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abbotjack · 3 months ago

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I Can’t Protect You From Everything

pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader (fem!reader, no physical description)

summary : You’re assaulted in the ER. Jack sees red. But it’s not just the rage—it’s the fallout, the quiet after, the grief, the guilt, the way he holds you like his own body can bring you back to life.

content: medical trauma, assault aftermath, blood, concussion, strong emotional themes, PTSD undertones, canon-level violence, smut (established marriage), soft dom!Jack, comfort sex, hurt/comfort, healing arc

word count: ~3K , not beta read (this is just a hobby <3)

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

Low. Sharp. Controlled like a lit match held too close to a fuse.

“Move.”

The nurses part without a word. Not because they recognize the attending. But because they feel the shift in the air.

Jack Abbot is in motion. And he’s not stopping.

You’re still on the floor of Room 12. Head spinning. The tile’s cold under your cheek, but everything else burns—your skull, your vision, the jagged pulse in your throat.

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

“She got in my face, man,” he slurs to no one. “Shoulda stayed outta it.”

The next sound is a crash. A metal tray sent flying.

Jack doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. One look at your body on the ground, your hair matted with blood—and he’s on the guy in seconds.

“Jack—Jack!” Robby grabs him from behind, arms locked around his chest. “She’s down—she needs you, not this.”

“Let me go,” Jack growls, low and lethal.

“You touch him, you’re done. You hear me? She’s bleeding. Focus, man.”

Jack’s breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you think it might snap. But his eyes are locked on you now. Not the patient. Not the shouting.

Just you.

He drops to his knees beside you. Gently turns your face toward him with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Too soft for a man who just looked ready to kill. “Stay with me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You try to smile.

“Didn’t like that, huh?” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His eyes go dark. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

His breath catches. All that fury folds into fear. And you know—if your heart stopped right now, his would go with it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his scrubs, barely a brush.

"…Don’t go anywhere,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut.

You're out before your head even hits the pillow of the gurney.

Jack doesn’t move from your side. Blood—your blood—dries tacky and rust-colored on your temple.

“Let’s go,” he barks at the transport tech. His voice is too sharp, but no one challenges him. Not now. Not when the calm, collected attending has cracked.

Robby walks beside him, clipboard clutched tight. “She needs a non-contrast head CT, stat. LOC, blunt force trauma, disorientation. I already paged neuro.”

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on your face as they wheel you through the fluorescent-lit hall.

In the CT bay, he’s forced to stop outside the radiation line.

“I’ll be five minutes,” the tech promises. “You can see her again once she’s cleared.”

Jack doesn’t nod. Just stands there, like a soldier on post, watching through the glass as your body is slid into the machine like it’s a coffin.

Later.

“Concussion,” Robby says quietly, handing Jack the annotated imaging results. “No hemorrhage. No skull fracture. She is lucky.”

Jack doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Robby gives him a look. One Jack doesn’t like.

“Maybe don’t start a war in the trauma bay next time someone touches her.”

You wake slowly, brain fogged, heart pounding. For a second, the disorientation pulls you under—you're sure you're still in the trauma bay. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping, the chaos.

But then you feel it.

A warm hand curled around yours. The scent of Jack’s cologne. The distant hum of your house’s old heating unit.

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

The small home you share with Jack—the one he remodeled himself, every corner touched by his hands, from the creaking floorboards to the stubborn cabinet hinges. Medical journals are stacked high on the coffee table, dog-eared and covered in notes, like neither of you quite know how to leave work behind. It's lived-in and quiet and yours—built like a fortress to keep the world out.

Jack’s sitting beside the bed, one hand cradling your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse point.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You blink slowly. “Am I supposed to be?”

He exhales like it hurt to hold in. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are rimmed red—and it kills you to see it.

“You didn’t say anything when I went down,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, voice cracked and raw.

You reach for his face. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“I was going to kill him,” he murmurs. “If Robby hadn’t pulled me off—I was gone. I saw red.”

You stroke his hair. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head. “No. What matters is that you were hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

Jack flinches. “Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. Like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

And when you say, "Show me I’m still here," he pulls back just enough to search your face. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t trust what he sees.

Then he nods, just once. Like he’s made up his mind.

His hands shake as they trail down your sides, memorizing the feel of you again. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking open entirely.

Still half-dressed, the soft stretch of sweatpants low on his hips, he leans down slowly. His shirt’s already gone. His breath is warm against your collarbone.

He shifts his position like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Like he’s still that eighteen-year-old kid who enlisted too young, carried too much, and learned how to weaponize silence before he ever understood how to ask for comfort. Still moving like he’s made of edges—too strong, too fast, too sharp.

He’s always been gentle with you. But tonight, he’s something else entirely.

He kisses you like it hurts. Like every inch of skin he touches could vanish. His lips are hot and searching, pulling at yours with need, like he's starving and you’re the only thing that will bring him back.

You reach for his waistband and push his sweatpants down, his breath catching when your fingers graze him—thick, heavy, already hard.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

He exhales harshly, like it’s killing him to take his time, but he does.

Jack kisses his way down your neck, slow and reverent, his hands now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with slow, careful movements, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Only when they’re off does he lower himself between your thighs. His breath ghosts across your skin before his tongue follows—warm, wet, devastating. He licks into you like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is the only proof you’re still here.

Your hips buck, but his hands pin you in place, steady on your thighs. The stubble on his jaw scrapes softly against sensitive skin, the contrast enough to make your vision blur.

