Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The car ride was almost five hours long.

Five hours of Mitch singing along to every song with the passion of a man who thought he could actually sing, Jonas half-asleep in the back with his sunglasses on like a hungover raccoon, and Lewis pretending that the hum of the tyres was more interesting than the stretch of Cliff's legs in the front seat. The man had his boots up on the dash like he owned the damn thing, head tilted back, long blond hair waving softly around his face, chewing sunflower seeds with the kind of slow, deliberate rhythm that made Lewis think thoughts he didn’t want to have.

And the worst part? Cliff caught him staring—twice—and didn’t say a word. He just gave him that lazy, redneck smirk and popped another seed into his mouth like he knew. Like he always knew.

They arrived late. The place Mitch booked was a mountain cabin, rustic and remote, with just enough Wi-Fi to be annoying and not enough heating to be comfortable. Jonas immediately claimed the upstairs room with Mitch, which left Lewis standing at the bottom of the stairs with Cliff, looking at the only other room.

“Ha, one bed,” Cliff said, like it was the punchline to a joke he wasn’t going to explain.

Lewis cleared his throat, gripping the handle of his overnight bag like it was going to stop him from simultaneously combusting into oblivion and melting into a puddle on the ground.

“I’ll take the floor.”

Cliff shrugged. “Suit yerself. Bed’s big enough fer two, if ya don’t kick.”

Lewis definitely kicked, but more importantly, he dreamed. And that was, unfortunately, the real danger.

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By midnight, the room was freezing, and the hardwood floor was actively conspiring to end him. Just another day in the life of a man who had obviously done something horrible in his past life and the cruel fates were coming to bite him in the ass.

Cliff was already in bed, sprawled like a king, blanket slung low over his waist, one massive arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. Lewis tried not to look.

He failed miserably.

“Ya look like a corpse,” Cliff mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Thanks.”

“Get in tha bed, Red. Ain’t no sense sufferin’ just to prove a point.”

“I’m not—”

“Ya are. Yer pride’s gonna kill ya before I ever get the chance.”

Lewis didn’t dignify that with a reply. But ten minutes later, he was curled up stiffly on the far side of the bed, a pillow awkwardly shoved between them like a sad little chastity belt. He stayed up for a while. Listening. Waiting. Cliff’s breathing evened out fast, deep and heavy. Even Cliff’s unconscious self had the audacity to be hot. Lewis wanted to punch his lungs. But unfortunately he felt warm, steady.

Safe.

He shouldn’t have felt safe.

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The dream came in pieces.

First: a barn. Hot, heavy air. Dust motes and hay. That golden haze that always came with summer sweat and slow days.

Second: Cliff, shirtless, slick with sweat, standing between the beams of light like some kind of pagan god, all muscle and hunger and wildness. His voice was the Devil’s lullaby. "Look atcha, Red. Drippin’ like a ripe peach and actin’ like ya don’t wanna be picked."

Third: Lewis on his knees in the hay, mouth parted, eyes glassy. Dream-Cliff had his hand tangled in Lewis’s hair and was guiding him—slowly, gently, then rougher—down, down, down.

The air smelled like salt and pine. The whole dream pulsed, hot and raw, a fever turned erotic. The sound of belt buckles. The scrape of denim. Cliff groaning Lewis's name and--

He woke up.

Hard. Panting. Trembling.

He blinked up at the dark ceiling, the sound of his own breathing way too loud in the quiet room. The pillow between them was still there. But Cliff hadn't moved at all.

“Oh thank God,” Lewis whispered, dragging a hand down his face like he could scrub away the last two minutes and his entire sex drive.

He turned over carefully, quietly. Tried to get comfortable. But Cliff’s breathing wasn’t steady anymore. It was slower now. Measured.

Almost...too measured.

Because Cliff wasn’t asleep.

He’d woken up somewhere between Lewis’s whimpers and that final moaned name. Heard everything. Felt Lewis squirm next to him. And kept still.

Cliff lay there, unmoving, pretending to be asleep while Lewis came down from it. Because if he moved, if he reacted, if he said anything at all...

He didn’t trust himself not to make it real.

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By the time the sun showed up to ruin his life, Lewis was already halfway into regretting his existence. The curtains weren’t even trying to block it out, just letting the light barge in uninvited like it paid rent. The bed was warm. Dangerously warm. And not “extra blankets” warm—more like 'you definitely spent the night wrapped around a walking sex fantasy' warm.

