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[naiem486]

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[suckndfuck]

laszlo roleplaying as a crew member alone in the costume trailer in the PI undercover episode 😂

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

✦ Fashion Nova Calexico Printed Denim Jacket ($39.99)

✦ Fashion Nova Calexico Non Stretch Printed Wide Leg Jean (on sale: $23.99)

[freshthoughts2020]

[newtexasrepublic]

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[steveseddie]

jacket ‘round my shoulders is yours

for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompt: jacket | rating: t | wc: 999 | tags: post-canon, steve wears eddie’s leather jacket, they kiss about it

read on ao3

Eddie can’t find his leather jacket.

Steve is picking him up soon and he can’t find it. He turned his bedroom upside down looking for it (pun absolutely intended) and even riffled through Wayne’s clothes in case the old man grabbed it by mistake (he didn’t).

He concludes he forgot it somewhere and racks his brain for the last time he remembers wearing it. He thinks it was last week when he yelled at Wheeler for almost spilling soda on him at Steve’s house. Did Eddie take it off and leave it there by accident? Or did he have it on when he drove home?

He’s still trying to figure that out when there’s a knock on his door.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters, jumping to his feet. “Coming!”

He doesn’t want to keep Steve waiting and risk missing their movie so with a sigh, Eddie grabs a denim jacket instead.

“That’ll do,” he says, checking himself in the mirror before opening the door to reveal–

Steve in his leather jacket.

“Hi, Eds,” he says, wiggling his fingers.

Eddie tries not to swallow his tongue but Steve is wearing his jacket and he looks hot. He’s pretty sure he’s had a few fantasies that start like this.

“Uh, hey,” he says once he finally gets his brain working again. “I was looking for that.”

Steve looks down at himself like he just remembered what he’s wearing. Like he forgot he put on Eddie’s leather jacket. He shrugs. “You left it at my house the other day.” And- well, mystery solved but that doesn’t explain why he showed up wearing it.

“So, it’s yours now?” Eddie asks, narrowing his eyes even if he doesn’t care. Steve can keep it if he wants, he looks better in it anyway. “First you steal my vest and now my jacket, Harrington?”

A smirk stretches over Steve’s lips. “Maybe I just like wearing your clothes, Munson,” he says in a teasing tone. A flirting tone- Eddie has heard him use it with girls at Family Video.

“Besides,” Steve continues because Eddie is too flustered to think of a comeback, “I didn’t steal your vest. You gave it to me. Threw it, actually.”

“And you never gave it back!” Eddie protests. “After I let you borrow it to protect your modesty!”

“Please, man,” Steve snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. His shoulders and arms are significantly bigger than Eddie’s so the movement pulls on the leather. Eddie would care more about Steve stretching his jacket if he wasn’t so busy ogling him. “You did it so you could stop staring at my chest.”

Eddie gasps, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. He knew he wasn’t subtle that night, but he thought Steve would be too busy surviving to pay attention to Eddie’s eyes drifting to his bare chest. And after that, when they became friends and Eddie started tragically crushing on Steve, he tried to be more careful.

And apparently failed.

“I– uh. It was like, right there, dude,” Eddie stammers out. “And you– you got a jungle there and I–”

“And you like it,” Steve finishes for him.

Eddie winces. It’s not what he was gonna say but it’s the truth. He could deny it, but he can already feel a blush creeping up his face, coloring his cheeks.

“Is– is that a problem?”

“Eds, my only problem is that you haven’t done anything about it,” Steve says with a low chuckle, reaching out to play with one of the pins on his denim jacket. “I actually considered showing up in just your jacket, but Robin convinced me it was too much.”

Eddie squeaks. That would’ve been too much for his heart to handle, that’s for sure.

“I don’t know if I should hate Buckley or thank her,” he says, shaking his head to wipe that visual from his brain. “I probably would’ve shut the door on your face.”

Steve laughs, shoulders scrunching up and eyes crinkling at the corners. Eddie is struck by how beautiful he is, and how much he wants to kiss him.

“You can, you know?” Steve says, snapping Eddie out of his thoughts and making him realize he said that out loud.

Then he realizes what Steve just said. “I– I can?”

Steve’s grin is amused but sweet. “Yeah, Eddie. I want you to.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie swallows thickly.

Then he grabs hold of the jacket and pulls Steve inside, the door swinging shut behind them. As soon as they’re out of view, Eddie pulls Steve in by the back of the neck, kissing him squarely on the lips.

With a content noise, Steve cards his fingers through Eddie’s hair, deepening the kiss, crowding him against the wall.

They kiss until they need air and even then it takes a lot to pull back from Steve’s mouth.

When he does, Steve smiles at him– his lips pink, his hair mused, his cheeks flushed.

“What?”

“You should keep it,” Eddie says, smoothing the jacket over. “It looks better on you.”

Steve purses his lips. “I happen to think you look really hot wearing it.”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, tugging a lock of hair across his face, feeling his blush coming back at the compliment.

“But do you know where it would look better?”

“Where?”

Steve smirks at Eddie, his eyelashes fluttering coyly. “Your bedroom floor.”

Eddie’s breath hitches, something warm shooting through him. “What– what about the movie?” He asks. It’s a stupid question, but his brain might be melting out of his ears. Steve raises an eyebrow– Really? “Right, never fucking mind. Who cares? Come here, sweetheart,” he says, taking Steve’s hand and dragging him towards his room.

The leather jacket comes off first and it ends up on the floor. Eddie couldn’t care less about where. It could get sucked into the Upside Down along with all of his clothes and it wouldn’t matter to him.

Not as long as he gets to keep kissing Steve.

[woongiesea]

🖤 ── 𝐿osing 𝒜ll 𝑀y 𝐼nnocence 𝐼n 𝒯he 𝐵ackseat

bttm!male reader x top!mingi (ateez)

in which after a heated club night, mingi teaches his best friend how to have sex !

content warning: gay sex, oral sex, anal sex, mingi's first time topping, virgin!reader / reader's first time, car sex, dacryphilia (?), fingering, size kink, unprotected sex (don't irl !), non-idol au (?) implied second round

lmk if there are any more :p

loosely inspired by addison rae's diet pepsi <33

author's note: hi everyonee !! tysm for all the love on the jiwoong fic, and im back with an anon req, sorry if this took too long im kinda busy with life :p. i wrote this in 3rd person instead of 2nd person this time so reading this might be diff from the first one. this is my first time writing for mingi so i hope its realistic lmao 😭

also mingichella ruined my life.

! MINORS DNI !

"So, where are we going?" y/n asked, curiosity laced in his tone. Currently he was sitting in front of the mirror, legs folded on the hotel room carpet as he dabbed a brush with black eyeshadow on the outer corners of his eyes, brushing through his black tresses, moving silky strands out of his eyes. "You randomly just told me to get ready without telling me anything..."

Y/n could hear shuffling around the hotel room. From the corner of his eyes he could see Mingi shuffling through his coats and leather jackets hanging in all their black and grey glory, waiting to be picked by him to go out in the cigarette-and-chanel no.5-smelling streets of new york.

You and Mingi were finally taking your "best friends" trip that the both had you been raving about since you learned about the existence of New York City. You could tell in Mingi's smirk that he was planning something, and you were scared what he was cooking up in that mischevious head of his.

"Should I just go bare-chested?" Mingi asked, from one corner of the hotel room, out of view from the mirror you peered into, searching for his face. You turned around from where his voice came.

Mingi ruffled his freshly dyed platinum-blonde hair, an impulse decision he made yesterday, claiming that it "would look hot". His leather pants stretched and wrinkled across his long legs and thighs with perfection, glistening under the harsh blindingness of the white hotel room lights. A black jacket draped his torso, with sparkling chains and necklaces adorning his neck. As he cheekily stated, it was obvious he was wearing no shirt underneath, a tackily zipped-up zipper threatening to reveal his lower torso and abs.

Y/n rolled his eyes, barely containing a gasp out of pure shock. "Fuckin' slut." he says, his tone laced with sarcasm. "It's a good outfit, but I don't know where we're going to, so I can't place you on the cunt-o-meter just yet."

Mingi raised an eyebrow. "Cunt-o-meter?"

Y/n rolled his eyes. "How much cunt you're serving. Depends on the occasion you're serving all this for." he says, eyes scanning over his 6 foot frame.

"Trust me, we need maximum point on the cunt-o-meter." Mingi cringed as the words came out his mouth, muttering a small "whatever that means."

"Well then, you're good to go, then!" Y/n says cheerily, his words accompanied by a quick "click!" of his makeup palette closing up. He fluttered his eyelids to show off his "edgy" eye look he was planning. "How do I look?"

Mingi smirked. "I like it, you look like a pretty boy." He giggled, showing off his gummy smile that made y/n heart skip a beat at his cuteness, despite how the other was dressed right now. Y/n got up, awkwardly twirling around to show off his outfit.

"Now, unlike you I am not a slut and do infact have self respect. How do I look?" Y/n's outfit was moderately simple - an oversized black sweater he borrowed from Mingi, with denim shorts cheekily teasing at his thighs, and the white knee-lenghts he was seemingly obsessed with.

At this, Mingi wrapped an arm around the shorter's shoulders, his arm seemingly overtaking his entire figure. He smiled. "Let's go."

timeskip

"Alright, that was the first and last time I'm going clubbing with your ass." Y/n groaned, practically collasping into the passenger seat of a somehow sober Mingi's car. Mingi giggled at his friend, who was currently rolling his eyes and proudly displaying him a middle finger. "And why didn't you tell me we were gonna go clubbing? I would've dressed sluttier!" Y/n whined.

"Wearing what, exactly?" Mingi raised an eyebrow in a cocky fashion. "You're scared to go to the pool shirtless. Heck, you can't even wear tank tops in front of me!" He teased. Mingi laughed at y/n's reaction, which was now both middle fingers being stretched in front of his face.

"Whatever. Atleast I don't have the lack of self respect that I let myself being tossed around between 4 guys !" Y/n exclaimed, pointing to Mingi's smudged lipgloss.

"Well, atleast I don't sit in the corner despite half the club trying to flirt with me!" Mingi replied with the same snarky tone. "And I remember that I don't own the glasses!"

"Song Mingi, I'm gonna kill you- and I didn't end up taking the glass with me, did I?" but Y/n's counterattack was ignored.

Mingi had a sinister look on his face. "You had atleast 5 guys foaming at the mouth to take you home, and yet you complain about being single." He smirked with a look of intrigue. "Could it be..." He leaned in closer to y/n till he ear brushed against his pink lips. "You don't know how to have sex, y/n?"

The flustered look on Y/n's face confirmed his suspicions. "Eyes on the road, idiot!" Y/n retaliated, causing Mingi to smirk as he continued driving.

"So, your innocent ass doesn't know how to fuck? How surprising for someone as freaky as you."