"You taste like home," he groans, eyes dark. "I needed this—needed you—more than I want to admit."

He cuts himself off with a moan as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

Your climax builds fast. It feels too good. Too much. You try to warn him, but he groans against you, and it tips you over—your whole body arching off the bed as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you’re panting for air.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, pupils blown wide.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and reach between you to guide him into place.

He lines up, breath ragged, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. So goddamn slow. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep, forehead pressed to yours like the contact is the only thing anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he’s checking your pulse with his body. The slide of skin on skin. The soft drag of his mouth along your throat. The way he groans when your nails rake down his back.

“I missed this,” he chokes out. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You grip his face. “So fuck me like it matters.”

Something in him breaks.

He shifts, grabs your hips, and starts to thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks under the rhythm, sweat building where your bodies meet, breath punching out of you with every stroke.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your gasps syncing with his groans until you’re both unraveling.

When you come again, it rips through you—louder this time, body shuddering beneath him. He follows with a hoarse shout of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

His arms stay locked around you. His face buried in your neck. His chest rising and falling against yours as he stays inside you, warm and still.

After a moment, he shifts—just slightly—and you feel him stir again. Still hard. Still aching. But this time, there’s a tension in his body that feels less like hesitation and more like possession.

He doesn’t speak. Just kisses you—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hand sliding down your side to pull your leg around his waist. You feel it in the way he grabs your thigh, in the low growl that escapes when he sinks into you again without warning.

The pace is different this time. Less reverent. More raw. His thrusts are deeper, heavier, his body pressing you into the mattress with every stroke. You whimper his name and he groans—head falling to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

It’s all slick heat and friction. The sound of skin meeting skin, the rasp of his breath in your ear. He fucks you like he needs to burn out the fear, chase away the image of your blood on tile. Like your body is the only thing tethering him to the present.

Your nails rake down his back. He hisses, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Jack—”

“You’re mine,” he grits out. “Still mine.”

He leans in, kissing you hard, sloppy, teeth clashing. His hips piston into you harder, faster, building to the edge with brutal precision.

You come with a cry, your entire body curling around him as your walls clamp down, trembling and wet and perfect.

He follows with a low, broken moan, collapsing into you as he spills deep inside, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

And when he finally stops shaking, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, sweat and heat and breath shared between you.

This time, when he whispers, “You’re okay,” it sounds less like a question.

And more like the truth.

He kisses the corners of your eyes. Your jaw. The inside of your wrist.

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

The panic is immediate. But then you hear the soft clang of a mug in the kitchen.

You find him by the stove, shirtless. Dog tags dangling against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t turn. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist.

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

“I keep seeing it,” he murmurs. “The blood. Your eyes. I thought I lost you… I felt it. Just like I did overseas. That second where it all slows down, and you just know."

You press your cheek to his back. "You're here. I'm here. That's what matters."

He turns then. Cups your face. And this time, when he kisses you, it's not frantic. Not heavy.

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

By 7:03 a.m., Jack’s badge is clipped back to his scrubs, his jaw freshly shaved, and his eyes—still bruised at the edges from lack of sleep—are locked on the hallway leading to trauma intake.

You’re behind him. Walking slower than usual, sure. But walking.

The minute you swipe into the main ER pod, it’s like someone hit pause. Heads lift. Conversations stop. A nurse stops mid-sentence and stares at the dried red line still barely visible at your temple.

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

You’re used to the way the ER stares. What you’re not used to is the way they stare at him.

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

"Jack's lucky he still has a license."

Jack doesn’t flinch, but you see it. The way his knuckles go white holding the patient chart. The way he refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Robby catches up to Jack just outside the nurses station. He leans against the wall beside him, quite a beat before he speaks.

"You holding up?"

Jack huffs out a breath. "Define 'holding up.'"

Robby studies him. "Everyone’s talking. You know that, right? About what happened. About you."

"Let them talk."

Robby nods slowly. "They will. But for what it's worth, people know you didn't lose it. Not really. You stopped yourself. That matters."

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the line of his jaw softens—barely. He looks over at you down the hall, where you're laughing quietly with another nurse, a clipboard in your hands.

Robby claps Jack gently on the back. “Get back out there. But maybe… don’t take the guy in Room 9.”

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

It’s another combative drunk. Came in swinging at EMS. Male, mid-40s, belligerent as hell, already yelling at a med student for trying to take vitals. It’s not the same guy—but it’s close enough. Same profile. Same energy. Same trigger.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack mutters, voice low.

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

You head back to your rounds, trying to pretend like it’s a normal day. But you feel Jack’s eyes on you like a second shadow.

Every time you so much as check a patient’s IV or lean in to auscultate a chest, you can feel the weight of his stare across the room.

By the time you step out of Room 4 with a vitals chart in hand, Jack intercepts you mid-hallway and drags you to the nearest supply closet.

“You’re done,” he says quietly. “For today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not ready to be back. You shouldn’t even be on the floor. Let me talk to–.”

You cross your arms. “I passed neuro eval. Twice. I’m cleared.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

His voice is low but firm, eyes darting toward passing residents. You pull him into the side med supply closet before someone catches the tail end of his tone.

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

“I need to be here,” you say. “For my own head. I need to prove to myself that I’m okay.”

Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at you like it’s killing him to hear that. “I almost lost you on the floor you’re walking back into like nothing happened.”

