathering some still wet blood drops, and brings his thumb into his mouth to suck on the tip of it. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ good all covered in blood like this. It really brings out your eyes.”

He winks.

You sit up in bed in a sweat, panting heavily. You look around the room, eyes straining to focus in the dim light coming through the windows. You check the alarm clock. Just past 3am. Same as yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. No big deal, you just have the same fucking dream every single night. 

It’s probably fair to classify it as a nightmare at this point. The worst part isn’t the dream - one of your biggest failures. It isn’t who’s in the dream - arguably your arch nemesis. It isn’t even the memories it evokes - you struggling to fight for your life after being pushed off a cliff into a deep quarry lake and left to die. No, the worst part is that every night you wake up with soaking wet fucking panties. 

Max Fucking Phillips. How is he still doing this to you, all this time later?

You get up to check your email and for any replies to your posts on dozens of internet message boards. Nothing. The trail is cold. Ice cold. You have no clue where to look, you’ve been wandering aimlessly for months. The only thing warm are your thoughts of Max, plaguing your dreams each night.

Most vampires measure their age in decades, fewer measure it in centuries. But not Max’s maker. Zeno, or “the Boss,” as he’s affectionately called, measures his age in Millenia. You once heard that he’d bragged about hanging out with Alexander the Great, so it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that he saw the beheading of Kings and Queens, fought in the crusades, or gave military advice to Attila the Hun. 

He’s probably not even the oldest vampire to exist, if you think about it. He’s not the richest, not the most powerful, he’s not even the most evil. But he is the bane of your existence and the target of every one of your hunts. He’s also the fucker who killed nearly every relative of yours that ever tried to take him down, including your parents.

He’s the vampire that your family has been chasing for generations, ever since a failed turn rendered your great-great-great-great something into this - thing - he’s passed down the line. Not quite vampire, not quite human. Not a drinker of blood, but always thirsty. You aren’t immortal, you don’t have powers, and your regular teeth get regular checkups at the dentist. 

But your family is driven by a deep-seated hunger, both destined and cursed to seek out Zeno. Led by deep, instinctual urges, you’ve all stalked him across the ages, longing and needing to draw yourself closer to him. It was once explained to you that the craving you constantly feel is a vampire’s way of keeping those he’s fed on - both his victims and those he sired - close to him. 

It’s a false sense of loyalty. One that you and your family stopped feeling a long, long time ago. You especially, having been orphaned at 13, felt nothing but fury and hatred for this monster. He killed most of your family in one fell swoop. One night he came for vengeance and found it by taking your grandparents, 3 aunts, 4 uncles, 7 cousins, mother, and father away from you. Your Uncle Oz, maimed and having barely escaped the carnage, hasn’t left his house since.

It took you over a year to convince him to complete the training your father had started, giving you a chance to stand against this creature. In the last 15 years you’ve chased him around the globe, always catching his shadow as he turns a corner, never actually catching him. The closest you ever came was nearly five months ago, in California. 

After spending nearly two years searching the web, running down leads, questioning entranced villagers, and staking any vampire you came across, you’d finally gotten the lead you needed. A mid-level leech in an expensive suit had sung like a canary - turns out he had an unfortunate intolerance to allium in his mortal life that was severely exacerbated after his transformation.

His tip had landed you in a remote area south of San Francisco just after sunrise. You easily disabled the complicated security system, having spent months preparing for this exact moment. The next part you also planned for, taking out his human guards with well-placed, simple improvised explosive devices. Daytime afforded you some protection against dealing with his army of vampire followers while outside of the compound.

Once you got inside though, it was a different story. Your half-year of preparations went out the window when you were promptly overwhelmed by the loyal little fuckers crawling out of their coffins to protect their master. You’re not sure where your planning failed you, if it was their supernatural strength or just their sheer numbers. Either way, it landed you right where you didn’t want to be, in front of Max.

You’d dealt with Max before, he’d caught you sneaking around about a half dozen times now, sniffing around for a trail but still far behind your main target. He’d snatch you up by the scruff of your neck and give you a bonk on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. At least that’s what it felt like. It felt like a fun little game the two of you played.

He’d always been flirty with you, dripping with smarmy charisma, but you didn’t let yourself fall for him. He was the enemy. You hated the way a dimple on his right cheek would come out when he gave you his signature smile with a wink. You hated the way he would make you forget about your dead parents for a while. You hated the way it would burn after he’d drag his fingers across your skin.

Hate him as you may, you felt like he understood you better than most people could. He knew what it was like to feel an uncontrollable urge. He also seemed to have a soft spot for you. He’d listened to you break down in tears once about your family and, to your surprise, didn’t judge you. He even once drove you to the hospital himself, dropping you off outside the ER after you fell two stories and broke your leg.

You actually thought he might be impressed last time with how close you got. Zeno was in the building, you were in the building. You’d never been so close. And yet, you accomplished nothing. Max shook his head at you once again, but this time he didn’t let you off with just a warning. He ordered his goons to execute you. It wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t a game.

Fuck him for ever making you feel playful. Fuck him for making you feel anything. Definitely fuck him for invading your dreams. Fuck. Him. The next time you saw Max Phillips, you were going to kill him. One less bloodsucking bastard standing in your way.

Several weeks later you find yourself in a seedy area of Moscow, dodging down alleyways and avoiding passing cars. You’d enlisted your Uncle Oz for help and he finally, reluctantly agreed, going so far as to hook you up with some old contacts of his. You’d been told about an increase in vampire activity in Russia, which of course the police and the news media would call something else; Missing Persons, Psychotic Slashers, Animal Attacks. 

You knew better. These were the telltale signs of Zeno’s army of bloodthirsty assholes moving into the area and eating their way through the local population. Typically they’d show up in waves and begin fucking, sucking, killing, and turning, strengthening their bodies and their numbers. You had no way of knowing if the Boss was among them, but it was your only lead.

Avoiding the streetlights as best you can, you continue to dart down side roads, struggling to read the signs and addresses in an alphabet so different from your own. Finally, you come across a building with the same number on the front as you have scrawled inside your palm. No business name on the outside, two stories tall, with every single window painted black.

This has to be it.

You zip around to the back, keeping your head on a swivel, looking around and above you for any kind of security detail. You don’t see anyone. There’s not even any security cameras on the building. Your confidence starts to wane. Reaching the back loading dock you easily pick a lock and throw the door open.

Slowly padding through the largest of the rooms, you no longer quiet your footsteps in the clearly abandoned building. You hear a phone ringing but there’s no one here to answer it. There hasn’t been anyone here in a while. Chairs lay overturned on the floor, several of the lights flicker with dying bulbs, and an acrid smell still lingers in the room.

At least 30 desks sit empty, computer monitors on every one but all of the CPUs yanked away, their cords still stretched out on the floor. A large garbage bin in the middle of the room, filled with what was once the computers, is the source of the smell and also a large black ring burned into the floor below and ceiling above.

Following a scant trail of papers left on the floor, you’re led to an office at the back corner. The still-ringing phone sits on an empty desk with nothing else but a single piece of paper. Scrawled on the sheet are the words answer me. This is a new game.

You pick up the phone. Silence. You say nothing. Then you hear several clicks.

“Hey sweetheart, ya there?”

Fucking Max, of course. You say nothing. You’re not giving him the satisfaction-

“S’okay, ya don’t have to answer me. I already know it’s you.”

You grind your teeth.

“Good job catchin’ up with our little operation there in Moscow. Unfortunately you’re about three weeks too late.” You can almost hear his fake pout. “Also, the Boss? He was never even there so I’m not sure where you’re getting your information from. I’d be questioning the allegiance of my sources if I were you, cuz they seem a little unreliable.”