"Just keep driving or I'll cannibalize you."

Mingi's car suddenly came to a hault in some dark corner, in some street that seemed nowhere near the streets you memorized on the way to your hotel. Mingi leaned in closer, inhaling the smell of alcohol and your sweet perfume mixed with sweat that lingered on his sweater, currently draping your figure.

"Mingi, where are w-"

"Backseat. Now."

"What the fu-"

"Now."

smut below, minors dni.

"M-mingi, fuck!" Y/n's cheek was flush against the leather seat covers. In the darkness of the night. His shorts were thown away somewhere in the process, windows fogged up, the air conditioner's cool wind sending chills down Y/n bottom and thighs.

Mingi thrust his fingers in Y/n's hole scissoring him in an attempt to loosen up. Y/n's legs found their way to Mingi's shoulders, resting on them as Mingi held onto Y/n's thighs for dear life, imprinting the cool metal designs of Mingi's rings into the shorter's inner thighs. "Fuck, y/n, you're so tight~" He cooed, loving the whimpers that spilled out of the other's mouth. He didn't even bother taking off the other's pants, or his own, even. Mingi was impaitent to get to the good part immediately, simply choosing to unzip his zipper.

He trailed kisses down your neck - hot, open-mouthed kisses, leaving bites and marks across your collarbone and neck, nuzzling his hot face against the crook of your neck. "So responsive..." he groaned. "f I knew you made all those slutty sounds I would've wrecked you long ago..."

His words sent shivers down your spine. You didn't even have time to recollect yourself when Mingi pulled his fingers out, giving you a maximum of 5 seconds to relaxation before he forced his length into you. It wasn't the most girthy dick, but god, was it long and strong. You felt every individual vein, pumping up hard and fast into his erection. Mingi practically shreiked when you clenched around his lenght, hard and tight.

"God damn, so eager to get railed. I might just top more often." Mingi groaned, his voice hoarse and deep. He experimentally began thrusting in and out at a slow and then fast pace. His inconsistency drove you insane: He was trying you out, trying to see what got the best reaction from you.

That's when it happened: His dick slammed into your prostate, targetting a sensetive bundle of nerves. You twitched so hard you were surprised you didn't just cum right then and there. Mingi noticed your blissed-out expression and loud moan. He smirked. "You like that, pretty boy? Ya like when I slam into you like that?" You nodded desperately.

"Lemme do it again, then." A wicked smile adorned his face. And he did. Over and over, slamming down on your sweet spot. Estcasy claimed over you so many times as your velvet walls clamped down on his member. Both of you groaned in unison. Being on the edge of pleasure was so blaringly good that you didn't even realize when you tipped over, letting out velvet white ropes of your substance, coating Mingi and yourself.

"Cum for me, boy~" Mingi cooed, as he too, filled you with his load, blissfully rolling his eyes back as he bit his lip, riding out his high. His substance inside you was an intoxicating feeling. You never wanted it to end.

Mingi rested his forehead against yours, panting. "Let's continue this in the hotel." He smirked, and you nodded.

It was going to be a long night.

[sushirrrry]

anything frattrry or hockey player please 😩

word count: 1,449 cw: flirty & steamy & frattry oh my! a hockey player!harry x you one-shot ******** this week, I'm doing a little writing spree in honor of hitting 1,000 followers! send me your requests for 1,000 word blurbs here & I will be writing them all week! here is a template, if you'd like to fill it out

thank you so much for 1,000 followers, it means the world to me!

so, let's start off our spree with a fan fave: hockey players

enjoy <3

********

1994

The ice rink was empty except for him – the one that you need, the one you’ve been assigned. The one you are continuously assigned.

Harry Styles, center for the Earl University Warriors, leaned against the boards like he owned the place; in some instance, he did.

This was his arena, this was his castle, and he wasn’t going to let anyone forget that. His jersey was peeled halfway off, clinging to his sweaty torso. One or two blonde highlights in his curls stood out to you, a cherry Tootsie Pop between his teeth, and that same cocky grin he always wore like a letterman jacket.

“You’re late, Press Pass,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement and just a hint of exhaustion from the scrimmage that you had just had the pleasure of watching. “Or were you just hoping to build some suspense in keeping me waiting?”

You didn’t look up from your notepad as you adjusted the press pass around your neck. “Or maybe I was hoping you’d be gone, and I’d have to forego the assignment.”

He chuckled—low and throaty; he chewed around the lollipop; you noticeably noticed the bright red of his lips from the lolly. “You always say the meanest things. It’s kinda hot.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can we just get this interview over with?”

This wasn’t your first rodeo with Harry Styles – this was always the most wanted interview, and the head of the paper always wanted his opinions on how the games were going. He was, of course, the captain of the team. Harry hopped over the rink boards like it was nothing and strutted toward you, skates clacking against the rubber mats. “That a Walkman in your coat? What are we listening to? Don’t say Pearl Jam again, I’ll cry.”

“Alanis Morissette,” you muttered.

He nodded slowly as he flips a hand through his hair to push it away from his forehead. “Figures. You’ve got ‘You Oughta Know’ energy.”

You stared at him with a blankness, fighting to not roll your eyes. “And you’ve got ‘banned from frat parties’ energy.”

That made him grin wider; you knew he liked when you talked back, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He tilted his head toward the penalty box. “Let’s talk in there. Feels appropriate for me, don’t you think? Bad to the bone, and all that.”

You shouldn’t have followed him in. But you did. It was much easier to just follow along than anything else.

You took the bench while he sprawled out like he had no bones in his body—spreading his legs, arms stretched over the backrest, like some denim-and-sweat Adonis. His sweatpants were rolled down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the Calvin Klines that graced them, and he was still sucking on that damn Tootsie Pop.

“So,” you began, clicking your pen as you crossed your legs, “how’d you end up with the highest penalty minutes on the team?”

“Can’t help it if I play hard,” he said, winking. “Plus, refs love to call me for unsportsmanlike. Probably 'cause I’m too pretty.”

You snort at his answer, unbelievably writing it down. “Wouldn’t you call that a bit of delusion? Maybe a bit of clarity is needed here,” You pulled out your notes from the game, “Let’s see… tonight alone you racked up three penalties in under ten minutes.”

Harry stretched like a cat, lacing his fingers behind his head – the goddamn lollipop protruding from his cheek. “You say that like it’s a bad thing – we won, didn’t we?”

You ignored him. “First one—cross-checking.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, the guy had it coming.”

“Second—unsportsmanlike conduct.” You looked up to see his brows arched, waiting for you to say what you needed to say. “Did you really blow a kiss to the ref?”

Harry rolled his eyes, “It’s called being fuckin’ charming, Scoop. And seems like you like looking at my lips. Wanna’ kiss ‘em or quote ‘em?”

You arched a brow, writing down his meticulously thought-out answers and completely ignoring his remarks. If you bought into them, then he won. “And then the grand finale—roughing.”

“Mm.” He leaned in then, grinning as he showed you the way that his eyes shown in the arena lights. “Guilty as sin. Wanna see how rough I can really be?”

You shook your head, biting back a smile – he was way too goddamn charming. “You’re like the human version of a warning label.”

He shrugged, biting on the candy until it cracked. “Dangerous, but addictive? You keep on comin’ back, don’t ‘ya?”

It’s your turn to lean in now: “More like: ‘Do not engage unless supervised.’”

He leaned forward to meet your energy, elbows on his knees. This time, his voice was much lower – like he had wanted to keep it between the two of you.  “Come on. You’ve thought about it.”

“About what?”

“Me. This. You and me in here.” He gestured around the penalty box like it was some sacred chapel that they had been meeting in. “Don’t pretend you don’t think about me when you’re rewinding your cassette tapes.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes this time. “You’re so full of yourself, Styles.”

“Baby, I’m full of you. In my head, anyway.”

You stood to leave, almost repulsed by his charisma. “Alright, interview’s over.”

But he reached out, tugging gently on the sleeve of your flannel before you’re able to turn around fully. “C’mon, Scoop. Don’t be mad. You’ve been giving me the look since week one. And I’ve been real patient.”

You turned slowly, looking down at him and where his fingers had inched their way around your wrist. “What look?”

“That ‘I’d rather die than admit I want you’ look,” He bit his lip, “You give it pretty often, and I have to admit it’s one of your cuter looks.”

You should’ve left. Should’ve told him off and walked out like the independent, Nirvana-loving, emotionally detached girl you prided yourself on being.

Instead, you dropped your notebook, grabbed him by the collar of his jersey, and kissed him so hard he gasped. There was something about always doing the unexpected that you prided yourself on, and this move was no different. It was a move that had shocked even you, but you couldn’t help but feel the satisfaction in just shutting up his goddamn, filthy, cocky mouth.

It was hot. Messy. Pure attitude.

He tasted like cherry and sweat and the kind of trouble your RA warned you about in all of those freshman classes.

But it was when he really kissed you back, it was with greedy, open-mouthed intensity. His hands found your waist, your thighs, and then he was pulling you into his lap like he’d been waiting a lifetime for it. You couldn’t have expected him to pull you back – to actually grab ahold of you, because now you couldn’t get back out of it.

When you started to push away, he pulled back; the game of it was his favorite, you could tell.

“God, you’re so—” he started, but you cut him off by tugging his bottom lip between your teeth.

“Shut up, Styles.”

He grinned beneath you, breathless. “Yes, ma’am.”

His hands pushed under your shirt, all calluses and warmth, and you moaned against his mouth as his thumb skimmed the underside of your bra. You breathed out heavily in annoyance at yourself for giving him the satisfaction he had been looking for.

“Still think I’m a poser, newspaper babe?” he whispered, biting at your lip as you started to pull away then.

You laughed against his jaw. “Totally.”

He pulled back, eyes blazing. “Then let me prove you wrong, babe. Right here in the –“

You straddled him harder. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence unless you mean it.”

“I always mean it.” Harry pulled your waist, letting you rub against his crotch as you try to push yourself away. In another attempt, he lets you go as he can feel you really mean it; his face distorting in confusion as you started to recompose yourself. You grab your notepad and pen that had fallen.

Harry blinked up at you, lips red, pupils blown, breath uneven, hair even a bit unkept. “Wait—what?”

You smirked. “Thanks for the quotes, Styles. You’re always appreciated.”

“Scoop—come on! What was that?”

You paused at the edge of the box, fingers on the door. “A warning,” You looked him up and down, “No more penalties – stop embarrassing us with your cocky ass. Someone had to shut you up, didn't they?”

And then you walked out—your Walkman humming “You Learn” as you disappeared down the corridor, leaving the star player stunned, aching, and utterly wrecked in the penalty box.