“I’m not walking in like nothing happened,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “What if it happens again?”

“Then it does. And I deal with it. And you deal with it. But you can’t wrap me in gauze and keep me behind the nurses’ station just because you’re scared.”

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about more than this job.”

You step toward him. Let your fingers hook in the front of his scrubs.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to trust me. The same way I trust you every time we walk into the emergency room together.”

His jaw works, eyes closing again. He leans forward, rests his forehead to yours.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m really fucking trying.”

And you believe him.

But when you step out of the closet and head toward your next patient, you don’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching you. Still waiting for the worst.

Still holding his breath.

That night, you don’t talk much on the drive home.

The hospital faded in the rearview, but the weight of the day hasn’t.

You both pretend to wind down—but everything feels like if either of you speak too loudly, you both might crack.

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

It’s only when you’re curled together under the covers, his chest to your back, that he finally says it:

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

You nod, fingers wrapped around his. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to be there. Like you always are. That's why I married you.”

“I was scared,” he murmurs. “Like full-body, I-don’t-know-who-I-am scared. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. He exhales, the air leaving him slow and steady.

He holds you closer.

And for the first time in two days, he sleeps.

And so do you.

#the pitt #shawn hatosy #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #the pitt x reader

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matrixfangs · 2 months ago

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cradle and all

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You can't keep any blood that you drink down, and that leads to a shocking realization. based off this request!

word count: 3k

warnings: pregnancy, blood, vampire baby

tags: @moobell55, @eternalstrigoii, @wpdarlingpan, @manyimaginativemuses, @boywivlove, @zatarias-pandora, @herccfs, @depressed-and-horror-obsessed, @jakesullyswhore, @resurrectionist3, @minaxcarter <<3 (i forgot to add the taglist until after i posted it, so sorry if you've already seen the fic!)

a/n: hello, hello! i would first and foremost like to thank all the people that helped me write this oneshot when I was getting terrible writer's block!! @spikedfearn, @eternalstrigoii, @hyoscyxmine, and everyone else in our cutesy little discord! rosie specifically gave me the "shootin' blanks" line which I giggled at for a long time, and the idea of reader craving things like blood mixed with grape jelly. they were especially such a huge help to me! cheers to the anon who requested this! i hope you enjoy!

Sick.

In your twenty years of being undead, you’d never felt sick before.

Your latest victim sat in the corner of the alleyway you’d followed him into, hand pressed into the bite wound on his neck. The small remainder of his blood trickled through his fingers and into the white collar of his shirt. He was half dead, his dull eyes drifting to things that weren’t there.

And you were hunched over in the other corner, hands pressed against a brick wall as his blood came back up, and splattered onto the dirty pavement. The intoxicating taste of his life was gone, and all that was left was a coppery burn in your throat. You pressed your forehead against the wall as you spat the last of it out.

You knew bad blood, tainted with disease or substances. It was bitter and thin, it didn’t fill you up. This blood had been as pure as all other mortals, sweet and full of memories. Children’s laughter, a sunny day perched on a dock, clear skies. But your body was rejecting it, and if you couldn’t feed, you couldn’t live. Your body was wracked with shivers as you left your victim.

Remmick was reading when you got home that night, the edges of him all soft and pliant in your bed. His eyes brightened when you walked in, the book immediately forgotten in his lap.

“You smell hungry, sweet thing.” He held out his arms, his hands making grabbing motions for you. The lamplight next to him caught the light of the gold ring around his finger, the one matching yours. “C’mere.”

It took no time for you to kick off your wet boots and crawl on top of the sheets and quilted blankets older than your immortality, your head finding solace on Remmick’s lap. You pressed your face into him, breathed in his scent. Something much older than you, but familiar and warm.

“Thought you went out to feed.” Remmick hummed, drawing shapes into your scalp with his fingers. “But you still feel cold.”

“I tried.” You huffed, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his touch. “I couldn’t keep it down.”

Remmick’s hand stilled, and he grabbed your head gently, turning your face to look at him. The muddied, ancient red of his eyes made him look so devastatingly pretty in the low light. You resisted the urge to rub out the crease between his eyebrows. Instead, you found the gold chain that rested under his white t-shirt, the one he’d had since before you knew him. Your fingertips ran over its indent.

“Couldn’t keep it down?” He looked into your eyes like he was examining you, his thumbs running over your cheekbones. His lips parted, and his teeth elongated and sharpened in his mouth. “Let me taste you. I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

You nodded, allowing Remmick to brush your hair from your neck. The pain of his fangs puncturing your skin was nearly nonexistent from how many times he’d done it before. His tongue licked over the wounds - tasting, not drinking. He hummed, pulling back with red-stained teeth.

“Nothin’ is wrong, sweetheart, but…” He leaned down again, tongue lapping up more of the blood that’d trickled down the expanse of your neck. “It’s off. Thinner, like somethin’ is draining you from the inside.”

Remmick’s tongue, long and serpent-like, ran over his lips. His hand splayed over your body, rubbing your skin like he was trying to feel what was underneath it.

“Rem,” Your cold hand covered his, rings clinking together. “You’re making me nervous.”

He hummed low in his throat, hands continuing their exploration. Squeezing your thighs, running across your sternum, and ghosting over your chest. When his large palm reached your stomach, he paused, his face an expressionless mask.

“Remmick,” You said, a bit firmer.