You shake your head. Smug asshole.

“Anyways sweetheart, I won’t keep ya. I just thought it’d been a while since we last talked so I wanted to see how you were doin’. I guess you could say I missed ya.”

“I’m doing fucking great considering you tried to have your idiot henchmen drown me,” you bite. You can’t help yourself. You’re pissed off at him and proud of yourself for surviving at the same time. You want to rub it in his face. He failed. He wants to rub your failure in your face? Fine. Two can play that game. “Too bad I’m a better swimmer than you thought, huh?”

“You’re absolutely right sweetie. It was such a disappointment to find out you survived that night, instead of dyin’ in that deep water that I told my idiot henchmen to throw ya in. It’s not like I could’ve known what a strong swimmer ya were. How could I know that?”

Your brows knit. There’s no way.

“I obviously would have no way of knowin’ that ya won a state championship two years in a row on your high school’s swim team.”

Your jaw drops open.

He says your name. Your heart stops. He never calls you by your fucking name. 

“Stay outta trouble.” The line goes dead. 

You jump as the remaining lights turn off, shrouding you in complete darkness.

It’s been nearly a year since your not-so-near miss in Moscow. Your uncle, scared for your safety, convinced you to come back home and take a short break. You’d planned to stay for a month and when it turned into two and then three, he didn’t comment on it. Although once you hit the six month mark, he started calling you his roommate, no matter how much you rolled your eyes.

You’d never taken this amount of time “off” your hunts before. Sure, you were still scouring message boards and chasing down leads but you were doing it all from a computer chair. You used to actually chase them down, using planes, trains, or automobiles. You didn’t mean to sit still this long, it wasn’t in your nature, but you keep hearing Max’s words buzzing in your ear.

Stay outta trouble.

Your dreams have lessened in frequency since Moscow, though not in intensity. He still has the same effect on you, waking up with your body screaming for his touch. Now the dreams aren’t just of the night in California, the dreams have evolved. You thought that you’d welcome a change, any change, to the monotony. But since the dreams are basically just sex-dreams now, you’re slightly annoyed by them.

You’re not really as annoyed as you pretend to be, but it is disturbing that you’re fantasizing about an undead monster; not that it’s interfering with your non-existent social life. You actually downloaded a dating app and went on a few dates. You’re a quirky gal, so that’s what you attract. And you don’t mind it. But even peculiar guys get weirded-out when you try to explain what you do for a living. Several first dates, zero second dates.

So you spend a lot of time alone, or with your Uncle Oz, who is terrible company - sitting in his living room recliner in a stained shirt, eating TV dinners and watching reruns of NCIS. He tells you to get a real job - as if you were even good at anything else. He tells you to go out and make friends - as if anyone would understand you. He tells you that the clawing ache you feel deep inside ‘gets better’ with time.

You don’t believe him. You know he still feels it just as strongly as he always did. It’s just that he’s scared now, and the paralyzing grip of that fear is stronger than the pang of vacancy that sits deep in his core. Sometimes you think you can feel the fear too, prickling at the edges. It feels like icy-cold fingers reaching around the edges of your mind and body, freezing your thoughts, holding you down.

Every day you stay up until 3, sometimes 4 in the morning, fighting against that fear. You practice your Romanian, earning little rewards in your DuoLingo app. You message back and forth with other hunters, working together designing new weapons in the fight against these monsters. You hack into local cameras around the world, using every tool at your disposal to search for that face in the dark. Max. No, wait. Zeno. You’re hunting Zeno. 

It's a sunny late-September morning, just after noon, when you’re awoken by a strange ringtone. You sit up in bed, fumbling to reach your cell phone only to find it tucked under your pillow in silence. The ringing continues. What the-? A memory springs to your mind - of your uncle trying to throw his old phone in the trash but you grabbing it instead - just in case. 

You throw open the bottom drawer of your nightstand and grab the phone just as it stops ringing. You consider calling the number back but the low battery warning is flashing and you don’t remember where the old charger for this thing is at the moment. You wait a moment longer and when the voicemail notification flashes, you dial in to listen.

What you hear is a choppy message left with a bad connection. The person speaking has a thick accent but you’re sure you hear them say the name that makes your blood run cold - Zeno. You run out to the living room and make your uncle listen to the message no less than nine times before he can tell you anything about it.

He’s pretty sure it’s an old contact of his named Mo, who used to live in Cairo. 

Less than 36 hours later you find yourself in a bustling area just outside of Cairo. Tired from the lack of sleep in the tiny budget airline seats, you give the cab driver the wrong address. This is how you find yourself pushing your suitcase down the street, fumbling with your phone to get to your uncle’s emails. 

Unable to reach Mo back and not wanting to lose any time on the lead, you got on the next flight that would eventually land you in Egypt. Concerned with your safety, Oz had promised to stay on the case from back home and update you. Unwilling to wait until you get to the hotel, you punch away at the phone screen, trying to connect to a local mobile network.

You blame your exhaustion for the way you don’t even hear the motorbike riding along the sidewalk behind you. Three people jump off it, point a gun at you, and grab all of your stuff. They snatch your luggage, your phone, they even take your airplane pillow. They’ve piled back on the bike and ridden away before you even process what just happened.

You blink slowly and before you can begin to panic, you remember the emergency cash you keep stuffed in your pockets. You are too exhausted to think or do anything right now. Tomorrow you can get a new phone, you can call your uncle and get money wired, you can continue on with your chase. Tonight, you just need to check into your hotel.

Not surprisingly, you have a fitful dream, but what does surprise you is the subject of the dream. You’re not being tossed around in cheap economy seating. You’re not being mugged at gun-point by strangers in the night. Hell, you’re not even being seduced by a disarmingly attractive vampire in a three-piece-suit. 

You’re being chased. Like the kind of dream-chase where you run endlessly but make it nowhere. He bears down on you and you scream the kind of dream-scream, where your mouth is wide open but no sound comes out. He grabs you with his bony hands and you throw the kind of dream-punch where it feels like you’re fighting underwater. There is no escape.

You can’t see the face of the creature running you down in the dark, but you already know who it is. You would know him anywhere, anytime, even with your eyes closed. It’s Zeno. You know because even though your dream-legs are running away as fast as they can carry you, everything else in your body is screaming to turn and run the other way, to run towards him.

Max steps off the private plane onto the tarmac and almost immediately plops into the waiting SUV. It wasn’t a long flight but he’s not in a great mood, even the in-flight-meal - he thinks her name was Yulia - didn’t lift his spirits. He isn’t used to being summoned in the middle of the night like this by his boss, especially when everything has been going so well. 

The boss had been traveling around the Mediterranean, visiting some of his old stomping grounds, while Max had set up their new operation in the Greek Isles. Beautiful country with a rich history, and his office had a killer view - even at night. He was almost glad you blew up their spot in San Francisco. All was going according to plan, every i was dotted and every t crossed.

But now the boss was calling him to Egypt for an emergency meeting. It’s probably some kind of promotion, also known as ‘more work’. Max was one of the younger members of Zeno’s family but his keen nose for business and his shrewd sensibilities quickly made him a favorite. Even before you were killing off his competition, he was rising quickly within the ranks.

He checks his phone again for the hundredth time in the last day and a half. He’s been tracking you for the last 16 months, ever since that night in California. For the last year he’s watched you barely leave a five-block radius… until yesterday, when you traveled to your local airport. He’s been watching but hasn’t seen your signal pop back up since.

Where the fuck are you? 