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Metallic Cropped Denim Jacket ($47.97 - on sale) & Stretch Metallic Super High-Waisted Baggy Wide-Leg Jean ($67.46 - on sale) from American Eagle

[dazedandconfused-15]

Heaven's in your eyes (Part 1)

This is to answer a request I received from an anonymous user a couple of months ago “Billy asks shy reader out and is protective over her”, for some reason I can't directly respond to their post still getting used to Tumblr. Sorry for taking a while to write this one. Anyway, I got a little bit carried away and turned it into a short fic, I just loved the whole concept. I’ll definitely post a part 2. Comments and constructive opinions are always appreciated 🩷

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Summary: Life in Hawkins is dull and lonely, especially after your mom abandoned your family, leaving you even more isolated amidst school rumors. Already shy and with few friends, you find solace in your solitude—until Billy Hargrove, the intriguing new boy from California, comes into the picture. To your surprise, Billy seems to seek you out, finding ways to talk to you despite the odds. Never in a million years would you have imagined forming such an unexpected bond with someone.

Link to: Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

______________________________________________________________

You have always watched him from a distance.

There was something magnetic about him. Where he was, energy swirled.

You have never spoken to him. He’s something inaccessible to you. He hangs out with the popular crowd. Yet, unlike all of them, he doesn’t seem to pretend. He doesn’t show off. He naturally exudes an aura that makes him alluring. He’s not just what could be called "hot." No, he’s beautiful. When you first saw him in the school hallways, you could swear that for a second, your heart stopped. He was playing with his lighter, walking with an assured stride in the direction of his classroom with Jason Carver. He was a palette of contrasting colors that stood out in perfect harmony. His tanned face was framed by long, golden curls that almost fell over his shoulders. He looked straight ahead as he listened to the boy at his side with his red mouth stretched into a smirk that revealed white teeth. His cupid bow was dusted with stubble. It was no surprise that most of the girls looked at him with no shame, the shyest ones glancing up as soon as he passed them. That California boy did not look like a boy. He looked like a man. You could tell by the way he was built, the black leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders, the muscular legs in his denim jeans.

You had realized that you were staring openly at him when he passed by you and, probably feeling the weight of your gaze on him, his eyes had met yours. There, something had happened inside you. His eyes were the purest blue you had ever seen. They were crystalline. But it was the long dark lashes that gave his gaze something expressive and unique. They were the embodiment of what is called a piercing gaze. It was a unique paradox: as angelic as it was rough in outline. Awakening from your enchantment, you lowered your gaze with an abrupt jerk of your head and resumed putting your books away in the locker, feeling your cheeks on fire and your heart beating wildly.

That was the only time you had even a remote semblance of contact with him. 

As you rush to your English literature class a month later, rounding the corner of the hallway, the last thing you expect is to bump into him. You let out an "ouch" as you collide with his hard chest, your notes and pencil case tumbling to the ground in the chaos. It's only when you raise your eyes in a flurry of apologies that you realize who you've bumped into. You swallow, kneeling and picking up your notes hastily. 

"You alright?"

"Yes. Yes." the notes slip through your shaking fingers.

His hands appear in your field of vision, and when you accidentally touch them, an electric shock almost makes you wince. He helps you pick them up, then raises to his feet and holds them to you. You thank him, thinking about what else you could say to avoid making the situation awkward. His baby blue shirt matches the color of his eyes. He’s even prettier from closer. 

"We’re in History class together, right?

His question surprises you. You didn't think he would remember you. You didn't think he would notice you.

"Yes. That's right."

He holds out his hand, his heavy-lidded gaze on you. "Billy."

You shake his hand, introducing yourself. His hand is large and his grip his firm, but gentle at the same time. That touch makes your stomach tangle. You can't believe he is talking to you.

"You're new, right?" you ask. You know fully well that he arrived here a month ago. You know full well that he is from California. He probably knows that you know, but he doesn't say anything about it

"Yes. Moved here last month."

“Oh, okay. Welcome to Hawkins, then.” you say gently as you absently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence, him probably waiting for you to say something else. You point at the door down the hallway, starting to walk away. “I ah, I have to go to class. Sorry.”

And you walk away, no, you scurry away, almost escaping him, feeling a pang of embarrassment as you replay the scene later in your head, regretting how abruptly you left without saying more. 

You don’t cross paths with him again after that. However, you are clearly more aware of his presence during history classes even though you don’t interact again. 

In recent months, you've adopted a strategy of minimizing your visibility as much as possible. It’s not always easy. That Thursday is one of the hard days. Mr. Jensen, the new history teacher, makes his way through the rows of desks, collecting permission slips signed by parents for the upcoming day trip he has organized to Indianapolis. 

"Ah, I don't seem to have your permission slip yet," he inquires gently as he sees you empty-handed. "Did you forget to bring it today?" 

Feeling the eyes of everyone on you, your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. You hate all of this attention on you. "I, um, I haven't been able to get it signed yet. My dad's been working double shifts, and I haven't caught him at home."

“I understand,” the teacher says, “But I need to give all the signed papers to the principal by tomorrow. Is it possibly to get it signed today? By your mother, perhaps?”

Before you could answer, Tommy Hagan's voice pierces the air, his tone laced with mockery. "She's probably halfway across the country by now, cozying up with some other guy."

You don’t even turn to look at him. You saw it coming. It’s been five months since she left now. Hawkins is a small town, so the news spread quickly. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, avoiding eye contact with your classmates as you feel the weight of their curious gazes. 

"I uh...I just," you try to ignore Tommy's comment, resting your eyes on the professor whose eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. "I'll tell my dad tonight. He's just been really busy. I will bring it to class tomorrow."

“If he comes back with the milk.” snickers Tommy. 

You stiffen instantly without wanting to, which the teacher doesn’t fail to notice.

“That's enough, Mr. Hagan. Comments like that have no place in my classroom.” he snaps as his eyes darken, his jaw set. His expression softens as he turns to you. “Don't worry about the permission slip for now. We'll make sure you're included."

As the professor returns to his seat, your eyes remain fixed on the spot where the desk is chipped, absently touching it with your fingernail. Your body fails to relax as you fight to ignore the burning in your throat, careful not to blink, your vision blurred for a few moments. But Tommy's yelp draws your attention and you turn your head to your left, where he is sitting next to Billy. 

“What was that for, man?”

Tommy is rubbing his shoulder, his face scrunched up in pain and a mixture of disbelief and confusion on his face. Billy stares straight ahead, his face cold and hard. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" he eventually mutters under the teacher’s explanation. However, it sounds more like a statement than a question.

As you go back to stare at your desk, your throat is still burning but your vision is clear again. You wonder if what Billy said was because of Tommy's comments. Why would he defend you? 

The rest of the class passes in a blur of confusion and unanswered questions. Tommy's hurtful words echo in your mind, leaving you shaken and upset, the sting of their cruelty lingering long after the bell rings.

***

On the morning of the school trip, you are tempted to call the school and say you are sick, but your father comes back from the plant later in the morning and will see that you are actually fine. Also, Mr. Jensen might suspect that something is going on. Only, the idea of spending the day with the whole class, but feeling more alone than you are when you're at school, doesn't appeal to you. You've never been very outgoing. Since your mother left, the armor that covered you has only thickened, alienating you from the rest of the world. To this day you have received no answers. She left overnight without warning. You never received a call. You knew that things had not been going well between your parents for some time. Or rather, your mother kept complaining about how being in Hawkins was suffocating her, how she was no longer happy. The pain was slowly becoming coated with resentment. She had abandoned you and your father as if nothing had happened, as if years of living together had counted for nothing. As if being a family had cost nothing. Arriving on the ground floor and finding the kitchen light off had now become a habit, not an odd occurrence. Other things had become routine: the unaccustomed silence in your house, the TV once perpetually on now always off, the teapot once always in use was now in the kitchen drawer. 

Once on the school bus, you spend your time looking out the window and counting the trees on the distant hills. You can feel the wind blowing outside, the rain pelting cruelly on the window. A crack lets a trickle of air through, making you shiver and clench tighter in your jacket. The ride at least passes quietly, no one talking to you or bothering you. Tommy Hagan keeps his comments to himself, too busy jabbering in the back of the bus with his band of friends. You can hear the occasional shrillness in the voice of Carol Perkins, his girlfriend. 

You spend almost the entire morning in the Indiana Historical Society, following the professor through the corridors of the museum. You stay in the background, drowning out the guide's voice and looking at the paintings hanging on the wall. As you change rooms, you realize that you are not the only one who has remained aloof. Billy Hargrove lingers to your side at the back of the row of students, his hands tucked into his leather jacket. You try not to be affected by his presence, suddenly self-conscious of the way you walk and breathe. You still remember what he told Tommy Hagan the week before. You are increasingly convinced that he defended you. As the class spreads in different directions, everyone observing something different and speaking lowly in small groups you realize he’s still here, on your side.  As you ponder if you should say something, or just assume that he’s walking behind on his own, he catches you off guard. 

“Kinda boring, huh?” 

“Yeah, a little," you respond, offering him a small smile that probably looks like a grimace. "History isn't my cup of tea."

“Mine neither,” his gaze scans the display cases lining the wall on your left. “Beats being seated all day in class, though.”

“Definitely,” you nod in agreement as you slowly cross through another room. Desperately trying to fill the silence, you come up with the first thing that crosses your mind. “I’ve been here before.”

“The museum?” 

“Indianapolis,” you say. You hesitate before finishing your thoughts. “My grandma lived here. I spent some weekends at hers.” 

Billy hums. He sniffs, then retrieves some chewing gums from his back pocket. He unwraps one. “How’s the city?” 

“It’s great. Oh, thank you.” you softly say as you take the gum he’s offering you. “There are some nice parks.” 

He pops the chewing gum in his mouth. “We have quite a few in San Diego too.

You turn toward him, curiosity overcoming your shyness. “You lived in San Diego?”

“Yes. Big change of scenery.”

“I can imagine.” your gaze wanders to the antique objects displayed in a glass case. “I’ve seen pictures, it looks incredible.” memories of your dad's album, from when he was young, flood your mind – images of palm trees swaying in the breeze, golden beaches stretching for miles, and endless blue skies that seemed to merge seamlessly with the ocean. 

“That’s something else, yeah. Honestly, I couldn’t complain at all.” 

“I wish I could see California,” you say a little dreamily. 

“I can take you one day.”

Your throat feels suddenly dry. So you let out a nervous giggle, avoiding his gaze, assuming he is joking. Fortunately, the professor calls your attention back. It's lunchtime and he tells you that you are free to go wherever you want, as long as you are outside the museum within four hours. You told your father the school would pay for the student's lunch because you know times are tough. He insisted on giving you ten dollars in case you need it.

You walk down the steps of the museum looking around and thinking about where you could make all this time go. It's going to be long. You know a few restaurants, but you know that your pocket money is clearly not enough to eat there. A gust of wind brings the smell of smoke to your nostrils, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Billy stop beside you. His eyes take in your surroundings.