He looked at you then, and his eyes had turned a brighter red. “Impossible.” He said quietly, his accent twisting into something older. “It looks like I ain’t shootin’ blanks after all, darlin’.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Remmick, what the fuck are you talking about?”

His hand moved to your heart, undead and unbeating for the past two decades. “No heartbeat.” His hand slid back down to your stomach, pressing gently. “One heartbeat.”

You fell silent. You didn’t have to think about what he was saying, it made complete sense. But it couldn’t be real, not with how long you’d been dead. And Remmick, he was centuries old. How could the two of you create life?

“A baby.” He confirmed, his lip curling. “Our baby.”

“Our baby,” You repeated, the words a ghost on your lips. Your hands found his on your belly. “How are we going to have a baby?”

“Same way anyone else does, I reckon.” His lips pressed to the top of your head, his nose nuzzling into your hair. He wouldn’t move his hands from your stomach, his fingertips feeling the steady, tiny heartbeat underneath your skin. He’d made that heartbeat. He thought he’d never have a family, and here one was growing right in front of him.

You slept in the same coffin that morning, Remmick’s arms tight around your stomach, legs intertwined with each other like long begonia vines.

—

Your hand tightened in Remmick’s grip as you looked over the small, decrepit cottage. The wood was rotted and coated in moss, a big willow tree hung over the collapsed roof. Your hand instinctively found the barely perceptible, 17-week-old bump of your stomach. You felt the small heartbeat, and it calmed you.

“Where’d you hear about this place again?” You asked nervously, looking to Remmick. The moon cast shadows over his face, coating his sharp features in a gray haze that made him look all soft around the edges.

He lifted your hand, kissing the knuckles. “Oh, I’ve known Mother Dierdre since before your time, belonged to a coven I was in for a time. She’s old, older than me.” His eyes slid down your body, over your stomach. He smiled, prideful. “A midwife, before she was one of us.”

Your nose crinkled as you looked at the cottage again, nestled in between a swamp and an ancient forest a few miles away, with branches that twisted out like they were reaching to grab you. “Doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

Remmick’s hand untangled from yours to find purchase on your hip instead. He pulled you along, nestled into his side, as you walked down the long path that led to the cottage’s door. He didn’t knock, just twisted the moss-covered doorknob.

The inside, surprisingly clean and cozy, smelled like something older than time itself - clove and cinnamon and moldy leather. A hearth held a crackling fire inside of it, and the rest of the cottage was lined with herbs hanging on hooks, books with pages falling apart, and old furniture that looked like it’d collapse if one person sat on it.

“Dierdre?” Remmick called, accent shifting into something more native to his being. “Cá bhfuil tú?”

A breeze blew through the thin walls of the cottage, brushing your hair against your shoulders. The door behind you closed, and when you turned, an old woman stood there. She was beautiful in her old age. Cascading gray hair, dark eyes, wrinkles carved into her olive skin that only prolonged her beauty and made her look wise.

“Remmick,” Her voice was sweet and airy, like butterscotch candy on your tongue. “I was wondering when you’d bring her to me.”

Remmick’s thumb rubbed up and down the sliver of skin between your jeans and shirt. “Dierdre, this is-”

“I know who she is, darling.” Deirdre laughed, and it sounded like bells ringing. “Just didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

She stepped forward, hands reaching out with long, transparent nails that looked like glass on her fingers. She looked between your stomach and you with permission, and you nodded. The trust in her was something inherent in your chest, something you couldn’t explain.

Her hands were gentle on your stomach, pressing with only the slightest pressure. She nodded, eyes gleaming, moving back and forth as if she were listening to someone speak.

“How lovely it is,” She whispered, looking at your stomach as if it were a miracle unfolding before her. “To create something so lovely out of such a horror.” She looked up at you, raising an abnormally long finger. “You hunger all the time now, don’t you?”

Your stomach nearly growled at the mention of it, your body growing feverish at the thought of hot blood running down your throat. “Yes,” You nodded, swallowing the drool that threatened to spill over your lips. “But I can’t keep any of it down.”

Deirdre nodded, lifting her hands from your belly. She looked at Remmick and pulled something from the pocket of her tattered, faded dress. A small blade, gleaming in the darkness of the cottage.

“Your hand, Remmick.”

Something protective flooded your senses, your body moving to shield Remmick from her view. Your teeth felt longer in your mouth. “You’re not touching him.”

“I only try to help, dear.”

Remmick’s hand was gentle where it landed on your shoulder, fingertips grazing the skin at your neck. “Let her help.”

Your eyes remained narrowed at the old woman as you stepped away, watching her grab Remmick’s hand. There was no flinching or hissing as she ran the blade over his palm, deep enough to create a small pool of blood in his cupped hand. As the smell lingered, you felt the hair on your body begin to stand up.

“The child,” Deirdre hummed, raising the blade coated in Remmick’s blood.

The speed of your hand was inhuman, snatching it from her. Your hands trembled as you raised it to your tongue to taste the sweet, coppery essence of your partner.

“Needs its father’s blood to survive. As well as the mother’s. Not just any mortal blood will do.” Deirdre continued, watching you like a lion slaughtering a gazelle. She nodded to Remmick, wrinkled hand pushing his own toward you. “It’s alright. Feed your child.”

Something animalistic had taken over you as you cleaned Remmick’s hand entirely, until all that was left was the small cut, fresh blood beading at the edges. Remmick was smiling, watching the color return to your skin. Watching your face become fuller before his very eyes.