He knows you haven’t found where he is, none of your internet searches have pointed you anywhere near his trail. He’s also positive that you don’t have the faintest clue where the boss is. Hell, until he was beckoned by private jet several hours ago, Max wasn’t even sure exactly where he was. Max has worked hard to make sure he’s ten steps ahead of you. It makes it easier this way. Easier to keep the boss happy. Easier to keep you safe. 

Max is led inside an old, abandoned temple, lit only by the near-full moon streaming in through the unglazed windows. The structure was built into the side of a rock formation that clearly wasn’t as close to the river as it is now. Now, water weeps from the rocks that form the walls, dripping down and creating undulating rivers across the uneven floor. 

Zeno stands in the center of the room, tall and gaunt, bent slightly over an altar.

The Boss starts talking, Max assumes to him, about ‘purpose’. They’ve had conversations like this before. When Max isn’t meeting the boss’ expectations, this is how he frames it. The shuddersome creature believes that all of his creations - the vampires he’s turned - are a reflection of him. Therefore, they must all be willing to ‘achieve greatness at any cost.’ 

He turns around and steps towards Max, cradling a figure in his arms covered by a black shroud. Max looks down at it, waiting for the boss to speak. When he says nothing, Max decides to ask.

“What’s this?”

“This is to remind you of your purpose,” the boss whispers, his voice a rasp, barely audible in the empty, echoing chamber.

“I already ate on the plane.”

“This isn’t for you, this is for me. I have plans.” His voice carries the final consonant like a hiss.

Whenever Zeno has plans, that means Max has more work. As if he doesn’t have enough work to do already, running the boss’s entire empire practically by himself. The ancient monster has lofty expectations, but is completely uninterested in the day-to-day mundanity of maintaining a global undead supremacy.

“What do you need, boss?”

“Complete the turn,” his voice scratches against Max’s eardrums, “make her your own.” 

Max has turned vampires before, always at the behest of Zeno. He doesn’t relish doing it, nor is he consumed by the same desire his boss has to build up an army of loyal followers. He reaches over and pulls down on the shroud, revealing the pale face beneath.

Your face.

Max tries not to react but he’s sure his pupils dilate, betraying him.

“What’s this?” Max asks again, attempting but failing an even-toned voice.

“You don’t recognize her?” Zeno asks, already knowing the answer.

“I recognize her.”

Of course he recognizes you. Your face, your smell, even the twitch of your lips as you sleep is familiar to him. You occupy his thoughts constantly, and have for quite a while.

“You told me you took care of her.”

“I did.” Max looks him in his cloudy, lifeless eyes.

“I understand ‘taking care of someone’ to mean that they’ve been e-lim-in-at-ed,” Zeno slowly draws out the last word.

“It wasn’t... I had her under control,” Max hates that he even has to explain himself right now. It’s all been handled.

“had?”

“Well…. I’m not sure what she’s doing here.” He looks down at your face, watching you take shallow breaths. “I thought-”

“I called her here. It was so easy,” the fiend lowers his face to yours, running his pointed nose along your cheek. Max winces. “She wants to be here with me. She craves it.”

Max tries not to shudder at his words. He hates the thought of you being beholden to Zeno in any way. He had been trying so hard to keep you out of his clutches. In the silence he hears a dripping noise, closer than the drips coming down the walls. He looks down at his feet and notices a pool of dark liquid, rivulets of water running through it.

He pulls at the dark shroud and it falls off your legs, revealing a steady stream of blood dripping down your inner calf. He continues to pull away the fabric and sees the white shift you wear stained deep red at the source of the blood. What appears to be a bite wound, barely concealed by the thin material, sits high on the inside of your thigh.

Max has to tamp down the rage inside him about to boil over. Zeno has taken it upon himself to drain you of blood in preparation to turn you and he did it by putting his mouth where only a lover’s mouth should go. He had no fucking right to touch you like that. He has no fucking right to touch you at all.

“I think she’s your weakness, Max,” the elder one scoffs.

“She’s nothing-”

“Don’t lie,” Zeno growls. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

Max grits his teeth, unable to respond. 

“Turn her. Turn her and then she’ll actually be under your control. And then we’ll have some real fun.” The moonlight glints off the demon’s teeth and Max meets his dead eyes once again and he knows. He knows that the boss wants to make you immortal so he can hurt you over and over until the end of time. So he can punish you. So he can order Max to hurt you. So he can punish you both.

He knows he has no other choice.

You remember falling asleep atop the crisp sheets of your hotel bed, a warm breeze gently blowing through the open window. The next thing you remember is waking up with a splitting headache. A grating noise in your ears, starting out quiet but getting louder and louder - like nails dragging on a chalkboard - scraping around the inside of your skull.

The noise slowly forms itself into a voice, whistling like a tea kettle, stabbing the backs of your eyeballs. The voice enters your ears like the hissing of a snake, all tongue and teeth, unable to comprehend the words. You feel ice-cold pressure on your legs, then a sharp pain inside your thigh. You try to scream from the hurt but there isn’t enough air in your lungs to cry out. 

You think you’re dreaming of Max again, but it’s not how it usually is. Pain creeps up your spine. You smell rot, wet earth, and copper. You feel shame. A warm flush burns your cheeks, the tips of your ears, down your neck to your chest. You don’t want to be thinking of him like this, not now, not as the ache in your head increases, not as your leg throbs. Wait, why is Max hurting you like this? He’d never do this. Why is he doing this?

You hear slurping noises and finally understand the word ‘sleep’ in your ear, and so you fall back asleep.

You’ve never been more tired in your life. You’re so tired that no matter what you do, you can’t wake up. You hear Max speaking now and smell warm caramel sauce. He’s in your dream again, but you can barely understand his words over the pounding in your head. A noise cuts through the constant buzz in your ears, a piercing howl, a throaty laugh that claps repeatedly against your eardrums.

Suddenly, an inhuman shriek rings out so loudly that you’re sure your ears are going to bleed, and then you’re falling. Falling, falling, falling into an endless pit of black. You’re never going to land, you’re never going to know peace, you’re never going to survive this. A wave of warmth splashes over you and suddenly you’re on solid ground. You’ve never felt so good in your entire life. You drift back into a hazy unconsciousness.

You awake when you hear all of the voices, it must be six or seven people, all shouting over each other, harried and barking. The voices clash like cymbals in your brain but you hear one voice distinctly above the others. Max. You know you hear Max. You hear him say don’t let her die, his voice almost melodic in comparison to the rest.

You think you open your eyes but it can’t be real because everything is red. Everything. 

The smell of warm apple crumble fills your senses, and you’re pretty sure that’s what wakes you up. Not the incessant beeping of multiple hospital machines, or alarms blaring from speakers above you, or the yelling of the medical staff in a language you don’t understand. No, it’s the apple, brown sugar, and butter that invades your nose, your mouth, your brain. 

You feel the warmth of it on your face, hot out of the oven. You’re pretty sure you can even taste it. Eventually you gather the strength to open your eyes and you see Max Phillips. You watch him prick his fingertip with his fang, gathering a drop of blood on his finger and moving it underneath your hospital gown. His eyes move to your face and he’s surprised to find you awake.

“Sorry, I-” he starts, and retracts his hand slightly. “This is just-”

His hand continues up the thin garment and you gasp when he smears the blood on his fingertip over a very sore spot on your leg. It’s high inside your thigh and you can’t remember how it got there. You’d be more embarrassed or shocked that Max was putting his hand there if it didn’t hurt so bad and then almost immediately feel so much better.

He then brings his hand up to your face. You see his fingertip still leaking a bit of blood.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, his words a song in your head.