He dared a glance to his right.

Cliff was still asleep, or pretending to be. Lying on his back, one arm tucked under the pillow, the sheets riding dangerously low, revealing solid muscle with a cosy layer of sin. The kind of body that didn’t come from protein powder, but from hauling things and saying shit like “this’ll only take a minute” before flipping a tractor tire. Lewis wanted to bite it. Just a little. The little trail of blonde hair didn't help with that desire either

His other arm was stretched long across the bed where the pillow barrier used to be. It had migrated sometime in the night. Or maybe it had been shoved.

Lewis’s cheeks flared red. God. The dream. His whole body remembered it before his brain did. The ache. The sweat. The way he’d whispered Cliff’s name into the dark like a prayer.

He got up fast, muttering something about a shower and locking the door behind him before his dick could embarrass him again.

Cliff didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, even. Not until he heard the water turn on. Then—eyes still shut—he smirked. Just a little. Just to himself.

"Said my name," he murmured under his breath, low and quiet. "Sounded real sweet when ya came, Red"

He stretched like a cat, hands behind his head now, looking smug as shit.

"Dream version o’ me talks filthier than I do," he muttered with a lazy grin. "Might hafta live up to it."

He’d wait. Let Red squirm a while.

And then, maybe, maybe, he'd make it real.

Chapter Text

It was the fourth night.

Every night, Lewis woke up closer.

The first, they were on opposite sides. A pillow barrier and three feet of god-fearing distance. The second, the pillow had vanished mysteriously and Cliff’s arm was a little too close. The third, Lewis woke up practically nose to chest with Cliff’s solid, unmoving form.

He'd fallen asleep this time with enough tension to shatter glass. Cliff had mumbled a low "Night, Red," and turned onto his side—toward Lewis. It was an invitation without saying it. And Lewis, aching and exhausted from another day of trying not to look, not to think, not to feel, had turned too.

Now, in the middle of the night, he was curled into the dip of Cliff’s body like he belonged there.

His legs tangled. His face buried just under Cliff’s chin. His hips grinding, slowly, in his sleep—again.

Cliff was awake.

Had been for a while.

Watching. Listening. Feeling every slow rut of Lewis’s hips against his thigh. He could feel the way Lewis’s breath hitched, the way he whispered his name, the way his body shook every time he nearly reached his peak in his dream.

It was the fourth fucking time this had happened.

And Cliff had had enough.

He stayed still a moment longer. Letting Lewis build himself up to a near climax again, soft gasps and twitchy fingers before he shifted, just enough to make Lewis freeze.

“Red,” he rasped, voice deep and sleep-rough. “Ya up?”

Lewis startled awake like he’d been struck. Tried to jerk back, but Cliff’s arm had already slid around his waist, keeping him right there.

“Cliff?” He seemed to take stock of his position then, "I—I didn't—"

“Ya were dreaming,” Cliff’s voice was low, dangerous, hungry. “Sounded right cute when ya were hollerin' out my name.”

Lewis shook his head violently. “I didn’t mean to—”

"Hush yer mouth. Yer body wants it, but yer brain's too dumb ta know it,” Cliff purred, dragging his nose along Lewis’s temple. “The Cliff in yer dreams? The one that had ya hump the pillow like a bitch in heat? Well, he's done skipped town, and now ye're stuck wit' t ha real one.”

Lewis whimpered.

“And ya don’t got no pillow anymore, Red.”

Then Cliff rolled him.

Onto his back. Beneath him.

Hot skin to hot skin.

“Guess you’ll hafta use me instead.”

Cliff’s hands were already on him before Lewis could think to stop it—rough and certain, like he’d been memorising this moment in his head every night. He pinned Lewis’s wrists above his head with one hand and slid the other down to the waistband of his sweats, his grip just tight enough to make Lewis gasp.

“This what ya wanted?” Cliff’s voice was barely above a growl. “Wanted me ta fuck it outta ya so ya'd quit dreamin’ like some doe-eyed Daisy Mae?”

Lewis moaned—choked and breathless, his skin burning with Cliff's touch.

“That’s what I thought.”

And Cliff kissed him—hard.

Like a man sick of patience.

Like a man taking what was already his.