“So, you told me you know the city.”

“Huh, yes,” you answer, a little lost. “Not all of it, but most of it, like downtown.”

Billy exhales the smoke he’s been holding in his mouth.  “Are we downtown?” 

You look around, recognizing the skyscrapers in the distance. "Yes," you point to the skyline to your right, figuring he simply wants to ask you for information so he knows where to go with his friends. "It's over there."

“Sweet. You hungry?” 

The silence that passes between the two of you makes him turn toward you, waiting for your response. So you rush to answer, ignoring the way his piercing blue eyes make you feel self-conscious.

“Yes. Yes, a little bit,” then you ask him, unsure: “...are you?”

“Starving.” he resumes walking down the stairs again, and you follow him, trying to figure out if he really means what you think he means. Some classmates are already leaving in different directions. “You know someplace to eat?” 

“I do. But I don’t have enough. In case you want to go together. If that’s what you were offering.” You add, mentally slapping yourself. Why does everything you say have to come across as weird? Besides, you just admitted that you are practically out of money. “I can show you, though.”

Billy shakes his head, shifting in his leather jacket. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s on me.” 

“No, really, I can't let you do that," you insist, your voice tinged with concern. "I mean, I appreciate it, but I can't just let you pay for me."

Billy turns to you, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he exhales the smoke sideways. "Come on, it's no big deal," he reassures you. "Consider it my way of saying thanks for showing me around. Besides, it's not like I'm short on cash."

You hesitate for a moment. But ultimately, you know that accepting his offer would ease the burden on your wallet. With a resigned sigh, you nod in agreement. "Okay, if you insist," you concede, offering him a small smile. "But just this once.”

You wanna immediately grimace at your pathetic implication that there would be another time, but Billy doesn’t seem to notice anyway.

He just winks at you. And even if he’s not smiling or anything, it still makes your stomach flip. "Deal," he says. "Now, lead the way."

As you walk beside each other through the park later on, you relish in what surrounds you, not even realizing the silence that has settled between the two of you because it feels so natural. Some people are jogging, there are some families too, or people walking alone headed who knows where. The birds are chirping in the trees that are alongside the walk. You spot a squirrel scurrying up the trunk of one of them, its fluffy tail waving wildly. The late afternoon sun is shining right in front of you, hitting your skin in a gentle caress. Spring is gradually unfurling its colors, bringing with it a glimmer of warmth that has been absent from your life lately. In the midst of the cold and desolation that settled in after your mother's departure, this glimpse of light offers a tentative promise of renewal, a small beacon of hope amid the darkness that has enveloped you and your father. You glance at Billy, realizing that in the short span of your conversation, he's frequently reached for a cigarette. Yet, even during the moments when he abstained, like in the museum and at the restaurant, his mouth was never empty. It was either occupied by a mint, a bite of burger, the straw of his milkshake, or eventually a toothpick found on the table. 

“So, uhm, have you been somewhere else besides San Diego or Hawkins?” you venture. 

“Nope”, he answers, the “p” resounding loudly. He looks around, one hand in his jacket pocket as the other one holds the cigarette on his side. “Never moved from Cali. I was born in Santa Barbara. Then moved to San Diego when I was ten.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “Is Santa Barbara close to the ocean?”

“It is. I’ve always lived by the ocean.” 

You turn to him, enthusiasm laced in your voice as you get carried away in the conversation. “So you know how to surf?” 

Billy chuckles, nodding as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “I do, yeah. Surfed every day.” 

“Wow.” you breathe, your mind wandering away. “It must be…like an adrenaline rush.”

As Billy exhales the smoke, you don’t miss the nostalgic glint flickering in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. "Yeah, it's something else. There's nothing quite like catching a wave, feeling the power of the ocean beneath you."

“I’ve heard it’s hard to learn.” you muse softly. 

The rhythmic sound of your footsteps punctuates the conversation. Billy stays silent for a few seconds, probably lost in his thoughts. Then he shrugs. “To be honest, I was on the surfboard since I was a child, so must’ve been natural for me. But yeah, it generally is.

“I can only imagine," you respond, a sense of longing in your voice. You’ve only seen this kind of landscape in pictures or on TV.  "Must have been amazing growing up with that kind of freedom."

Billy's sigh is loud as he exhales a plume of smoke, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. "It was. Surfing was my escape, you know? Whenever things got tough, I could just grab my board and disappear into the waves."

What he says lightens some curiosity in you. You wonder what he means by that. You wonder what he went through, what his past was like. There’s something really intriguing about him. But you refrain from asking more, aware of how little you know each other. Besides, you can’t help but notice the little twitch of his jaw muscles as he says it. 

"It’s always been books for me.” you offer. “They have this way of transporting you to another world, making you forget about everything else."

Billy nods in understanding. “What kinda books you read?”

“Oh,” you look at your shoes as you feel suddenly vulnerable. You almost feel ashamed of your taste in books, but you know you shouldn’t. “A bit of everything, really. I’m reading a Dostoevsky one right now.

“Dostoevsky, huh? Pretty heavy stuff.”

“You’ve read some of him before?

“I read Dream of a Ridiculous Man. A long time ago though.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, recalling how challenging it was to finish it when you read it a couple of months ago. Reading books by Dostoevsky, especially that one, has been both a cathartic and enlightening experience. They made you feel less alone in your pain. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda controversial.” he grimaces. “It’s a fucking depressing book. But... it's like... there's something about it that just... resonates, you know what I mean? Like, you read it and... it's like looking into a mirror, but... the reflection's all twisted and weird. I don't know if that makes any sense.” he shrugs. 

It couldn’t make more any sense to you. For the first time, you feel understood in that sense. It's a relief to know that you're not alone in finding meaning within its pages. His words resonate deeply with you. 

“I totally get it. That’s part of the reason why I like his books.” 

The subtle revelation hangs in the air with the rhythmic sound of your footsteps on the concrete path. You hope he’s not reflecting on your words too much, aware of what you’ve implied. Your own thoughts go on what he said. Why did Billy resonate so much with the book? What if there’s something everybody can relate to, even people who haven’t experienced anything bad in life?

“You?” he then asks. “Always been in Hawkins?”

“Born and raised.” you nod. Then you add, a bit sheepishly: “Nothing like California, unfortunately.” 

Billy snorts, flicking his cigarette. “What’s there to do in summer?”

“Oh uh. Nothing much. We have a public pool.” you offer, looking at him. 

Billy takes a drag, his eyes trailing on the path in front of both of you.

“We have Lover’s Lake too,” you add. “It’s quite nice, actually. People spend the day there and have barbecues or campfires.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that one,” he says. “You guys party by the lake during summer or something like that.” 

“Yes.” then you keep quiet for a few breaths, imagining he’s probably heard it from one of his friends from the basketball team. They’re usually to host parties or organize them. It always involves loads of alcohol and ends up in big scandals. You feel the urge to correct him. “Not me, though. I don’t, uh…I don’t party.” 

You feel his eyes on you. “Makes sense.”

You look up at him in question. 

“Didn’t see you at the Halloween party.”

“The one hosted by Tina Williams?” you soon look away as soon as you meet his gaze. “I didn’t know you…you noticed.”

“Would’ve sure as hell noticed if you were there.”

As Billy's words settle in, you feel a warmth spreading through you, starting from the tips of your ears and flushing your cheeks crimson. His simple compliment catches you off guard, igniting a whirlwind of emotions within you. You find yourself struggling to meet his gaze, your eyes flickering away as you search for some semblance of composure. None of this makes sense. The mere fact that he recognized your absence at the party, that he shared lunch with you, that he's now walking beside you in the park—it all feels inexplicable. You're accustomed to blending into the background, being an outcast in the bustling halls of the school. You're no stranger to the whispers that swirl around you, painting you as the outsider, the comments about your situation at home, the subtle jabs at your circumstances. The silence between you stretches, pregnant with unspoken thoughts. 

“You alright?” you hear him ask.

You slow down, lingering to a stop as you realize Billy has stopped walking too. He looks down at you with a hint of curiosity, the sun caressing his golden skin and reflecting in his eyes, becoming like polished, crystalline gems. That’s when you notice little details you haven’t paid attention to before. The scar cutting through his right eyebrow, the pattern of freckles dusting his nose. 

“I guess I’m just a little confused,” you admit. 

Billy exhales the smoke from his nostrils, his gaze effortlessly fixed intensely on you. “Why is that?”

“I just…” you try to not avoid his gaze. “Why are you here with me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement and what looks like genuine confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His question is so simple it takes you off guard. Makes you question your reasoning. As you’re at a loss for words, you feel a blush slowly creeping down your cheeks. 

Billy’s lips slowly curve into a smile, somewhat teasing. “You really have pretty eyes, you know that?”

You’re positively sure you’re as red as a lobster now, a little whine escaping your lips as embarrassment settles over you. It’s the most instinctual reaction. It makes him chuckle, and makes you awkwardly laugh in response, because what else can you do? He tilts his head to the side, trying to meet your avoiding eyes. 

“How about that? I’m here with you ‘cause of your pretty eyes”. 

“I really don’t think they’re that special.” you shake your head, still laughing. 

You’re not that innocent to not realise he’s openly flirting with you. You’re not surprised, because just looking at him is enough. You’ve also heard things about him and some girls at high school. What surprises you, is that he’s flirting with you. You don’t have that much experience in the love department, but there’s something sincere and genuine in the way he’s doing it now. There’s something soft in his eyes that tells you he’s sincere.

“Well, it’s a shame,” he says, that’s when you realise how much closer you are to each other. You can tell by how you can smell the tobacco and his cologne, his silver earring shining as it catches the sun. He tilts his head again, this time catching your gaze as you muster the courage to lock eyes with him. “’Cause you have beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you,” you mumble with a shy smile, nodding your head slightly. You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. 

You feel like you want to return the compliment because his eyes are the reason why your heart is reacting the way it does. But then again, you’re too shy to do that, and a tiny part of you thinks it would make things weird or would end up having you vulnerable because you don’t know for sure if his compliment is fueled by real interest in you. 

“I just don’t hang out with anyone, trust me.”

As a distant church bells toll four times, their echoes drifting across the park, a subtle reminder of the passing time washes over you both. The realization settles in that it’s time for you to go. You should be back in front of the museum in half an hour. 

Luckily, Billy saves you from answering as he breaks eye contact and looks up beyond your shoulder, where the church is. “We should go,” he says.

As you walk back to the museum, you think about his words. Now you realize that you didn’t see him hanging around Tommy Hagan lately. In particular, today on the bus, the latter was seated with his girlfriend and hung out with two other members of the basketball team. Billy was somewhere else the whole time.