You know he’s using his hypnotic vampire powers on you, but you know they don’t work. By now he should also know they don’t work. Whatever you are, whatever this thing is that you carry in your blood, vampire powers don’t work on you. Wait, why the fuck is your tongue sticking out of your open mouth? What is happening? Why is your body obeying him?

He slowly lowers his finger to your tongue, dabbing the remaining drop of blood on it.

“Swallow.”

You do. You don’t understand why, but you follow his command. 

“Sleep,” he whispers, his hot-cider-scented breath wafting over you. 

Your body obeys him again and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next time you opened up your eyes you were back in your own bed. Your uncle said you'd been knocked out for the better part of a week but you felt like a million bucks when you woke up. It's finally over, he’d said. Finally over. You asked him what he meant and he said Don't you feel that? Feel what? You didn't feel anything. Exactly, he said. Don't feel anything. 

Gone was the constant hunger, gone was the clawing emptiness, gone was the magnetic pull towards a minion of death. 

Zeno was dead. That much you knew. You could feel it. Oz could feel it. How, why, or by whose hand he had no idea. He just knew that he woke up two days after you’d left for Cairo and felt the best he'd ever felt in his life. You were inexplicably back in your bed, and all his fears were miraculously gone. 

You saw Oz laughing for the first time in years. He’d even felt up to planning a vacation to make up for lost time, though you declined to join him. You knew he was somewhere in Peru according to his latest email. You stayed home, trying to adjust to your new life as well, but there were still questions in your mind that seemed to be holding you back. Maybe just one question.

Where was Max Phillips?

You get your answer two nights later when you hear a knock at your front door, finding him standing in his trademark three-piece-suit on your front steps. He smiles at you before sniffing the air. He skips over the salutations and small talk.

“Where’s your uncle, sweetheart?”

“He’s back in his-”

“No, he’s not,” Max interrupts with a sly smile. You roll your eyes.

“Somewhere along the Amazon.”

“There’s the truth,” he looks across your face, taking you in for a moment. “You look…..” he trails off, then brings one hand up in sweeping motion, wafting the scent of butterscotch towards you. With a toothy grin he asks, “you gonna invite me in?”

Several hours later you’re standing in your kitchen, cheeks warm from drink and sore from laughter, pouring the last drops of your second bottle of wine into both of your glasses. He’d told you what he’s been up to for the last month - traveling the world he said. You lied and told him you’d been looking into doing the same.

You tell more lies when he asks about how your job hunt is going (good, just waiting on some call backs), if you’ve been making any new friends (meeting people every day), and how you’ve been feeling (totally great and not sad at all). You even think he bought the fake new hobby you made up (Knitting? Is that what you’d said?).

“You look well,” he huffs out, finally finishing the thought he started on your doorstep.

“You too,” is your awkward response as you turn, setting the bottle down on the counter behind you, hoping he doesn’t notice you cringe.

“Well, I always look this good,” he quips, never humble, “but you were in pretty rough shape last time I saw you.”

Memories that you had subconsciously pushed down come flooding back into your mind. Max was there. He was in Cairo. He saved you. What had he saved you from? You couldn’t really remember. You hadn’t been able to remember for weeks, the fuzzy images retreating further and further from your grasp with each passing day.

“You were there,” it’s not a question. You remember that much.

“I’m always there,” he says immediately.

“You saved me…”

“I always save you.

“You saved me from him, didn’t you?” A beat finally passes without an answer. Barely a whisper, “You killed him.”

“You remember that?” He tries to hide his smile.

“I remember your voice. I remember your smell,” you admit.

“My smell? What do I smell like?”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s different for everybody. What do I smell like to you, sweetheart?” he leans forward and tucks his face into your neck, inhaling the heat coming off of you as his own scent invades your nose. Pumpkin pie, mulled wine, and line-dried flannel.

“You smell like fuckin’ autumn,” you manage to get out before he catches your lips with his own.

He grabs your face in both hands and continues kissing you as he walks you backwards down the hall towards your bedroom. How does he know where your bedroom is? His tongue licks over your bottom lip and you feel lightheaded. All thought processes are interrupted when - unhappy with your slow pace - he picks you up and carries you bridal-style into your bedroom.

Tossing you on your bed, he undresses with inhuman speed, completely naked before you’ve even stopped bouncing on the springs. He prowls towards you, crawling on the bed overtop you, his legs slotting between yours, his arms caging your shoulders on either side.

“Why did you choose me over him?” Your words are barely audible to you over your own pounding heartbeat. He dips his head so his lips brush against the shell of your ear. You smell his sweet honeyed breath and hear him sigh your name.

“I always chose you,” he kisses a path along the line of your jaw until he reaches your chin, placing a long kiss on your lips. “And you know why.”

Your eyes fall closed as he continues his trail of kisses down your body, gently removing your clothing as he goes. Max firmly pinches one nipple until it is tight and stinging, then he brings his mouth over it to draw soft circles with the tip of his tongue, soothing the pebbled flesh. He sucks at the sensitive peaks, laving his tongue along the curve of your breasts and mouthing the underside, dividing his attention equally between them.

Unable to take much more of his torment, you grab his hair with both hands and moan his name. Understanding your message, he moves down your body, divesting you of the rest of your clothing. You can’t stop the shiver that shoots up your spine when you look down and see him, fangs bared, between your thighs.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart,” he coos, placing kisses on the soft places inside your legs.

“I’m not.”

“That’s my good girl,” he hums.

His fingers spread you open as his flat tongue licks you with delicate strokes. He starts small but as you begin to moan and writhe underneath him he is soon reaching his tongue from your asshole to your clit, lapping at your arousal in between. When you grab at his hair again and your cries become insistent, he doubles down on his efforts on your nub. 

Max has you seeing stars only minutes after entering the room. Before you can feel any kind of embarrassment for how easy it was for him to wind you up, he’s latched his mouth back on to you. Still sensitive from your climax, he’s careful to apply only gentle pressure to your core. Easily pushing a finger into your entrance, slick with your release, he begins to massage upward.

If the first orgasm came quickly, then the second one could be called instantaneous. You’re hoarsely crying out his name as it washes over you, tears spilling out of your clenched shut eyes and running down your face. You watch as Max pushes the finger that was inside your cunt into his wet mouth, wrapping his tongue around it for an especially lewd view.

Max Max Max. You repeat his name over and over. 

“Max, please.”

“Please what, baby?” his voice is back at your ear

“You’ve been torturing me for so long, please just fuck me already,” you notice how whiny your own voice sounds but you can’t help it.

“We haven’t even been in this room for ten minutes and I’ve made you come twice, how exactly am I torturin’ you, hmm?” As if he doesn’t know.

“The dreams Max, the dreams.”

“You’ve been dreamin’ about me angel?” He drags his lips down your neck and across your collarbone, moving his face back up to your other ear.

“You know I have, you put a spell on me.” You feel him chuckle in your ear.

“That’s not a spell. That’s just called you being in fuckin’ love with me.”

“No I-” 

You’re cut off by his mouth on your lips again. You watch him kiss you, his eyes closed, his fangs retracted, gentle at first and then growing more needy. You close your eyes too and lose yourself in the movements of his mouth, his tongue, the taste of you, the taste of him. Your hands roam his body, and it hits you suddenly… maybe he’s right. He pulls back to look at you.

“I love you too,” he responds to words you didn’t say.

You feel him then, pressing hard against your entrance and you spread your legs to open up for him. He pushes forward and finally, finally, begins to ease himself inside of you. You gasp, looking into his eyes as he stutters his hips, moving into you inch by inch. You think you must sound pitiful, but you can’t do anything about the breathy moans that leave your mouth now. You’ve been thinking about this moment for so long and now it’s happening, and it feels better than you ever imagined it could.