“She’ll need more as the child grows,” Deirdre said, patting Remmick on the shoulder and kissing his cheek like a grandmother would her grandson. You had released his hand, licking at the remnants of his blood at the corner of your mouth.

“Will it survive on its own?” You asked, voice raspy and thick from the blood. “The baby…”

Deirdre hummed, crossing the cottage floor to peer out of the cottage window.

That, my dear,” She replied, eyes glowing when they moved back to look at you. “Depends entirely on the horrors you’re willing to commit for it.”

—

By the five-month mark, Remmick had obsessively warmed up to the baby more than you had. There wasn’t a night that passed where he wasn’t kissing the bump, talking to it, pressing his ear to your skin to hear the tiny heartbeat.

But your body, that had been dead and unchanging for twenty years, was now growing at a rapid rate. Your feet were swollen, elevated on a chair in your humble living room. Remmick had just gotten home from feeding, his lips stained red in that irresistible way that made something stir in your chest.

He kneeled, pressing his cheek to your stomach.

“What’s that lil’ terror want, huh?” He pressed his ear against you as if the baby could talk back. “What’s she craving?”

You smiled, fingers coming up to brush the dark hair from his forehead. “She?”

Remmick’s eyes closed at your touch, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Just a feeling, mama.”

“Mm,” Your fingers left his hair, and Remmick’s eyes opened to look at you. “Well, this little terror is craving something bloody and sweet.” Your smile widened. “Do we still have that grape jelly?” Remmick’s nose crinkled, his body rearing back in disgust. “You can’t be serious. I was hoping that was a one-time thing.”

“It isn’t so bad.” You pouted, reaching for his hand. “And it’s for me,” You pulled his palm back to the growing bump of your stomach. “And for her.”

“For her, huh?” He asked, lips stretching into a smile, showing off his pointed white teeth.

“Just a feeling, Rem.” You said, echoing his words. Referring to him as a father always made him giddy, and he stood, walking to the kitchen with a grin that threatened to split his face in two.

—

Warm water trickled over your hair, Remmick’s hand against your forehead to shield your eyes. At eight months pregnant, your belly couldn’t even be fully submerged in the steaming bath water that he’d prepared for you. Rose petals floated around your naked form, the only light provided being a few candles that Remmick had perched on the edge of the tub. You watched his flickering shadow on the wall, his hands gently moving to take care of you.

“You look so beautiful like this.” He hummed, setting down the pitcher he used to rinse your hair. His voice was sweet molasses falling from a spoon, slow and heavy. “Round with our lil’ terror, glowing…” The washrag in his hands found your shoulder. He moved it gently down your arm, quiet and worshipful. “Ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you carry my child.”

Despite the warm water surrounding you, your body shivered at his words. You tilted your head, the damp skin of your forehead finding his arm. “Nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you become a father, I’d say.”

Remmick’s lip twitched, his soft eyes crinkling with a faint smile. “It’s been twenty centuries since I had a family of my own…” He lifted his hand, pressing the rag to the back of your neck. The warm water trickled down your spine, tickling your skin. “To have one with you, if I had to - I’d wait twenty centuries more. Longer, even.”

The candle flames flickered, and in the low light, you saw it - something shining in the corner of his eye. A small, bloody tear, falling down the side of his perfectly sculpted nose. It was all his immortal body could produce, but it was there. Your chest ached at the sight of your monster, crying by your side. In the two decades you’d been by Remmick’s side, hunting and killing and running - you’d never seen him weep before. Not when he talked about where he’d come from, not when he sang songs that he’d learnt as a boy.

Your hand left the bath, coming up to cradle his face. He didn’t care that your skin was wet and clammy; he nuzzled into your touch anyway, cheek finding your slick palm as he closed his eyes.

“Didn’t think I could cry anymore.” He chuckled, eyelashes fluttering against your skin. “Certainly not over somethin’ good happening to me for a change.”

—

The baby slept, her little body nestled in a small, rocking bassinet that Remmick had carved a few weeks before her birth. She was so small, so impossibly fragile. You watched her little chest rise and fall, her little hands opening in closing as if she were dreaming.

And though Remmick liked to say that she looked like her mama, you were happy to disagree. She had Remmick’s nose, his little curling, mischievous lip, his goofy, big ears that peeked out from dark hair.

Her name was Sorcha. Light. Brightness. A name chosen in defiance to any danger that dared to come near her.

You turned to look at Remmick’s sleeping form on your bed, his arms crossed against his chest as he lay on his side. He’d promised he’d only sleep for twenty minutes - you’d let him sleep longer.

When you had met Remmick, he’d been so weary. Mourning for a time long lost, ghosts pulling him down and making him drag every footstep. His eyes held the grief of every person he’d lost, or who’d left him. He’d been like that for a long time, a figment of his past.

Now, he was entirely his own.

When you awoke later that morning, curtains drawn to shield the cruel sun, you could hear wood creaking. You opened one eye, senses coming to life as you readjusted in bed. Remmick was no longer beside you, but instead across the room in an old rocking chair, cradling your child in his arms. His long legs stretched out before him, in knitted, mismatched socks, no less.

His hands, so capable of violence and destruction, held her like he’d burn down the world for daring to hurt her.

And then - his voice, lighter than you’d ever heard it. He was singing, low and smooth. His voice was quiet, so as not to wake you.