When you two reach the museum, the teacher is already counting everyone to make sure the whole class is there. Billy joins his mates, elbowing one of them in a friendly gesture. You didn’t fail the notice the looks most of your classmates shot at you when he saw you two arrive together. The teacher draws the class's attention back to the trip, prompting feedback and reflections from everyone.

What you don’t expect either once on the bus, is feeling someone sitting on the empty seat next to yours. Billy gets comfortable, making it seem something so normal as he stretches his long legs as far as the cramped quarters allow. His thigh brushes against yours and your heart jumps a little in your ribcage, but a few minutes later you start to relax. You can’t help the feeling of warmth spreading through your chest as you take in his choice to sit deliberately next to you. You don’t need to fill the silence, or at least not as strongly as a few hours ago. You’re also quite tired. As you venture a glance in his direction, Billy’s eyes are closed. It seems you’re not the only one feeling tired. His arms are crossed over his chest but his facial features are totally relaxed now that he’s dozing off, his head resting against the seat. His hair seems soft at the touch, a curl falling unruly on his forehead. You feel the distant urge to wrap it around your finger, brush it from his face. There is a difference between now and when he’s fully awake: his expression softened, his gaze peaceful, and his features relaxed. It's a stark contrast from the demeanor you've observed from a distance, where his smile is more wolfish, his facial muscles tense, and his eyes often distant or bored. You force yourself to look away from him, setting your gaze on the window. As the rhythmic hum of the bus lulls you into a state of drowsiness, you feel your eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of the moment envelops you, and soon, you find yourself dozing off as well. 

Once you get off the bus, you wrap your arms around your waist as you shiver. The weather is distinctly different. It seems to have been raining all day. The sky is darkening. School buses cannot take you home because there is no bus stop near your house. Forest Hill Trailer Park is in the isolated part of Hawkins. There is no one from the high school living there, so you can't ask anyone for a ride. It's not like anyone would have offered anyway. You've always walked to and from school, in total it takes you forty minutes. As you start to walk away from the bus, you hear footsteps behind you and Billy is at your side, effortlessly catching up with you. You realize his car is parked a few steps away from you. The gleaming navy blue Camaro stands out among the other cars, ‘CALIFORNIA’ on the license plate.

You take the opportunity to thank him before he can dart away and you will probably never exchange another word again.

“Hey,” you start, turning to look at him. “I just wanted to thank you for paying at lunch today.”

Billy plays with the lighter, making it bounce in his hand. “It’s nothing. How are you getting home?”

“Oh, I’m walking.” you point your thumb at the road on your left.

“Come on. I’ll drive you.”

Your mouth opens and closes stupidly, then your brain finally decides to cooperate. Accepting his offer feels like taking advantage of his kindness. You don't want to do this. “I…it’s not a long walk, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s probably gonna rain soon.” he points at the sky, walking past you and toward the parked car.

“You don’t have to.” you insist, guilt filling my stomach as he opens the passenger door for you.

“I know.” he chuckles. 

The soft thrumming of a rock song fills the air, the bass pulsing gently as Billy lowers the volume as soon as he turns the engine on. The interior of the Camaro envelops you in a world that feels distinctly his. The smell of leather fills your senses, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne. It's clear that he takes immense pride in his car and the care and attention he devotes to it reflects on the interior. The leather seats feel soft and smooth. There's not a speck of dust anywhere, even in the corners. A pair of aviators rests on the dashboard. 

You give him directions, your voice cutting through the quiet ambiance of the car. He nods in acknowledgment, his gaze focused on the road ahead. His left arm casually drapes against the window, while his other hand firmly grasps the top of the steering wheel. 

“It’s quite a walk,” he observes as the Camaro speeds through the road surrounded by the woods. 

“Yeah…”

You’re thinking of asking him to stop before getting to Forest Hill, but it’s pouring and you don’t have an umbrella. As you get closer and closer, anxiety starts rippling through you. You shake the feeling out of your head. You’re being ridiculous, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. Additionally, you barely know him. You try and distract yourself, asking him about where he lives instead.

“Cherry Lane. You know where it is?” 

“Yes, it’s a nice and quiet area. It’s not that far from school either,” you observe.

Billy absently scratches his chin, the glint of a silver braided ring catching your eye. “Yeah. It’s quiet, that’s for sure.” 

You find yourself wondering about its significance. Does it have one? You've heard numerous accounts of Billy's involvement in fights at parties, tales of the severe injuries sustained by those who crossed him, and the ferocity of his punches. How many times has that ring been tainted with someone else's blood? Despite the rumors surrounding his aggressive behavior, your interactions with Billy have always been positive. He's consistently shown kindness to you.

Billy turns left, veering off the main road onto a narrow side road, the tires crunching on the gravelly dirt path that winds its way towards Forest Hills. The rain drums insistently against the car, a steady rhythm punctuating the silence between you.

The first trailer emerges into view, its weather-beaten exterior casting a shadow of foreboding over your already uneasy mind. Despite your discomfort, you muster the courage to speak up, directing Billy to continue driving until the end of the road.

You steal a furtive glance at him, searching for any hint of judgment in his expression, but Billy remains impassive. There's no trace of surprise or disdain in his features. His gaze lingers on the scene before you, studying it with a detached curiosity that seems to characterize his view of Hawkins as a whole.

“Thanks again for today, really. I wanna pay you back,” you venture as he slows down.

Billy waves a dismissive hand before settling it on the gear shift, smoothly transitioning into first gear. “I told you it’s no big deal. Wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

You worry at your lip, still not totally convinced. You glance at him. “I know that. But it doesn’t sound fair. It’s important to me.”

Billy's gaze shifts to the road ahead as he seemingly considers your words. "If you really wanna make it up to me," he starts, his voice trailing off for a moment before he continues, "How about you show me around Hawkins sometime?"

You blink, caught off guard by his suggestion. "Show you around Hawkins?"

"Yeah," he nods, resting his forearm loosely on the steering wheel as he gestures while he talks. "I've only been here a short while, and I don't really know my way around outside downtown yet. Like, all the places you talked to me about. The lake, the quarry."

The idea appeals to you, though the thought of spending more time with him outside of school never crossed your mind. The fact of spending time with him in the first place was out off the charts for you. "Sure, I could do that," you reply, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I mean, I'm not exactly a tour guide, but I could show you some cool spots. Whenever you want, uhm. Yeah.”

Billy reaches out to the compartment on the passenger side, brushing your knee with his arm. He opens it and extracts a pen. 

“Here,” he takes off the cap with his teeth, and before you know it he’s taking your arm, gently lifting your sweater sleeve. 

You try to look unfazed by his touch, though the feeling of his fingertips pressing gently against your skin as he holds your forearm, the sensation of the pen as he writes something on it makes you shiver, raising goosebumps. You look at him in silent confusion as he writes, his dark lashes brushing his cheekbones, a glimpse of pearly white teeth and a sharp canine as he holds the cap between them. Then he releases your arm, and you take a look at it while he takes the cap from his mouth. A series of numbers are written in blue ink on your skin. A phone number.

“Oh.” you say softly. You definitely haven’t expected that.

“Call me when you feel like it.” 

It’s really hard for you to hide your nervousness, acting as cool as you can.

“Okay, will do.” you unbuckle your belt, glancing at him enough to give him a soft smile.

Billy nods at you in silent farewell before you close the passenger door. “Have a good night”.

“You too. Bye.”

The warmth of Billy's presence lingers in the car as you step out into the cool, damp air, the raindrops falling softly around you. Closing the door behind you, you watch as the sleek navy blue Camaro disappears down the little road and into the woods from the small window of the living room. As you stand there, the drops of water falling from the end of your hair, you can't help but brush at the phone number on your forearm, tracing the neat handwriting with your fingertips. It's like you're still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. Though you're trying to keep it under control, you can't help the fluttering feeling in your heart.

[wvyik]

detention hearts and bubblegum lies ⋆˚࿔

teen! dean winchester x mean girl! reader

ʚɞ summary: you flirt like it’s a blood sport. he plays dirty right back. rumors swirl, tempers flare, and suddenly, the line between hate and want starts to blur.

ꕤ warnings: mdni! explicit content, porn with plot, unprotected sex, p in v, dirty talk, oral sex (both receiving), a touch of roughness, slight after care, rumors, light bullying if you flinch, soft moments, some comments might catch you off guard, super camp, loads of swearing.

MINISERIES MASTERLIST. NAVIGATION. PREVIOUS PART.

Mornings never feel soft when your brain’s been chewing itself alive all night.

The light creeps in through your blinds, pastel and warm, but you’re already awake, wide-eyed and wired from tossing and turning in your tangled sheets. Your body’s still heavy with leftover heat and guilt, the kind that makes your skin feel too tight and your thoughts too loud. You hate mornings like this. The kind where your stomach knots before your feet even hit the floor.

You bury your face into the pillow, trying to scream without making a sound. Why the fuck did you do that? Why did you let your mind go there—again and again—until you were breathless and ruined and whispering his name like a prayer?

You sigh, dragging yourself out of bed, ignoring the ache between your thighs and the ache in your chest that feels worse. It’s not just the guilt. It’s the fact that he’s in your head like he belongs there. Like he’s earned the right to haunt you. And that? That pisses you off more than anything.

The mirror doesn’t help. Your reflection stares back, a little too wild-eyed, a little too flushed. You swipe gloss across your lips, brush out your hair, throw on your jacket like armor. But none of it makes you feel any less exposed.

You were supposed to be untouchable. The mean girl. The girl who chewed boys up and spit them out. The girl who never got wrecked by a look, a voice, a fucking smirk. And now? You can barely look at yourself without remembering the way your body begged for someone who doesn’t even know your name.

You slam your locker shut in your head. No. Today, you’re getting your shit together.

Amber texts you three times in a row,

You ignore them.

You don’t want company this morning. Not Amber. Not anyone. You need a walk. You need the cold air in your lungs and your boots on the pavement. So you throw on your headphones, Christina Aguilera echoing in your ears, and start the long walk to school. Alone.

The neighborhood is quiet, soft pink skies stretching overhead like cotton candy and sin. Everything looks so peaceful it makes you sick. Because inside, your head is a fucking storm. You keep picturing him—how he leaned back in that classroom chair like he owned the world, how he bit his lip when you started yelling at him, like he liked it. Like he wanted more.

You shiver at the memory, heat and shame crashing over you like a wave. You feel disgusting. Desperate. But you can’t stop. You want him to ruin you, and that’s the part that’s killing you. You’ve always been the one in control.

But with Dean, you’re slipping. Fast.

Your shoes click against the sidewalk as you get closer to school, every step feeling heavier than the last. You’re walking into that building like a girl possessed, a girl who knows that once she sees him again, all her walls might fucking collapse.

And part of you wants them to.

The second you step into the school building, you feel it.