Your arms are wrapped around him, pulling him tight tight tight against you and you can’t stop kissing him. He seems more than happy to oblige as his mouth meets yours over and over. You hear him say baby, say sweetheart, say your name. You hear him tell you he loves you, breathing it into your mouth repeatedly. He pulls your body up off the bed a bit, holding you tight in his arms as the tempo of his hip thrusts increases.

Your head lolls back now, unable to keep kissing him while you groan louder and louder, telling him that you’ve dreamed of this, that he feels so good, that you need him. Spurred on by your praise, he snaps his hips into yours harder and faster, moving his body away enough to reach his hand between you. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hooded bud and brings you to another explosive peak in his embrace. 

You spend the rest of the night taking your time with each other, bringing each other to orgasm after orgasm, so many that you lose count. It becomes clear to you that Max has been just as enamored with you as you have been with him. All of his bravado and even his superhuman abilities fall by the wayside when you take him into your mouth and tell him how much you love him, how much you love his dick.

In the quiet moments of recovery you take deep breaths, talk about your shared past, and even make some plans for a future that includes each other. At one point your curiosity gets the better of you, as you recall several moments over the years.

“What do I smell like to you?” You ask as your head rests on his chest. He leans his face down and buries it in the crown of your head, sniffing you, and placing a kiss there before he pulls away.

“You smell like home, sweetheart.

🖤

(that got so sappy at the end I'm sorry it turned into a vampire love story)

I want Joel to take care of me when I’m sick too! 😍😍

Sick

Joel Miller x Reader Warnings: Reader is sick, pill taking, food mention (brief), trouble sleeping. A/N: I just wrote this because I'm currently sick AF and would like Joel Miller to look after me pls n thank. It's mostly just fluff tbh. No use of Y/N, no race or gender coding, reader is pretty much a blank slate. 700~ Words | [AO3]

You groan as you stir awake for the hundredth time tonight, pain arcing behind your eyelids as you struggle to rouse yourself. You’re freezing cold despite the warm body pressed to your back. You desperately pull the covers around you as you try and fight the chill that wracks through your body.

“Hey?” Joel whispers in your ear as you feel him pull you to him, his thin scruff scraping along the plane of your shoulder, “You ok darlin’?”

You curse yourself inwardly at the soft voice in your ear. The thickness in his voice sends a pleasant shiver through you as you wrap your arms around his strong forearm as it holds you firm against him.

“No,” you whimper feebly as you hear the cloying distortion to your voice, even with just one syllable it’s obvious you’re sick. You’d been feeling under the weather all week, but it seems it’s finally caught up to you. On a Saturday no less.

“Shh,” Joel hushes you softly as he wriggles his other arm free, you feel his strong palm press against your forehead from behind as he shifts up on the pillows behind you, “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you grumble as you let out a hacking cough as your chest burns.

“Stay here,” he says softly as he places a gentle kiss to your temple.

You whine as he slides out of bed before tucking the covers around you tightly. You grunt helplessly as he shuts the door behind him, missing his body heat already as you burrow down into the sheets. Your eyes flutter shut and your brow furrows at the pain in your skull, amplified only by the way your rattling cough seems to jostle your head.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but when Joel comes back you smile feebly up at him from the cocoon you have crafted around you. He’s a vision of tan skin and grey boxer briefs as he carries in a tray with water, cold medicine, and a few bags of your favourite snacks.

“Poor baby,” Joel coos softly as he sets down the tray on the nightstand, “Can you sit up for me?”

“Sure,” you say meekly as you shuffle yourself up into a seating position, “Thank you.”

“Don’t need to thank me,” he says as he smiles fondly at you, “But you do need to take your medicine,” he frowns playfully at you as he wags a finger in your direction. Your heart swells as you look up into his deep brown eyes as he looks you over. Worry forms in the crow’s feet around his eyes and the semi-permanent crease in his brow. Your stomach flutters and you can’t help but smile.

“Ah shit,” you groan as you realise what day it is, “The party at Maria and Tommy’s.”

“Don’t fret, I’ve already called Tommy,” Joel says as he hands you a couple of cold and flu tablets and a glass of water, “Poor bastard wasn’t even awake yet, I forgot to check the time before I called.”

Once you’ve got a secure hold on the medication and water Joel sits on the edge of the bed before dropping a broad hand to your knee. He rubs soothingly up your thigh as he watches you intently. You sigh peacefully at the ministrations of his hand as you gulp down the water and tablets.

“What time is it?” You ask as your head spins, you relax immediately as you feel Joel slide into bed beside you, sitting up as he pulls you back against his chest. You lay there, head lolled back on his shoulder as you close your eyes.

“Early,” he hums as he gently lays down, pulling you with him, “But don’t worry about that now, get some rest, I’m right here.”

“Ok,” you sigh as another cough rocks your body, prompting Joel to hold you tight against his chest.

“Love you darlin’, get some sleep.”

“Love you too,” you mutter as the lure of unconsciousness becomes too hard to ignore.

You’re not sure if it’s the cold medicine, or the way that Joel nuzzles into the crook of your neck, but you finally feel a little relief as you let out a shuddering sigh before falling into a deep sleep.

Jett!!! I love these so much!!! 😍

Masterlist of my Lil' Pedro Boy Doodles

Javi G & Teddy

A Cup Of Love Dieter

Lil' Joel Miller

More to come soon... 🖤

THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME IN THIS! Ugh, how I have missed them since reading Endurance 😭❤️ This is the best way to start my Frankie Friday

Hi Al!

I'm back with my Ask games again!

This time we have a spring based prompts theme. You get a spring prompt and a character and I'd like to know your head canon/immediate thoughts on the combination.

Character: Frankie Morales

Prompt: cherry blossom

With love,

El

Hi El,

Well this took me bloody ages, but thank you so much for the ask as it set of my brain into a Frankie ✨whirlwind ✨

It inspired a little drabble for the 1940’s Pilot Frankie from my mini series Endurance

It’s pure fluff!

Much love 🖤

Cherry Blossom (580 words)

1940’s Pilot Frankie x f!reader

London, 1948

Frankie dreams of cherry blossoms. On the nights when he’s not awake because of the nightmares, or swaying the baby gently to sleep, he dreams of cherry blossoms drifting through the breeze and catching in your hair.

Of course, cherry blossoms will always make him think of you, those pink petals had been blowing in the wind when he’d first caught sight of you in the Blythe House cottage garden, furious at the wet sheet you were trying to hang on the line that was escaping your grasp.

The sky had been permanently grey the spring of 1944, as if the war had sucked up all the joy and colour, leaving the world in sepia tone. But the pink of the blossom had valiantly tried to remain, despite the constant rain, despite the thick clouds that obscured the sunlight.

There had been a scowl on your beautiful face, mouth set in a hard line as you’d scrambled to catch the sheet. You’d glared at him and he’d known then he was lost forever. He’d never jumped a wall faster.

Today he breaths in the clear, fresh spring air and lets it fill his lungs. Drinking in the promise of longer evenings, blue skies and walks in the park under the London blossoms with his ladies. That’s what he calls you, his little family, the ladies.

Exactly a year ago, you had walked through this very park, Santi in his best suit, holding out his arm to Hannah so she could link with him. She kept repeating that she was ‘so proud’ to be on the arm of such a handsome man, her sweet Scottish burr making Santi preen at the compliments and suggesting to her perhaps he needed to go north of the boarder to find a ‘nice British wife like Frankie’.