“I will build my love a bower, by yon cool and crystal fountain… and on it I will pile all the flowers of the mountain. Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather… will ye go, lassie go?”

You remained still, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But your heart flooded with warmth as you watched them, your little family that you’d never expected to have. Sorcha was different, something not quite human, and not quite vampire. She craved blood already, in such a small body. Not just any person’s, but yours and Remmick’s. It brewed something ancient in her, something dangerous.

Remmick’s voice drifted off as his eyes met yours. You smiled at him, sitting up in bed. “I’m sorry,” You stood, crossing over to him in bare feet. One hand found his shoulder, the other cradled your child’s head. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“She was cryin’...” Remmick said in a hushed tone. “Just got her back to sleep.”

Your pointer finger found Sorcha’s hand, and she instinctively squeezed it, little fingers wrapping around yours. You could feel her - her contentment in her father’s arms. Her full belly. Her strong nature.

Your little Sorcha. Your light in the dark.

------

Irish Gaelic translations:

Cá bhfuil tú? - where are you?

#sinners remmick #remmick x reader #remmick #remmick sinners #remmick imagine #sinners au #remmick x fem!reader #jack o'connell #remmickoneshot

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quin-ns · 3 months ago

Text

Cherry (Joel Miller x Reader)

Word count: 3K

Summary: you didn’t except that the first time joel said he loved you that he would mean he was in love with you. you did love him. like a friend. even a father. but you always wanted to hear those words, and you couldn’t break his heart, could you?

Tags: (18+), cw: dark themes, age gap, biting, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, couch sex, complicated/unhealthy relationship, mutual desperation, not dubcon but heed the adjacent warning (joel doesn’t know how yn really feels), sorry I don’t know what came over me guys I wanted something with some insane desire, angst, and smut

A/N: guys… I haven’t written for joel in almost 2 years that’s actually crazy… how?? he’s literally my fave dilf ever?? what a fic for me to come back to joel with tho wow enjoy fellow freaks I’ll write fluff for him soon too

tlou masterlist + main masterlist

It didn’t matter how long Joel had tried to convince you that he had just done the right thing, you still believed you owed him your life. Because he saved your life.

And after a period of Joel insisting you stay away from him for your own good, back when you lived in the QZ, he eventually took you under his wing. Now, he was intent on keeping you there.

It was his responsibility to protect you. It was his responsibility to make sure you had everything you needed. It was his responsibility to make sure you never got consumed by the darkness of this world like he had. It was his job to keep you safe. And you? You loved it.

More like you loved Joel, but you never bothered to separate the man from his actions. Why would you? You loved him. You really did. And he did the same for you.

The love you had for him was all consuming ever since he had told you, “I want you by my side, no matter what.”

Being in Jackson brought peace and security, and you were assured that your connection wasn’t merely out of necessity. You continued to choose each other. You would always choose him over everything else. It was just what you did.

You loved him because he saved you, but it was more than that. So, so much more.

You loved him like a friend, who you could talk to about anything. Your age difference hindered your ability to relate to one another on a lot of things, like the way you looked at the world, or how you solved problems, but even when you weren’t agreeing, you at least understood one another in a way no one else could.

In Jackson, it had been suggested that you could live with some other girls closer to your age, but Joel ended that discussion. Instead of a two bedroom house, he took up residence in one with three. You never would’ve wanted to live apart from him and Ellie, but you were relieved he had been the one to decide. It reaffirmed that you were just as important to him as he was to you. You needed that reassurance more often than you’d ever let him know.

When you first arrived, before you found your place in the community, you would hide out in the house. It was hard for you to grow accustomed to the way of life here, and even harder to trust people. Joel made sure you never stayed alone too long. When Ellie was out, which was more often than you but less than Joel, he would end up returning. Some days you found yourselves talking nearly every waking hour, and laughing together more than either of you could’ve expected.

He knew you loved him like a friend, but you loved him like a father as well. You never told him that flat out. You could just hear the grumbly comments about making him feel old, and even though it would be light hearted jokes, you wanted to keep the relationship as it was.

Joel was a toughened person, but he treated you delicately when he could. It would get to a point where you thought the label ‘fragile: handle with care’ was printed on you, but he never talked down to you. You liked that he protected you and made you feel safe without controlling you like he would a daughter. Not like how he was with Ellie. You were fine seeing him as a father without him seeing you as a daughter. It was best this way.

Needless to say, you loved him simply as the person he was. It overwhelmed you sometimes.

No, not sometimes. Often.

Everything he did made you okay with the fact that he had never said the exact words. He’d come close, had said them in many other ways, had proved to you that he did, but you never got the real thing. That was something you had thought you could live with as long as you could feel it. And as long as you could continue to love him as well.

So with Joel, now, sitting on the couch by your side, facing you and saying, “I love you. I have for a while,” your heart jumped from your chest. It changed everything in an instant.

You were smiling before you registered that he wouldn’t meet your eye. And was that… shame, maybe, in his voice? The way he kept it low, like he wasn’t sure he should be speaking.

Joel, in the distant past, would get frustrated with your naivety before it became a thing that endeared you to him.

It took you a long moment to get it. Then, all at once, you did. You wondered if he could read the shift in your face. From the moment your awe became tainted with understanding.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Joel continued. “But you know I hate lying to you, and not telling you… it felt like lying and I couldn’t do it anymore.” He swallowed. “I love you,” he repeated, to both you and himself.