That shift in the air. That low hum under your skin. Like the universe just clocked in for another round of messing with your head. You don’t even get five steps past the front doors before you see him—leaning against the lockers like some goddamn Calvin Klein ad, all denim and leather and that stupid crooked smile that has no right to look that good this early in the morning.

Dean Winchester. Right there. Smirking like he knows.

Your stomach flips, and it pisses you off. Because you’re not some dumb girl who gets flustered over a boy. Not anymore. Not ever. Except… apparently now you are.

You slow your walk, like you’re not even acknowledging him, like your whole body didn’t clench at the sight of him. But of course, the second your eyes drift—just a peek—he catches you. His gaze locks with yours like a fucking magnet, and it’s hot. Not warm, not cute. Hot. Like burn-your-skin, melt-your-insides, take-me-to-hell-and-leave-me-there hot.

“Morning, Princess,” he says, that voice of his deep and dripping with sarcasm. Like he’s got a secret. Like he is your secret.

You stop walking. You stare. He has the audacity to look you up and down like you’re some toy he’s already half-unwrapped.

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins. “Didn’t hear you complain yesterday when you were all over me.”

You blink. Hard. Excuse me?! Your jaw drops a little, because who the fuck does he think he is?

“I was not all over you,” you snap, already hearing the bitchy tone in your voice but unable to stop it. “If anything, I was seconds away from shoving your head through a fucking desk.”

Dean shrugs, like that only proves his point. “Yeah. Thought you might be into that.”

You swear the hallway tilts a little, your brain doing somersaults trying to keep up with the filth that just came out of his mouth. You don’t even have a comeback. You’re too busy imagining that goddamn smirk between your thighs.

You storm off without another word, but you feel his eyes on you. Burning into the back of your legs like he’s undressing you with his mind. And the worst part? You like it.

Class is a blur. You’re at your desk, pen in your hand, but your brain? MIA. Gone. Checked out the second Dean opened his mouth. Everything the teacher says sounds like white noise. Your eyes keep drifting to the side of the room where he sits, sprawled out, lazy and smug, spinning his pen between his fingers like he’s got nothing better to do.

Your thighs clench under the desk.

This is bad. This is so, so bad. You’re supposed to be thinking about, like, Shakespeare or whatever the fuck this lesson is. Instead, you’re mentally cataloguing all the things his hands could be doing to you under the desk.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe. You’re going insane. He’s just a guy. A hot one. With pretty eyes. And a dirty mouth. And arms that look way too good in that jacket—

“Miss Y/L/N?” the teacher calls.

You snap back to reality like someone dumped cold water on your head. “What?” you say way too loud, flushing instantly as a few students snicker.

The teacher frowns. “I asked what the author meant by dramatic irony.”

You’re already on edge, already vibrating with tension from Dean fucking Winchester being a walking wet dream three desks away—and she’s really gonna try you today?

“Miss Y/L/N,” she says again, voice sharp like she’s been waiting to catch you slipping. “Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming and more time listening, you’d understand the material.”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not today.

You slam your pen down on the desk, the snap echoing through the room. “Or maybe if you taught something worth listening to, I wouldn’t be mentally planning my own funeral just to get out of here.”

The room goes dead silent.

Dean lets out this low whistle under his breath, like he’s impressed. A little too impressed. And the way you can feel his grin without even looking at him?

You’re gonna combust.

The teacher’s jaw clenches. “That’s it. Detention. After school. You can explain your attitude to the principal then.”

You smile—smirk, really—as you sit back in your chair like the smug little menace you are. “Looking forward to it.”

Dean hums from his seat, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Well, shit, if I knew detention came with front row seats to that mouth, I would’ve signed up earlier.”

The class collectively gasps. You turn, eyes wide, mouth half-open. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Excuse me, Mr. Winchester?” the teacher snaps.

Dean just grins. “What? I was agreeing. She makes a compelling argument.”

“That’s detention for you, too,” she barks.

He throws his arms up like, whoops, but he’s smiling like the devil. “Guess I’ll keep her company.” You want to strangle him. You also want to straddle him. It’s a confusing time.

The rest of class drags like hell. You don’t dare look at him again. But you feel it; every time he glances over, every time his leg shifts, every goddamn second he’s not saying something, he’s still thinking it. You’re both in trouble now. Literally and metaphorically.

You can already see it: the dusty little classroom at the end of the hall, two desks shoved together, and way too many unspoken things hanging in the air.

He wants to push your buttons. You want to push him against a wall.

And you’ve still got five periods left before the storm hits.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hallway before you hear it.

The whispers. The not-so-subtle glances. The giggles behind hands, the raised brows, the way some sophomore you don’t even know smirks when you walk past like he’s in on something you’re not.

It hits like a slap. Sudden, sharp, and ugly.

“Did you hear? Apparently she and the new guy were screaming at each other in class and now they’re in detention together. Like, full-on lovers’ quarrel vibes.”

“She probably fucked him behind the bleachers already. Classic Y/N.”

“She wants his dick so bad it’s embarrassing.”

You don’t even stop walking. You don’t blink. You just keep going, chin high, lips pressed tight, because if you stop now, you’ll lose it. And you are not letting this stupid fucking school see you break. Not over him. Not over this.

But then, you see him.

Right by the vending machines, calm as ever, leaning against the wall like he’s got no idea the world is spiraling because of him. And next to him? Some lanky kid in a hoodie, awkward posture, floppy hair.

Dean says something. The kid laughs.

You stop. Stare.

It clicks in your head in the wrong way, and without even thinking, you march right up, voice like venom laced with lip gloss. “Well. This makes sense. You’re gay and a pedophile. Real two-for-one special, huh?”

The hallway goes silent. Dean turns his head. Slowly. Like he knows he’s about to devour you alive.

He blinks. Then lets out a bark of laughter, genuine and loud and full of disbelief. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart—”

You cut him off, finger in his face. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. You’ve been here for, what, a week? And suddenly I’m the punchline of the whole fucking school because you can’t keep your mouth shut?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, pushing off the wall, full height now, and it’s fucking intimidating the way he towers but still looks amused. “Right. Because I totally begged everyone to spread rumors about how much you want me.”

You flush. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you do,” he says, voice low, biting, laced with cocky heat. “You want me so bad it’s turning into a goddamn public service announcement.”

“Who’s this?” you ask, motioning to the poor kid still standing there like a deer in headlights.

Dean steps back, throws an arm casually around the boy’s shoulders. “This is Sam. My brother. He’s a freshman. Calm the fuck down, Cruella.”

Oh.

You look at Sam again, properly this time, and yeah— now that you’re not blinded by rage and pettiness, the resemblance is obvious. The eyes. The mouth. Same dimples, just more baby-faced.

Fuck.

Sam gives a tiny wave, unsure. “Hi…”

You exhale through your nose. “Hi.”

Dean leans in, low voice near your ear. “You done making an ass outta yourself? Or do you wanna accuse me of banging the janitor next?”

You glare up at him. “Only if you stop grinding your jaw like that every time you talk to me. You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t know your type?”

Dean smiles. Not nice. Not kind. Just hungry. “Sweetheart, I am your type.”

You spin on your heel and walk away like your knees aren’t seconds from giving out.

And if you hear Sam whisper, “Is she okay?” behind you, you pretend you didn’t. You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’ll see him still watching you. Still smirking. Still winning. And you’re not ready to admit how badly you want him to win.

You barely make it two feet out of the science wing before a sharp tug yanks you off course and into a side hallway with the subtlety of a car crash. You’re still mid-whiplash when you hear her.

“There you are, slut!”

Amber is standing in front of you, arms crossed over her pink cropped hoodie, one eyebrow raised so high it practically touches her hairline. Her ponytail is swinging like it’s got its own attitude, and she looks like she’s about five seconds from flipping a desk over for dramatic effect.

“I know, Amber, I—”

“I’ve been looking for you since second period, bitch,” she says, marching right up to you like you owe her rent. “What the fuck is going on? The entire school is lit up like a goddamn wildfire and you’re out here doing your best sad indie movie walk in slow motion like you’re not the reason half the school wants to know if Dean Winchester is circumcised.”

You blink. “What?”

Amber throws her hands up. “Okay, first of all—don’t play dumb. Second of all, what the hell was that today? You vanished after third period, and then I hear from Rachel Fucking Tran that you and New Boy had a public screaming match in class, got detention, and now people are betting money on whether you’re gonna bang in the janitor’s closet or the art room.”

You open your mouth, and nothing comes out.

She narrows her eyes. “Y/N. Don’t tell me you actually like him.”

“I don’t,” you lie, instantly and badly.

Amber snorts. “You do. Oh my God, you do. I knew it. I knew it the second you got all glassy-eyed at the vending machine when he said ‘fuck’ under his breath. You looked like you were about to combust.”

“I’m combusting now,” you snap, cheeks on fire. “The entire school thinks I’m on his dick already and I haven’t even looked at it. Except for that one time in class when he stretched and his shirt lifted and I saw—”

“Saw what?” she hisses, eyes wide with excitement.

“Nothing,” you say, walking faster.

Amber follows, clutching her iced coffee like it’s holy water. “No no no. Don’t you dare blueball me like that, bestie. We’re in this shit together now. First of all, what the fuck was that just now?”

You groan. “I thought his freshman brother was a boyfriend.”

Amber stops walking. Just stops. Then shrieks—literally shrieks—before bursting into the loudest, most chaotic laugh you’ve ever heard. People look. You don’t care. “Oh my God, you’re the dumbest hot person I’ve ever met,” she gasps between wheezes. “Like, genuinely, there should be a plaque.”

“I was upset! And I panicked! And I’m already spiraling, and he’s always smirking at me, and I can’t even think straight when he’s around, and now I look like a complete psycho—”

Amber claps her hand over your mouth. “First of all, you’ve always looked like a psycho. Second, that boy? That boy is definitely into it.”

You blink at her.

“He likes you, Y/N. I’ve been watching him. He looks at you like you’re a dare. Like he wants to lose. And if he’s still flirting after you publicly accused him of being a sex criminal? He’s down bad. Like, bend-over-the-sink bad.”

Your face is burning. You want to die. You want to scream. Instead, you just mutter, “I hate you so much.”

Amber loops her arm through yours. “You’re welcome, bitch.”

And together, you strut down the hallway, heels clicking in sync, the whole world watching.

Let them talk.

You’re about to give them something worth talking about.

Rest of your classes went normal to be fair. The bell rings and the halls clear out like someone yelled fire. You don’t move.

You stay standing in the shadow of your locker, eyes fixed on the dusty tile floor while your fingers tug at the hem of your miniskirt. Everyone else is racing out the doors, grabbing snacks, heading to cheer practice or straight to Sonic with their boyfriends, and you? You’re stuck in a goddamn after school detention with the one boy on Earth who manages to short-circuit your entire frontal lobe just by existing. Just by smirking. Just by breathing too confidently.