You were just married, a wedding procession from the registry office back to your shared house in Belgravia. You’d insisted on walking, wanted to stroll through the blossoms as husband and wife, finally, and let your daughter Theo run ahead excitedly. So pretty in her bridesmaid dress, inherited from one of your little sisters, silk sash around her tummy and wild flowers threaded into her chocolate coloured curls so carefully by Hannah. The mirror image of Frankie… just a different name on her birth certificate.

It was under a cherry tree where he’d first realised he loved you. Stolen kisses in the dark, a hunger that couldn’t be sated that night. He still can’t believe he gets to call you his, that fate had bought him back to you. You were the light that he kept burning bright, even in the darkest of days in occupied France.

He can’t stop the nightmares, the memories that refuse to leave, whispers in the dark of what might have been, what was for so many. But waking up next to you, being able to pull you close and breathe in your scent, taste the salt on your skin, it means he’s alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

As you walk through the park, his hand is threaded through yours, you lean into him and press a kiss into his cheek. As is your want, as is your right, now you’re just another married couple walking through the trees and admiring the first signs of spring.

“One year married Lady, who’d have thought.”

“It feels like a dream Frankie.”

Blossoms swirl through the air as Frankie meets your eyes, so much said with just one look, before he takes the breath right out of you with a soft kiss.

😍😘🥵

Farmhand!Joel- Dirty Little Secret

Summary: You’re back home from college for the summer when your parents decide they can’t take care of the farm alone anymore. So they hire a hot middle aged Joel to come work for them. Shit gets spicy when your truck breaks down in a thunderstorm and who else but Joel would come to your rescue?

Warnings: 18+!!! If I see one minor on here I’ll call all your moms. Age gap (ages not specified just implied age gap), degrading, piv sex, fingering, oral sex (male receiving), cranky Joel, smutty smut smut.

Thank you to @bitchesuntitled for your help with editing and ideas!

You wake up to the smell of bacon and coffee. You’ve been back home on the farm with your folks for the past month, since you didn’t enroll in any summer classes in college. The sunlight beams through your window, right into your eyes, rudely interrupting your peaceful sleep.

Your parents are chatting downstairs while they make breakfast. “You can’t do this all by yourself anymore Bill, you’re going to have to swallow your pride, and hire a farmhand.” Your mom says to your dad, in a firm yet soft voice.

“I know Marian, I know. I’ll put an ad in the paper. But I ain’t hiring no damn teenager. I want him to know how to do this stuff already. I ain’t got time to babysit.” Your dad says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Your dad is getting older, whether you’d like to admit it or not, he’s in his 60s, and you have no brothers to help him with the manual labor stuff required to run a farm. Sure you can milk a cow and feed the chickens just as well as anyone else. But when it comes to fixing broken down tractors, and hauling hay, you're of little to no use. So it’s about time that he finally hires someone to help him.

“Finally giving in to her? Wow, you’re going soft on us in your old age.” You ask your dad, in your best mocking tone.

“Nah it was my idea really, she just gave me a reminder.” He says, never willing to admit defeat.

“No, I think it was you throwing your back out trying to clean the chicken coup that served as your reminder.” Your mom chimes in.

“Well either way, I think this’ll be good for you. Who knows, maybe you’ll make a new life long friend.” You tell your dad, hoping he’ll see the brighter side of things for a change.

“I don’t need a friend. I need a farmhand that shows up, works his ass off until dark, and goes home.” Your dad grumbles, as he finishes his plate of eggs and bacon.

—

A week later your dad comes in after dark grumbling about how “it’s about time someone answers the damn ad”

“I’m sure tomorrow will be the day dad.” You say, in your most hopeful tone.

—

You were right. The next morning you were awoken by the sound of a squeaky truck rolling down the driveway and then someone knocking on the door. You looked at the clock. 5am.

Great. Dad’s already out in the fields and mom’s probably sound asleep.

You begrudgingly roll out of bed to go answer the door.

You crack the door open and see a tall man, probably in his early 40s, with dark eyes and dark curly hair. He’s in an old flannel and jeans with work boots.

“Uh, sorry, I saw a uh, ad in the newspaper saying y’all needed some help around here?” He says, looking as though he felt guilty for waking you.

“That would be us.” You say, trying to clear the tiredness out of your voice. “Dad’s probably already out in the fields by now, but he’ll appreciate the fact that you’re here at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Oh, should I uh, come back later when everyone is up and around?” He asks, scratching the back of his neck.

You accidentally take a quick glance at his arm flexing. Nice.

“Nah you’re alright. I’ll call him in and he’ll be here in a jiffy. Wouldn’t want ya to have to make the trip again for no reason.”

You usher him in and tell him to wait while you run upstairs to grab your phone. Once upstairs, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Oh my god

You quickly throw your hair up out of your face and slip on a pair of shorts and one of your dads old t-shirts he got from a Led Zeppelin concert. Then grab your phone and call your dad.

“Why the hell are you up so early? Finally gonna start putting in some work around here?” Your dad says, laughing as if he hasn’t made that same joke since you could talk.

“Who me? Never. But I might have someone here who actually wants to shovel shit for a living. So get yer ass down here old man.” You say, in your best I’m-the-boss tone.

You head back downstairs and find the man standing exactly where you left him. Trying your hardest not to stare at him as you descend the stairs, you ask him if he drinks coffee.

“Oh coffee? Yeah, I could go for coffee.”

“Oh, I wasn’t offering,” you say, trying to gauge his reaction, “I was just making conversation.”

“Oh uh, yeah I do like coffee I guess. What’s your feelings on burgers?” He asks, genuinely trying his best to just make polite conversation.

“I’m just fucking with you. Of course I’m gonna make some coffee. It’s fucking 5am.” You say laughing. “You’ll have to get used to that type of shit if you’re gonna be working for my old man.”

He just smiles to himself and says “Oh I’m sure I could get used to it pretty quick.”

“Let’s hope you’re up for the challenge because my dad is a hard guy to gauge. But yeah I like burgers. Oooh and milkshakes.” You say, feeling bad for throwing this man through such a loop this early in the morning.

“What’s your name by the way?” You ask, just now realizing he’s been in your house for 20 minutes and you don’t know his name.

“Joel, uh Joel Miller.” He says, taking a sip of his coffee.

You tell him your name and about that time is when your dad walks through the door.

“Dad this is Joel Miller and he wants to shovel shit for you.” You say, “Also, he likes coffee and long walks on the beach.”

Joel looks worried and says “Wait uh, I didn’t say that. I mean I did say I liked coffee. Not long walks on the beach though. I mean I do but that’s not what-“

“Jesus christ. What is it again? Joel? Well Joel. This one here does enough talking for all three of us,” your dad says, pointing at you, “so I’d say you’re fine to stop talkin now. Let’s get you out in the field for the day and see what you can do.”

“Yes sir,” Joel says smiling at your dad. “You won’t be disappointed.” He says, looking at you.

You feel your face heat up. What the fuck was that?

—

“It’s almost dark out. You’d think they’d be making their way back now.” You tell your mom, peeking out the window.

It’s been two weeks since Joel started working full time with your dad on the farm. Your mom loves the peace of mind and your dad, whether he’ll ever admit it or not, likes having some male company around for a change.

“Is someone getting worried?” Your mom says in a sing-song voice.

“Why yes actually, I am worried, Dad can’t see well after dark.” You say, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Plus we just hired this Joel guy. Who knows if he’s a deranged murderer.”

“Don’t you think if he were a murderer he’d have already gotten your father? Hell I’ve never hurt a fly and that man has me casket shopping on his behalf some days.” Your mom says, laughing.

Just then your dad and Joel come through the front door.