He slid his thigh between Lewis’s legs, grinding up against the aching heat there, and swallowed the sharp, needy sound it pulled from Lewis’s throat.

“Ya feel that?” Cliff rasped against his mouth. “That’s whatcha been wantin’ every night. All that grindin’... ya were just beggin’ for me.”

Lewis trembled, back arching as Cliff shoved his sweatpants down and grabbed his cock—hot and flushed and leaking at the tip. He hissed, every nerve lit.

Cliff jerked him once—slow. Then again—rougher. “Ya keep dreamin’ about me doin’ this, Red?”

Lewis bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.

“Uh uh sugar, don't keep those pretty, little sounds tucked away.”

Then Cliff moved down—mouth hot and hungry—pressing bruises along Lewis’s chest, dragging his teeth over a nipple, teasing the other with his calloused fingers until Lewis was keening.

He whispered filth like prayer, voice syrup-slow and heavy in Lewis’s ear.

“How many times ya gonna cum for me tonight, huh? One? Two? Don’t worry, Red, I’ll keep count.”

Lewis came once before Cliff was even inside him.

Cliff just grinned like the devil. "One," Lewis breathed hard and fast.

Still struggling to catch his breath, when Cliff brought his fingers to his mouth, watching intently as Lewis took them in, slicking them up.

Pulling them out, he spread Lewis' thighs wide, holding them open with his own thick legs, before slowly pushing his fingers in.

He worked them in deep—slow, deliberate drags that had Lewis panting, the stretch already generous. When Lewis whined, Cliff just shushed him gently, placing a kiss on his inner thigh.

“Gotta open ya up real good,” he murmured. “Ain’t gonna fit if I don’t.”

Cliff added a third finger, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside Lewis that made his back lift off the mattress. Lewis sobbed, hips rolling into the pressure.

“Tha's it,” Cliff crooned. “Takin’ me so good. Ya were made fer this.”

By the time the fourth finger pushed in, Lewis was wrecked. Slick and stretched and trembling beneath him. Cliff scissored them slowly, spreading Lewis open further, whispering low encouragements as Lewis squirmed.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” Cliff growled, eyes fixed on the way Lewis took every inch. “Gonna ruin ya, Red.”

He pressed in a little deeper, twisting his fingers just so, watching Lewis writhe with a dark, hungry look. “Ya love that, don’tcha? Bein’ opened up fer me, gettin’ ready fer my cock.”

Cliff finally stripped himself of his boxers, his cock hard, leaking and massive. The sheer girth of it explained why Cliff had used four fingers when stretching him out.

Looming over him, he finally pushed in—slow and relentless—Lewis's entire world cracking open.

He gasped, claws scrabbling at Cliff’s back, trying to breathe, trying to take it, eyes scrunching up with the effort, and Cliff just held him there, forehead pressed to Lewis’s, voice a soft command.

“Lookit me when I fuck ya.”

And Lewis did.

He held his gaze, wide-eyed and wrecked, as Cliff fucked into him with slow, devastating rolls of his hips, dragging against the spot that made Lewis see stars.

Lewis moaned brokenly, his fingers clutching at Cliff’s shoulders. Every thrust was a full-body jolt—like Cliff was rearranging something deep inside him, branding him from the inside out.

Cliff’s breath hitched at the sound, and he dipped his head, mouth brushing over Lewis’s jaw as he murmured, “Ye’re so fuckin’ tight, sugar. Ain’t gonna last long if ya keep squeezin’ me like that.”

He bit down lightly on Lewis’s neck, then soothed the mark with his tongue as Lewis arched into him, whining high and sweet.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, sweat-slick and tangled, Cliff rutting into him like he couldn’t get deep enough. “Tell me ya wanted this,” he growled into Lewis’s ear.

Lewis barely managed to gasp out, “Yes—Cliff—fuck—yes.”

Cliff groaned like he’d been waiting years to hear it.

He reached between them, wrapping a hand around Lewis again, stroking him in time with his thrusts. “C’mon, Red. Give me the second one.”

Lewis shattered with a cry, coming hard against Cliff’s chest.

And Cliff, not even seconds later, followed him over the edge with a raw groan, burying himself to the hilt, shaking with the force of it.

However, it doesn't take long for Cliff to start grinding back into him, his cock hardening again. His thrust slowly picking up speed and strength.