Deep brown eyes that held years of life you couldn’t even begin to understand met yours, and you couldn’t seem to speak. Those words felt forbidden from him. You had spent so much time wanting to hear them, longing to hear them, before you made peace with the fact you wouldn’t. You had become okay with never hearing them from Joel because he consistently proved it to you in every other way.

And now, here he was, telling you he loved you, and you hadn’t leapt at the chance to say it back.

You knew why, and so did he. You could see him searching your face and with every second that passed, you watched his confidence crumble.

Joel was hurting. Your silence made him ache.

He took a long breath, bowed his head and shook it a little to himself. Experiencing regret in its entirety.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered finally. It felt like a knife to hear the defeat in his voice. He turned to face forward. “I- I should’ve known better.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m so much older than you, and I’ve done things that I can’t come back from, and you…” Joel stole a lingering glance. “You’re so perfect.”

You were the furthest thing from perfect, but you believed that Joel believed you were. It was the way he said it. He was so sure and you loved him for it. For seeing you in ways you couldn’t even see yourself.

You watched him, knowing that the man you loved was hurting. It didn’t seem fair to let him continue when you knew you were the only one that could make it stop.

It was almost an out of body experience, the way you moved. First closer to him, so close your legs were touching. Then your hand reached for his, your smaller fingers wrapping around it to squeeze. When he met your eyes, you saw the moment hope replaced pain, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“I love you, too,” you said, because it was true.

It was both a surprise and not when he kissed you. It was soft at first, and it reminded you of the way he often was with you. When you didn’t pull away, it ignited something in him. Suddenly his hands were on your face, deepening the kiss.

You kissed him back because he needed you to.

When Joel felt your lips moving against his, it told him two things. One, it told him what he needed to know, which was that you loved him. And two, it told him what you wanted him to believe, which was that you wanted this.

Joel grew a little more sure, pulling you closer to him. He couldn’t get enough and was struggling to hold back. You could feel it. Both his want and his restraint.

You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, so you put them over his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck, letting your fingers card in the longer ends of his grown out hair. You always wondered what his hair felt like.

Joel liked your curiosity and let his own get the better of him. His lips trailed from yours down to the side of your neck. You sucked in air, your face hot as you tried to catch your breath, when all of the sudden his kisses were replaced with a small, suckling bite. You gasped. You couldn’t help it. His hands moved, one resting on your back when the other held the back of your neck. Not hard, just keeping your close. You buried your face into his shoulder as he grew more confident with the use of his teeth.

The moan that escaped your lips when he soothed the harder bite with his tongue made his grip tighten. His breath hitched. You swallowed, flustered, unsure of yourself as your body shivered on its own. Joel pulled back to look at you, just long enough for you to see the desire clouding his eyes, and then he was crushing his lips against yours.

The weight of Joel’s body pushed you down onto the couch. You kissed him back, trying to keep up with his rough, hungry mouth, but your inexperience was catching up to you. You’d only ever kissed boys before, and now you had a man on top of you, his body pressed firmly to yours, his hands running down your frame as he devoured your lips and nipped at your skin. Muttering about how beautiful you were and that he was trying to be gentle but that you could tell him to stop if you wanted. He didn’t know you wouldn’t because as wrong as it felt, you wanted to give him everything he wanted. In turn, all you wanted was to hear him say he loved you again.

You didn’t need it before but now you couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t enough when Joel peppered kisses to your lips and neck. It wasn’t enough when he pressed himself between your legs and caused you to dig your nails into his back. You needed more. You needed him to say it again.

You let him take off your clothes when he asked so, so sweetly. You knew Joel was going to admire you, and he did, and that look on his face was worth the uncertainty you felt. He wouldn’t let you cover yourself, and it felt kind of nice when he kept your arms from crossing over your chest. It reminded you how strong he was, but how even with all that strength, and even when using it on you, he was careful. He didn’t want to truly hurt you, and you loved him for it.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he promised, lips against your ear as his fingers settled between your legs.

“I know,” you managed, breathless.

It made him smile, which made you smile. You couldn’t stop staring at him when he lifted his head to look at you. That is, until he pushed a finger into you. Your eyes fluttered shut and he was immediately in your ear again, and you understood for the first time the term ‘sweet nothings’. His low, soothing voice against your ear helped you relax as he pushed in another finger, and after a few minutes, another.

You were wet, you couldn’t help it. You found yourself apologizing, but he encouraged it. He liked you squirming beneath him, liked that your body was responding.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re doing good,” he groaned. “I want you to be ready for me

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it, but the words, “I am,” slipped from your lips. It was all he needed to hear.

His fingers slid from your body. A little voice in the back of your head told you to get them back, but it was silenced when he pulled the rest of his clothes from his body. You felt the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. You couldn’t look down, and you were too embarrassed to look him in the eye, so you shut yours.

A hand touched your face.

“Look at me,” Joel urged. “Don’t be shy. I wanna see you.”

You obliged, forcing your eyes open, watching him above you. You found it hard to believe you never fully saw how handsome Joel was.

When he began to push into you, the stretch was much more than his fingers. You had to open your legs wider. Joel ran his hands up and down your hips and waist, soothing you as he eased himself inside, telling you, “It’s okay, you’re doing great. Just relax. You’re taking me so well,” and you couldn’t help but bask in the praise. It hurt a little, but you were practically purring by the time he was fully seated inside. You didn’t mean to, but your body squeezed him, and his cock throbbed inside you.