“Hope you got dinner cookin’ honey because we have worked our asses off today and I’m starving.” Your dad says, rubbing his belly the way he always does when he talks about food.

“Yep! Just getting the plates out now. Joel, I insist you stay for dinner tonight.” Your mom says, glancing at you after she says it.

“I wouldn’t wanna put y’all out or anything.” Joel says, smiling his crooked smile you’ve come to enjoy.

“Of course not! Besides, my daughter here has been going on and on about you so I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.” Your mom says, nudging you with her elbow.

“Mom! I haven’t been talking about you. I mean I did mention that you could potentially be a serial killer. But I haven’t been going on and on. I honestly don’t even know why she would say tha-“

“I told you she could talk, didn't I?” Your dad says to Joel, who looks like he would love to be anywhere but here right now.

“Yeah I wouldn’t mind a nice home cooked meal for once I suppose. Thank ya ma’am.” Joel says, smiling warmly at your mom.

—

The next day is Sunday. Your dad doesn’t like to work on Sundays because he says it’s meant for Jesus and football. So no sign of Joel, which is a relief considering how much of a fool you made out of yourself at dinner last night.

You decide to take your mind off of it and go for a drive. It’s raining out and you’ve always loved driving through the countryside when it rains.

“I’m headed out for a bit.” You say, grabbing your keys and wallet.

“Alright, drive careful. That truck still needs new tires even though I told you to replace them last winter.” Your dad scolds.

—

You love driving in a storm, the roads are always free of animals and other cars. The sounds of the thunder and rain usually make you feel like turning on the radio would be a crime.

But tonight is different. You need to get Joel off your mind. He’s older. Bet he’s got more experience. He works for your dad. But it would be such an exciting little secret.

Fuck it. You turn up the radio to drown out the noise in your head. Singing along to Dolly has never failed you before, so it damn sure can’t now.

Before you know it, you’re losing control of the wheel. You’re hydroplaning. You spin a few times until the truck comes to an abrupt halt. You’re in a ditch and the truck won’t start now.

You look at your phone ready to call your dad.

No service. Awesome.

You decide to sit for a few minutes to let the rain die down. You lay your head on the wheel trying to make the world stop spinning. You nearly jump out of your skin when someone knocks on your window.

It’s Joel.

“You alright?” He asks, standing outside your window in the rain.

“I’m not having a great night, but I’m not hurt.” You say stepping out of the truck.

“Here uh, go sit in my truck while I try to get this thing going.”

You climb in the cab of his truck and try to calm yourself down. This is just your luck. The one man you’re trying to not think about right now, just so happens to be the man standing in the pouring rain, assessing the damage to your truck and trying to get it started for you.

You look around his truck and it’s nothing you wouldn’t expect to see. Empty Gatorade bottles on the ground, dirty floors, old torn up leather seats, and his radio on the local country station.

It does smell really good though, way better than you would have expected. Like cologne and pine trees. It feels comforting.

He climbs in the driver’s seat, soaking wet and out of breath.

Dear lord

“Alright, well it looks like she’s not moving anywhere till tomorrow. You’re lucky though, few more feet and you would’a hit that light poll and totaled it.” He says, whiping his face with his shirt.

“Just what I needed. My dad told me before I left that those tires were shit. I just needed to get out of the house to think.” You say, trailing off towards the end.

“Somethin on your mind?” Joel asks, looking over at you.

“Nothing of importance really.” You say, looking down at your hands.

“Oh, so I’m of no importance?” Joel says with a chuckle.

“What? No, I didn’t say that. What are you talking about?” You say, thankful it’s dark enough that he can’t see all the different shades of red your face is turning.

“C’mon, we both know there’s been some uh, tension. I mean, do you always prance around in tiny shorts and no bra?” He says, sure of himself. “Feels like you’re putting on a show for me every time you bring me out a drink.”

“I don’t prance.” You laugh. “I’d like to think I saunter. Also I’m not bringing you drinks just because I want to. My mom wants to make sure you stick around so she wants to show hospitality. So she gives me the chore of bringing you drinks on hot days.”

Although seeing a sweaty Joel looking you up and down is a perk to that chore.

You turn toward him and cross your arms, “Besides, it’s not like you don’t enjoy a little show here and there. I can practically feel you eye fucking me every time.”

“Oh trust me darlin. I enjoy it. Especially that little outfit you had on last week. Those tiny fucking shorts and a white tank top. Took everything in me not to bend you over the hood of my truck right then and there.” He says, his voice deepening.

You scoot to the middle seat and put your hand on his thigh and see his jaw clench when you ask “Do you want to know a secret? I’ve touched myself to the thought of you. Every night since we met.”

You slide your hand over his ever growing bulge and lightly rub your palm up and down his length through his jeans.

He rolls his head back and groans. “Fuck darlin, I guess we have that in common. I stroke my cock every night wishin I was in you instead.”

“Mmm, that sounds like heaven.” You say unzipping his pants and watching his long, thick cock spring free.

“Fuck,” he groweled, “we really shouldn’t be doing this. Your dad would hang me.”

“We’ll keep it our fun little secret.” You say.

Before he has the chance to say anything else you take his cock in your mouth. Slowly bobbing your head up and down.

He tastes like musk and salt, and you can’t get enough. Starting out slow doesn't last long when he grabs you by the hair at the base of your head and guides you. Forcing you to go faster and farther down on his thick shaft.

You gag a little when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuuck. Such a good little whore.” Joel hissed through his teeth. “Just like how I’ve imagined since the day we met. Went straight home that night and came to the thought of you gagging on my cock.”

His words send a rush of heat to your core. You can’t seem to think straight. All you can think of is how much you need him deep in you right now.

As if he could read your thoughts he pulls your head up by your hair. You have saliva dripping down your chin.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” He whines, giving your cheek a light smack. “So hungry for daddy’s cock. Shit you’re such a dirty slut.”

He commands you to take off your clothes and you gladly obey. Then he pulls you onto him in a straddle position.

You lean down to kiss him and he groans as he slips his hand down to your wet slit. Giving your hair another nice pull, he forces you to look at him. “You’re so wet for me baby. You’re gonna take this fuckin cock real good aren’t ya?”

You moan in response and he gives your face another smack. “I asked you a question” he says, slipping two of his fingers into your dripping cunt. “I expect an answer. Are you gonna take all of my cock like a good girl?”

“F-fuuck.” You finally manage to cry out, grinding yourself into his fingers as he takes your nipple into his mouth. “Yes, I want your cock in me so bad.”

He helps you lift yourself off of him, and line your entrance up with his tip. You slowly sink down onto him, giving yourself time to adjust to his size.

“Goddamn baby, you’re so fucking tight.” He moans, throwing his head back as you finally sink down on him all the way.

He’s so big, you’re actually surprised you are able to take all of him. He is so deep, you feel as though you’re going to have internal damage after this. But fuck, you’re so happy to have him all the way in you. To be as close as possible. Fulfilling what you have both wanted for weeks now.

He grabs you, with one hand on your ass and the other on your throat. “You’ve been teasing me non-stop. Walkin around in your sluttly little outfits. Always running your mouth.” He forces your hips to grind harder on him “You’ve been just begging me to fuck the attitude out of you.”

You feel you climax building as you grind faster and harder. “Fuck! I-I’m gonna c-cum!” You cry out, writhing as you bury your head in his sweaty neck. Your orgasm feels like something you’ve never quite experienced. Ears ringing, vision blurring, almost slow-motion bliss.

“That’s right baby. Don’t hold back. Come on daddy’s cock like a good little whore.” He says in a dark labored voice.