You finally drag yourself toward Room 117, the “detention zone” where they dump all the high school’s most dramatic delinquents and expect them not to set the place on fire. You walk in, and instantly want to walk back out.

It smells like pencil shavings, BO, and stale Cheetos.

The desks are all that ugly ‘70s beige, metal legs crooked and squeaky. There’s a group of football players in the back already doing that annoying half-laugh that boys with low GPAs think is hot. Some girl with bright red hair is chewing gum so loud it could be classified as a hate crime. And sitting dead center, legs sprawled out like he owns the place?

Dean. Fucking. Winchester.

Black leather jacket still on. Boots kicked up on the chair in front of him. His arms are crossed behind his head like he’s reclining on a goddamn beach towel instead of sitting in detention. His hair’s messy like he ran his hands through it a hundred times. His mouth quirks up the second his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Princess,” he says.

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly exit your body.

You pick the desk furthest from him, near the window. You’re not gonna give him the satisfaction of sitting close, of looking desperate, of caring. You don’t even know him. You’ve known him, what, two days? Not even a full school week. You’ve never had a real conversation that didn’t end in you both insulting each other or him saying something gross and cocky that makes your legs weak.

So why the hell do you feel like he’s been living in your head since the minute he showed up?

You bite your lip, pissed at yourself. This is stupid. You don’t do this. You don’t spiral over boys. You’re the one who leaves boys spiraling.

The door swings open and Principal Cartwright walks in, clipboard in hand, glasses low on his nose like he’s already had enough of everyone’s shit. Which, honestly? Fair.

“Alright, miscreants,” he sighs, standing at the front of the room. “You know why you’re here. You’ve either mouthed off, skipped class, or, in some cases—” he looks dead at you and Dean “completely disrupted the entire learning process for everyone else. Congrats.”

You blink innocently. Dean doesn’t even pretend.

Cartwright continues, droning on. “You’ll be here for three hours. No phones, no talking, no sleeping. Do homework, read something, reflect on your life choices, whatever makes you less of a problem. If I hear a peep, you’ll be here again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Clear?”

Someone coughs.

“Good,” he snaps, then slams the door shut behind him. Silence falls. The worst kind, awkward and loud and suffocating. You cross your legs. You smooth your skirt. You try so hard not to look at Dean. You fail.

He’s already looking at you. Of course he is.

He tilts his head. Mouth twitching like he’s dying to say something. You shoot him a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Something on your mind, Pretty Girl?” he mutters, voice just low enough for you to hear.

You glare. “Yeah. Wondering how a guy I’ve known for two damn days is already ruining my entire mental state.”

Dean grins, slow and cocky. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Shut up.”

He shrugs. “Just saying. You’ve been looking at me like you wanna kill me or kiss me since first period yesterday.”

You’re gonna scream. Or combust. Or both.

You turn away, digging your nails into the desk. The window’s reflecting the afternoon sun and the entire world looks like it’s mocking you. Outside, there’s freedom. Inside, there’s Dean. And the worst part? A tiny, evil little piece of you would rather be trapped in here with him than anywhere else.

God. You’re so fucked.

You’re ten minutes into detention and already fantasizing about murder. Not just murder, creative murder. Like stabbing someone with a sharpened eyeliner pencil. Or bludgeoning Dean Winchester with your Lisa Frank binder.

The room is quiet, except for the tap-tap-tap of a pencil and the occasional chair squeak. You hate it. You hate this room. You hate the air. You hate the way Dean keeps looking at you, like he’s trying to undress you with his brain, and you’re pissed because.. it’s working.

You turn to him sharply. “What are we doing about that stupid-ass English project, by the way?”

Dean doesn’t even glance up. “Nothing.”

Your jaw drops. “Nothing?”

He shrugs. “I don’t give a fuck. You can fail me. Won’t be the first time.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, throwing your head back dramatically. “I’m not gonna do this. I’m not gonna tank my grade because you’re a lazy piece of shit with a nice face.”

Dean finally looks up, smirking. “You think my face is nice?”

You blink. “I said what I said. Doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Didn’t say you did,” he replies casually. “But it is fun hearing you compliment me between insults. Gives me whiplash.”

You slam your folder shut. “Nope. I’m done. I’m bullying some freshman into doing this for me.”

Dean snorts. “What, you gonna threaten them with your gloss budget?”

You lean in close, eyes sharp. “No, I’m gonna stand over their desk in a tiny skirt and say please.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. His eyes flick down, then back up. You see it. You feel it. He wants to say something dirty, something that’d get both of you kicked out and straight into the counselor’s office. And god, you kinda want him to.

But before either of you can open your mouths, the back of the room erupts in chaos.

“Dude, that’s MY charger!”

“No it’s not, I brought this from home!”

“Swear to God if you touch my backpack again I’ll shove your face into a locker!”

You whip around just in time to see two guys, one of the football players and some artsy-looking kid with smudged eyeliner—jump to their feet. They’re nose to nose, arms flailing, both red in the face and yelling like toddlers who missed nap time.

Dean whistles low under his breath. “Didn’t think I’d get dinner and a show today.”

You fold your arms, amused. “Boys are so dramatic.”

He leans toward you, real low, voice like warm sin. “Only when they’re not getting what they want.”

You inhale sharply. He’s close. Too close. His mouth is right there. And for a second—just a split second—you picture dropping your pen, leaning in, licking the taste of rebellion right off his tongue.

Instead, you scoff. “Save the flirting for someone who doesn’t fantasize about punching you in the dick.”

Dean chuckles, low and dangerous. “Might like that.”

You throw a pencil at him. He catches it mid-air. God. You hate him. You hate him, you hate that stupid project, you hate the tension that’s turning your thighs to jello every time he breathes.

You pull your lip between your teeth and look away before you do something stupid. Like kiss him. Or scream. Or both. The yelling in the back gets louder. Someone knocks over a desk.

Cartwright storms back in five seconds later, yelling something about suspensions and “absolute clowns” and how he’s “one caffeine crash away from quitting this job.” You lean your cheek on your hand and sigh.

The clock on the wall hasn’t moved in eight years. Or maybe it has, but that’s how it feels. The air in the detention room is stale, like all the drama sucked the oxygen right out of it. Someone in the back is whispering too loud, someone else is texting under the desk like the teacher can’t see, and you? You’re sitting there with your cheek in your hand, nails tapping your bottom lip, trying so hard not to look at Dean Winchester.

Which, unfortunately, makes you think about him more. The way he leans back in his chair like it’s a damn throne. The stupid little curve in his smile like he’s always two seconds from ruining your life. You catch yourself wondering what his hoodie smells like and immediately want to slap yourself.

You’re deep in that spiral when he leans toward you, voice low, like he’s offering you a cigarette behind a church. “Wanna run away from here?”

You blink. “What?”

“Like—right now,” he says, nodding toward the door like it’s a portal to freedom. “We sneak out the back, ditch this whole detention hellscape, and just… disappear for a while.”

You raise a brow. “Disappear where? The cafeteria?”

Dean shrugs, that half-smile on his face again. “Anywhere’s better than this. We could hop a fence. Steal a car.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but you’re bored. I can see it in your face.”

You open your mouth to shoot something back, but pause. Because he’s not wrong. You’re so bored. And frustrated. And tired of pretending to care about school rules and seating charts and “appropriate behavior.” You’re tired of the mean-girl mask you’ve got glued to your face 24/7. Tired of carrying the weight of being untouchable, unbothered, unbreakable.

You tilt your head and look at him. Really look at him. “What’s your deal, anyway?”

Dean blinks. “My deal?”

“Yeah,” you say, chewing your pen cap. “You’re the new guy, but you act like you own the place. You’re charming, but in a punchable way. You don’t care about anything, but I’ve seen you actually listen in class.”

He looks amused. “You been watching me?”

You scoff, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But you have. And now he knows it.

Dean shrugs like he’s peeling himself open just a crack. “We move around a lot. It’s easier not to care.”

You go quiet for a second. There’s a moment—brief, but heavy—where you both just sit in it. The reality. The weird ache of not belonging. Of feeling like you’re always performing, always one misstep from falling off your little throne.

You sigh, glancing back toward the door. “If I get caught sneaking out of detention, I’ll get suspended. My mom will kill me.”

He grins. “Then we better not get caught.”

You bite your lip to stop the smile threatening to break through. You hate that he’s getting under your skin like this. Hate how much you want to say yes.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re really bad news.”

Dean leans closer, eyes dancing. “And you really like bad news.”

You shake your head, but the way your heart’s hammering? Yeah. He might be right. And when the teacher leaves the room again for “five minutes only,” you don’t even pretend not to look at the door.

You’re pacing in your chair like your body’s buzzing with static electricity, legs bouncing, lip bitten raw. You don’t sneak out of detention. You don’t sneak out of anything. You’re a queen bee—watched, judged, talked about. If someone saw you crawling out the window with a delinquent boy you’ve known for two days? That’s your entire empire down in flames.

So why are you standing now?

Why is Dean whispering, “Come on, come on,” as he slips behind a row of dusty lockers like he’s done this a million times? Why is your heart pounding like you’re about to commit an actual felony?

You follow him. Of course you do. You tiptoe after his broad, smug silhouette, heels soft against the linoleum, breath caught in your throat like it’s terrified to be exhaled. Your hands are shaking a little. Not because you’re scared.

Because you’ve never felt this alive in your life.

You’re halfway down the back hallway, eyes darting like you’re in a damn spy movie, when a door swings open—slam. You both freeze, ducking so fast you nearly eat shit on the floor. Dean catches your wrist and pulls you down behind a vending machine just in time, your breath hot and fast against his hoodie.

You’re pressed so close to him it’s dizzying. His hand’s still wrapped around your wrist. His chest rises and falls like he’s winded from a sprint. You feel his eyes on you before you even dare to look up.

“Fuck,” you whisper, the word barely air. “We’re so getting expelled.”

Dean leans in, smirking. “Worth it.”

You glare at him, but your stomach does flips. Like actual cheer stunts. Full toss. Pom-poms and glitter included.

Once the footsteps fade, he tugs you along again, down one more hallway, then through a door that creaks like a horror movie. You both flinch, bolt through it, and boom—you’re outside. Sunlight hits your face like a slap. Fresh air rushes your lungs.

You stand there, stunned. Dean slams the door shut behind you. You both just stare at each other for a second.

Then you start laughing. That uncontrollable, I-can’t-breathe, adrenaline-laced kind of laugh. Your hand clutches your stomach, head thrown back, joy pouring out of you like a shaken soda can finally opened.

Dean laughs too—deeper, louder. And the sound of it? It’s unfairly hot.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, catching your breath. “We actually did it.”

He grins like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day. “Told you I was a bad influence.”

You glance over at him, really look this time. His hair’s all messy from the wind, his cheeks flushed from running. His smile is wide, real, soft. For a second, the cocky smirk is gone—and in its place is someone… almost boyish.