Joel made a noise of pure bliss as he let his weight rest on you. You were so overheated, sweat slick between your bodies. When he started kissing you again you almost forgot about it. He was a good kisser, which made sense given he had more experience than you. A twinge of jealousy ran through you at the thought of him with anyone else and you pulled him closer. It wasn’t quite a laugh he let out, most just a sound of amusement at your actions.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

One of his hands found the back of your head, holding you so your mouth was his and he could have his way. The other hand ran over your ass and down your thigh, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him. You did.

He started to move, then. Pulling back a little and pushing in. It was such a foreign feeling. You couldn’t keep your noises to yourself, but Joel savored them. When he started to move a little faster, his methodical motions turning into thrusts, he seemed to be seeking those reactions from you.

It was a cycle. The rougher he moved, the more whimpers and moans he pulled from you, and then in turn the sounds spurred him on. You were holding onto him for dear life by the time he was pounding you into the couch, groaning your name, telling you how good you were.

“It’s like you’re made for me,” he grunted into your ear, and you hoped he meant it, because you believed it.

“I’m yours,” you told him.

“Tell me again,” Joel started in a grunt, thrusting forward. He held himself completely inside you for a moment, shuddering as your nails dragged down his back. It took your breath away, feeling so full. He pressed his forehead to yours as he said, “Do you mean it? You love me?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. It was true. It was the only thing you’d known to be true and maybe this wasn’t the way, wasn’t something you imagined, but it didn’t make that simple fact any less true.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

Joel groaned, shoving his hips forward. You whimpered. He was already in you to the hilt.

“Again,” he groaned.

He needed it just as bad as you did.

“I love you, Joel. I love you.”

He pulled out before thrusting back in. Again and again you told him, and he moved, building back up to an even harder pace than before. You could hardly stand it but you told him over and over again like a chant;

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” and even breathless you never faltered. Even when Joel kissed you rough and needy, like he was starved, you still got out the words, “I love you.”

Your legs were barely holding on despite your effort. Your hands began to slide from his back but you continued to grasp onto him. One of his hands found your wrist. You would let him if he wanted to, but you didn’t want him to hold it down. You needed to touch him. Needed to feel him. Needed the security that he proved.

As if he could read your mind, he turned his face to kiss your palm, then let your wrist go. He gave you free range. You chose to run that hand fully through his hair. Every part of you needed to be touching every part of him. He invaded your mind and soul, the last step was your body, and he was accomplishing that this very second. You belonged entirely to him. Even as tears pricked in your eyes at how overwhelming it all was, to love and be loved by Joel was all you’d ever wanted and known for years.

He huffed out a half grunt half laugh when your body started to tense. He was pleased. Could read your body better than even you. You were so lost in the sensation that you let out a yelp when a hand moved between your legs, rubbing at you in tandem with his cock slamming into you.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Just let go.”

And you did. It didn’t even feel like a choice. It just happened. The pleasure became too much to handle. It rippled through your whole body as the knot in your belly snapped. You tensed and shuddered around Joel, holding onto him as your cunt clenched down around him, trying to keep him inside to allow you ride out the wave without feeling empty. Joel wasn’t keen on denying you. His thrusts became shallow but hard, sending jolts through you until you felt it. With a groan he stilled inside you, and then warmth flooded your insides. He rocked his hips forward a little as he spilled inside you, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

As the haze started to fade and awareness returned, something akin to dread settled over you. Everything became all too real all at once.

Joel kissed life back into you. His hand between your legs moved to run across your belly and thighs, while the other held your face so he had as much access to your lips as he wanted.

You started to move, feeling crushed, but Joel took care of that. He managed to turn your bodies so you were lying on top of him, but he was careful to not withdraw from you. He bucked his hips up a little and you whined. Joel chuckled as he wrapped his arms around you, hugging you to him. You turned your head to the side, your cheek resting against his chest. You listened to his heart rate come back down, unfocused eyes trailing around the living room. Joel kissed the top of your head and ran his calloused hands over your back.

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked, not really looking for an answer. You didn’t have one, anyway.

You wanted to crawl off of him. It was all becoming too much again. As good as it had all felt, it confused you, and you thought maybe you wanted to cry, but then came the words that had you subdued.

“I love you, Y/N,” Joel breathed.

You didn’t think he understood the power he had in his words. As far as he knew, you loved him the same way as he loved you. You would continue to let him think that if it meant you could protect him from the heartache, and if you could keep hearing him say the words you craved. You knew, eventually, you could learn to love him this way, too. If he was happy, you knew you could be too. Being loved by him was all you ever wanted. It didn’t matter how else you felt because that need would take priority over everything. You would always choose him over everything else. It was just what you did.

joel taglist: @the-ice-frozen-ground-red-rose @dontphunkwithmylove @cilliansangel @amethystwonders11 @frogsmuahh037 @andy-rocks @melllinaa @alitaar @melanie451 @b00kw0rmsworld @reverieisaway @avengersfan25 @aheadfullofsteverogers @strangeh0rizons @spideysimpossiblegirl @shannonmariebee @str84pedro @koukatsuki @darleneslane @larascorneroftheworld

I wasn’t sure whether to use the taglist for smut since I’d only written fluff for him before, so if you’re on the taglist and only want to be tagged in fluff not smut just lmk

if you would like to be added to the joel taglist just send me an ask or a message!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller smut #the last of us #pedro pascal #quin-ns writing

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