Joel lets you ride through it before he says, “Now it’s my turn. Keep fuckin goin baby, don’t stop riding this dick.” He says bouncing you up and down on his shaft.

Soon he starts slamming you up and down. Emptying and filling your cunt up each time. You can already feel another climax coming when he starts going even faster.

“You little slut, gonna come all over my cock again already?”

Fuck, you really are.

“That’s it, fuck I’m gonna cum too.” He seethes, “Gonna fill up this pretty cunt of yours with my load and you’re gonna take it.”

With a few more thrusts he plunges you down on him fully and coats your walls with his hot seed, letting out a breathy, almost primal moan.

You stay connected for a couple minutes, just breathing together and coming back to your senses. As you climb off him and put your clothes back on you hear him clear his throat.

“Uh, ya know I meant it when I said your dad can’t find out about this right?”

“Like I said,” you say leaning in to kiss his neck, “I’ll keep it a secret if you do.”

“We just can’t make it obvious that there’s tension ya know?” He says, sounding frustrated with you for kissing his neck.

“Oh I fully agree, guess we’ll have to find a way to relieve that tension.” You whisper in his ear.

You sit back into your original spot and look at yourself in the passenger side mirror. “Well are you gonna drive me home or do I have to walk?” You ask, fixing your hair.

“I’ll drive you home but you gotta come up with a good story.” He says starting the truck.

“Oh don’t worry. I’m a pro at lying to them, they think I’m still a virgin.” You say laughing.

“Oh so you’re a great liar and a good fuck? This’ll be a fun summer.” He chuckles.

“I’m sure we’ll find something to do to make it fun.” You say, already picturing just how fun this summer is going to be.

Apparently I woke up this morning choosing violence for myself. Fucking hell, I am literally on the verge of tears reading this! Absolutely beautiful 😭❤️

Drip | Joel Miller x Reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 1,243 Warnings: References, but doesn't reference, events in TLOU2, so if you want to avoid conversation around that and comments - might be best to pass on this. Summary: I've got nothing - just me and my feels. AO3: Linked

A/N: This piece or whatever you want to call it leaves it up to interpretation if Joel came back from golfing or not. Not sure I'll go anywhere with this - but I wanted to get it out of my head. Don't think it'll get much traction, but one of those fics that I wanted to write for myself.

Drip.

You can hear Maria arguing with Tommy. You can’t make out what’s being said, but you can hear them going back and forth.

The water is getting cold, but you can’t bring yourself to get out of the bathtub. 

It’s been a long time since it was just you. A long time since you’ve been on your own here. You’re not sure how it works, being alone, anymore. Maria had told you you weren’t truly alone, you’d looked at her confused. She told you that you had herself and Tommy. But the sentiment hadn’t been as comforting as she had intended it to be.

The tap is dripping, he was supposed to fix it. 

There’s a slam of a door somewhere in the house. Your head is too full of static to figure out where it’s coming from. There are steps on the stairs, hurried and angry. You know who they belong to, but you don’t care because they are not the slow, comforting thumps that bring you peace at the end of the night.

The room is getting cold, the winter wind is seeping through the window you left open. The flimsy curtains that had once served a decorative purpose for the previous owners, fluttered with the breeze. 

The bang of an open hand on the door is resounding in the still of the bathroom, where the only noise is the constant drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap. Maria and Tommy’s voices are clearer now. They’re still arguing, but their raised voices are now directed towards the person banging at the door.

The tepid bathwater covers your face as you lower yourself into the tub, inching closer and closer to overflowing. As close to spilling over the edge as you are to the point of breakdown. 

Your name is being shouted now. But it’s distorted under the water almost like it belongs to someone else.

You wish this was all for someone else. 

You squeeze your eyes closed tight before you resurface.

All three voices are arguing now. 

None of them are from people you want to hear from, but at least the banging of the door has stopped. 

The pile of clothes next to the laundry basket is still there, just as it had been that morning. You want to go back to a time when the only problem within the four walls of that house was getting those clothes into the laundry basket instead of next to it, without argument.

The tap is still dripping. 

Your bruised and bloodied knuckles still throbbed. You’d put up a good fight when they’d tried to take you away, you hadn’t wanted to leave. They'd said it was for the best, you needed to rest. You’d screamed until your voice was hoarse, insisting he shouldn’t be alone, you'd begged and pleaded. Maria had promised you that he wouldn’t be, but here she was with Tommy; how did she know that he wasn't alone?

You haven’t cried. 

The tap. Is still. Dripping. 

He was supposed to fix it. 

When you submerge your head underwater again it’s not the slow slide it was before into the peace the water brought you. No this was in anger, water spilled over the edges of the bathtub, you gripped the ceramic forcing yourself down and under you screamed.

It's a cry of desperation that echoes only in the void beneath the surface. Your thoughts are a torrent of confusion, anger, and loss. 

Finally, you resurface, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The water splashes around you, droplets clinging to your skin. The house is silent now, the voices gone. You don't know if they've moved elsewhere or if they've just stopped talking.

They were arguing about you, about him, about what to do next. It's all a jumble, and you can't make sense of any of it. 

Slowly, you step out of the bath, the chill of the air on your wet skin. You look at yourself in the mirror, it's a stranger staring back at you. Hollow bloodshot eyes and shoulders hunched over as if you're carrying some unseen weight. You wrap a towel around yourself before you rest both hands firmly against both sides of the sink as if it's all that keeps you standing.

The water runs off of you dripping into the sink in chorus with the drip from the bathtub. 

The silence is so fucking loud and you don’t know what to do. 

It’s fight or flight but you’re rooted to the floor in anxiety over what to do next.

The house, your house, which once held the promise of safety, now feels like a fragile shell and you feel open and exposed and the cold from the window is seeping into your bones. Your chest is tight, and a stab of pain at the side of your head reminds you that the headache you had earlier is returning. The damn tap keeps dripping and you cannot decide if you want to run head first to what’s on the other side of the door or submerge yourself back into the water.

The crescendo of intrusive thoughts peaks and your ears pop, your mind is suddenly quiet and it scares you. Your heart hammers in your chest, the abrupt silence amplifying the chill of dread that crawls up your spine that has nothing to do with the open window.

Slowly you step away from the sink, your body trembling, your hand pauses on the doorknob before you tentatively open the door.

The moment you step out of the bathroom you regret it instantly. 

The room is empty. However the bed is still unmade, the sheets are still dishevelled from the morning. 

It's like a freeze-frame of another life, a cruel reminder of the morning's normalcy. You can almost hear the whispered conversation you’d had despite being the only ones in the house, feel the warmth of his skin despite the wintry chill the room clung on to, the soft press of a kiss. It feels like it's from another lifetime, yet it was only hours ago.

You stumble towards the dresser, your hands grappling with the fabric of his shirt, still strewn across the chair from the morning. It smells like him. You pull it over your head, the fabric a comfort against your skin. It's a small solace.

The house creaks, and for a moment, you're not alone. You can hear the echoes of guitar strings, see the flash of smiles, feel the press of hands.

You sink onto the bed, your hands clutching at the sheets. The tears that you still have yet to cry threaten to spill. There’s a dam holding back a river of sorrow, grief, and so much anger, with nowhere or no one to direct it at. You feel broken and lost, adrift in a world that changed in an instant.

The walls of the house feel like they’re closing in on you, and the life you once knew is unravelling at the seams too quickly for you to hold on.

Your body shakes with sobs that won't come, tears that refuse to fall. 

The room is darkening as night creeps further in, the world outside moving on as yours has stopped.

The bathroom door is open.

You can still hear it.

He was supposed to fix it. He was supposed to be there.

But he's not, and the tap is still dripping.