Lewis was still trembling from the aftershocks, thighs twitching around Cliff’s hips, oversensitive and slick, every motion making him whimper. Cliff didn’t give him time to recover. Just held him tighter, rutted deeper, like he needed to re-stake his claim inside him.

“Too much,” Lewis gasped, nails dragging uselessly down Cliff’s back. “It’s too much, I—”

“Ye’re takin’ it,” Cliff bit back, voice rough with hunger. “Ye’re so fuckin’ full of me, and ye’re still open, still beggin’.”

Lewis shook his head even as his body rocked into every thrust.

"Cliff—I—I c-can’t—" It’s a wrecked whimper, shattered right down the middle, eyes wide and wet and blinking blind.

"Yes, ya can," Cliff growls, every syllable a thrust. His hand slides up, palm pressing flat to Lewis’s chest like he’s trying to keep his soul from escaping. "Ya are. Ain’t gonna break—not ‘less I say so."

Lewis sobs, full-body shaking, nails dragging helplessly over the sheets like he’s drowning and reaching for something solid. But Cliff is the solid thing. The force. The fucking storm.

And Cliff sees it—sees him breaking open—and doesn’t stop. He leans in, voice molten against Lewis’s ear. "Cry fer me."

“I—Cliff—fuck—”

“Tha’s it,” Cliff growls, his mouth hot against Lewis’s neck. “Give it ta me. Wanna hear ya fall apart.”

He pounds into him, relentless now, chasing every cracked breath and shattered moan. Lewis clutches at him like he’s the only thing keeping him grounded, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes—too much, too good, too fucking deep.

Cliff kisses them away, tongue flicking over his cheek as he grinds in harder. “There ya go, darlin’. So fuckin’ pretty when ya cry.”

Lewis sobs again, wrecked and raw, and Cliff doesn’t let up. Just keeps taking, keeps giving, until Lewis is nothing but heat and noise and shaking pleasure, undone from the inside out.

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They stayed like that—locked together, panting, hearts thundering—until the haze clears just enough for Cliff to murmur, “Four nights, Red. Had ta get ya back somehow.”

Chapter Text

Lewis groaned, trying to peel himself off the mattress and failing. “God, I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“Nah,” Cliff said, sprawled beside him like a king after conquest. “More like a combine harvester. Gotcha good an' threshed.”

Lewis squinted at him. “That’s not even—wait. You’re comparing yourself to farming machinery now?”

Cliff smirked, proud. “Reckon I am. Strong an' leaves a mess behind.”

Lewis made a strangled sound and dragged a pillow over his face. “I’m never letting you talk again, please leave.”

“You say that,” Cliff drawled, tucking an arm behind his head, “but you weren’t sayin’ much at all earlier—’cept beggin’ and moanin’."

The pillow did nothing to muffle Lewis’s full-body groan of shame.

Cliff didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. He was on a goddamn roll.

“And don’t act like ya didn’t like it. I saw the way yer eyes rolled back like ya'd just been baptised in a holy river. Hell, Red, ya came so hard, I thought the rapture had hit.”

“Shut up,” Lewis moaned from under the pillow, voice muffled and mortified.

Cliff snorted. “Aww, c’mon now. Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sugar. I’m just sayin’, if I’d known you were gonna turn into a damn revival sermon in my bed, I’da made sure ta bring a tambourine.”

Lewis ripped the pillow away just to glare at him properly. “You're unbelievable.”

Cliff shrugged. “Yup.”

There was a beat of silence before Lewis muttered, “I don't—does this?—This doesn’t mean anything.”

Cliff turned to look at him, slow and certain, voice low. “Red. I think what I think, and ain’t no one gon’ change it. Not even you.”

Lewis blinked. “That’s not—what does that even mean?”

Cliff rolled closer, propping himself up on an elbow and nudging Lewis’s thigh with his knee. “Means ya can fuss all ya want. But I done made up my mind.”

Lewis squinted, suspicious. “About what?”

Cliff leaned in, pressed a kiss just under Lewis’s ear. “Aboutcha bein’ mine.”

Lewis opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You—you don’t get to decide that like we’re at a goddamn livestock auction!”

Cliff grinned, full teeth. “Sure I do. Ya hollered louder’n a hog at a family reunion. Pretty sure I won the bid.”

Lewis stared at him like he was a hallucination. “That’s not how that works.”

Cliff kissed his temple. “It is now.”