And just like that, something in your chest shifts.

You don’t just wanna kiss him to shut him up anymore.

You kinda wanna know what songs he listens to when he’s sad. What his bedroom looks like. If he’s ever had his heart broken. If he’d look at you the same way with no one around.

The realization slams into you like a truck—and you blink it away fast, swallowing hard. Dean nudges you with his elbow. “What now, princess?”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “I have no idea.”

But you do.

You wanna keep running.

As long as it’s with him.

It doesn’t take long to decide where to go. He jangles his keys in that smug, I’m-too-cool-for-this-school way, and of course he’s got a car. Of course it’s not just a car, it’s a classic. Sleek black, shining even under the clouds, with leather seats that creak when you slide into the passenger side.

“You serious?” you blink at it. “You drive a whole-ass movie car.”

Dean just grins, starts the engine, and the rumble of it vibrates through the seat and up your spine. “She’s my baby,” he says, patting the wheel. “Name’s Baby.”

You snort. “You named your car?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

You are, but you’re not about to say it out loud.

He drives a few blocks away, parks under a huge oak tree by the edge of an empty park, and just… leaves the engine running. You both sit there, the air thick and still, the radio playing something low and classic that doesn’t match the heat building between you.

And for a second, there’s silence.

Until you blurt it out— because you’re you, and you’d rather burn the world down than let feelings sneak up on you. “So…” you start, legs crossed, arms folded. “Do you just wanna fuck me or what?”

Dean’s head jerks toward you so fast it’s comical.

You raise a brow. “I mean, be honest. That’s what this is, right? You flirt, I roll my eyes, we argue in class, and then eventually you’re trying to hook up with me behind the gym or whatever. Just say it.”

He leans back in his seat, face unreadable now. The smirk’s gone. The game’s paused.

“Wow,” he says quietly. “Is that really what you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Isn’t it?”

Dean rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. I do think about you. Like, a lot. I’ve thought about your mouth more times than I should admit out loud.”

Your face heats instantly, but he’s not done.

“But I also noticed how you bite your lip when you’re bored. And how you let your friends talk over you even when you’ve got something better to say. And how you look around the hallway like you’re always waiting for someone to prove you don’t have it all figured out.”

You stare at him. Heart hammering.

“I don’t just wanna fuck you,” Dean says, finally turning to face you. “I wanna know you.”

“No one really tries with me,” you admit, voice low, barely there. “They just see the bitchy popular girl and decide I’m not worth the time. Or they try to use me for status. Or sex.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I see a girl who’s always surrounded but somehow still alone.”

That silence after? It’s deafening.

You look away fast, blinking out the sting in your eyes, and he doesn’t push. He just lets it sit there in the space between you. Real. Heavy. Gentle.

You laugh a little to break it. “That was way too deep for a parked car convo.”

Dean smirks. “Hey. We’re both hot, but we’ve got layers. Like sexy onions.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, hand to your mouth. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Guilty,” he grins. “But now you’re smiling, so…”

You shift in your seat, suddenly all too aware of how close he is. Your thighs are crossed tightly, fingers playing with the hem of your skirt like it’s gonna give you answers. But it doesn’t. He does.

And for some reason, that makes it scarier.

“I wanna get to know you too,” you say, quieter than intended. It slips out before you can dress it up in sarcasm or a joke. Raw. Unfiltered.

Dean blinks. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying to decide whether to grin or feel something.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods slowly—like that meant more to him than you even realize. You look down at your lap. “I don’t really… do that. The whole let people in thing.”

He shrugs, resting his hand near yours on the center console, close enough to feel the heat. “Me either. Every time I do, it fucks me over.”

You glance sideways. “Someone hurt you?”

His jaw clenches for a second. “Yeah. Bunch of someones, actually. Mom died when I was a kid. Dad’s a ghost half the time. And Sam… well, he’s the only one who gets me, but even he’s got his own shit.”

You tilt your head. “Sam? That kid from earlier?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah. He’s my little brother. Not my secret lover, despite what you seem to think.”

You burst out laughing, head thrown back against the seat. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I actually said that.”

“It was bold,” he smirks, watching you with that glint in his eye again. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks are warm, your stomach flipping like crazy. “I thought I had you all figured out,” you admit. “New guy. Hot. Cocky. Full of himself. Probably has a graveyard of exes.”

He leans back, casual as hell. “You weren’t totally wrong.”

You scoff. “But you’re also… different. You’re not scared to see through people.”

He nods, suddenly serious again. “Yeah. And I see through you.”

His voice is soft but it cuts deep,

“I see a girl who acts like nothing gets to her, but the second people stop looking, she falls apart. I see someone who craves love but doesn’t trust it. Someone who would rather be feared than hurt again.”

You blink fast, your throat tight. No one’s ever said that to you. No one’s ever looked at you like this. Not like a trophy. Not like an enemy. Just… like a girl.

“Why me?” you whisper. “Why do you even care?”

Dean shrugs, leaning a little closer now. “Because when you looked at me in that classroom, when you talked all that shit—you didn’t back down. And not because you wanted attention. Because you wanted control. And I get that. I live that.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The green eyes. The calloused hands. The mouth that’s been smirking since day one but isn’t now. Not anymore.

He’s being honest. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just being.

“You scare the shit out of me,” you say softly.

“Good,” he smirks again, but there’s no venom in it. “You scare the shit out of me too.”

For a second, all you hear is your breathing, the engine’s low hum, and some old rock song humming in the background. And then, before the moment can spiral into something too real, he nudges your knee with his.

“So,” he says, “how do you feel about skipping detention again tomorrow?”

You laugh, head tilting back. “Oh, you’re terrible.”

“I’m fun,” he corrects, grinning.

You end up at this little roadside diner with flickering neon lights and a menu that hasn’t changed since 1983. Dean swears by the burgers, and you’re starving enough to trust him. You both sit in the Impala, legs pulled up onto the seats, sharing fries from the same paper tray like you’ve done this a hundred times.

“You eat like this all the time?” you ask, chewing a bite of grilled cheese like it’s gourmet.

“Hell yeah,” he says, licking ketchup off his thumb. “No offense to fine dining, but you can’t beat fries at 10PM in a parking lot with a girl in a mini skirt.”

You smirk, raising an eyebrow. “So I’m just a vibe to you?”

He grins. “No, you’re the vibe.”

Your eyes roll but your lips tug upward anyway. There’s something so easy about this. Sitting there, messy hair and faded headlights, no cliques or whispers or expectations pressing on your chest. Just air. Just you and Dean and a half-eaten cheeseburger.

He cranks down the windows, and the night breeze rolls in like something cinematic. Crickets chirping. Distant hum of cars. The sky stretching wide and dark overhead.

“C’mon,” he says suddenly, grabbing the brown paper bag and hopping out. “You trust me?”

You hesitate. “That’s a loaded question.”

He smirks, tossing his keys in the air. “Live a little, princess.”

You groan but follow, climbing onto the hood of the Impala. The metal’s warm beneath your thighs, and Dean flops down beside you like he belongs there. Which he kinda does.

“You ever just stare at the stars?” he asks.

You look up. “Not really. Too busy looking down at people.”

He laughs. “Of course you’d say that.”

You nudge his arm with your shoulder. “What about you? You stargaze often or just when you’re trying to get laid?”

He turns his head, looking at you instead of the sky. “I like to think they’re the only thing that doesn’t lie. You look up and it’s always real. Nobody pretending.”

You blink. “Damn. That was deep for a guy who moaned over chili cheese fries five minutes ago.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m full of surprises.”

There’s a silence that falls between you, not awkward—just quiet. Safe. So you break it.

“I meant what i said when i told you i never let anyone see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Unfiltered. Unbothered. Without the fake smile and the ‘you wish you were me’ attitude.”

Dean turns toward you again. “I like this version.”

You snort. “You like the version that’s tired and full of grilled cheese?”

“I like the version that’s real.”

Your stomach twists. In a good way. In a fuck, don’t fall for him way.

“So,” he says after a moment, “what’s your deal? Why all the attitude? Why rule the school like it’s Mean Girls?”

You shrug, staring up at the stars again. “People don’t mess with you when you’re on top. They don’t ask questions. They don’t get close enough to break anything.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. That sounds familiar.”

You glance over. “Now, elaborate more on what’s your deal?”

He sighs. “Like i said, moved a lot. Dad’s a mess. Raised Sammy like he was mine. Learned early on that charming people was easier than trusting them.”

You whisper, “Same.”

He looks at you—really looks. “And now we’re two fucked-up kids staring at the stars in a nowhere town.”

You smile. “Kinda poetic.”

Dean reaches into the bag and pulls out the last fry, holds it out to you. You take it.

“It’s weird,” you murmur. “I’ve known you for two days, and you already know me better than most of my friends.”

“Maybe that says something about your friends.”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Maybe it does.” The wind blows your hair across your face and he reaches out to tuck it behind your ear. His fingers graze your cheek.

Neither of you says anything.

You’re not kissing yet, but the air’s heavy with it. Like the next move could change everything. “Wanna stay out here a little longer?” he asks, voice lower now.

You look at him, and you don’t have to fake the smile this time. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

You stay on the hood of the Impala for a while, legs stretched, heads tilted toward the stars, the kind of silence that doesn’t demand anything from you. No clever lines. No performance. Just breathing in sync like you’ve known each other longer than a few days.

Eventually, he shifts. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You nod, smiling. “Only if you let me pick the music.”

Dean gives you a scandalized look as he hops down. “This is a classic car, sweetheart. There are rules.”

But five minutes later, you’re in the passenger seat, feet tucked under you, windows down, and the tape you snuck from your purse is sliding into the deck. You smirk as the crackle of Led Zeppelin fills the car.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” you say.

Dean looks at you sideways, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You better know the words.”

And you do.

Oh, you do.

By the second verse of Going to California, you’re singing along—quiet at first, like you don’t want to ruin it—but then the windows are open and you’re yelling the lyrics into the wind like you’re the main character of a movie nobody’s seen yet. Your voice is soft and a little scratchy from the cold air, and Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel every time you hit the notes just right.

He glances over and for a second he’s completely thrown.

Who are you?

All pink gloss and sharp edges at school, but now? You’re barefoot, hair whipping around your face, eyes closed, singing a song that most girls your age probably haven’t even heard. And you mean it. You feel it. It’s like you were born in a different decade, one where road trips fixed things and love was written in mixtapes and motel rooms.

Dean’s heart lurches and it pisses him off a little. She’s trouble, he thinks. And not the kind you walk away from.

You open your eyes mid-verse and catch him looking, and you grin, real slow. “Don’t fall in love with me, Winchester.”

He snorts, looking back at the road, jaw clenched.

Too late.

He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he turns the volume up and lets you sing the rest, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel while pretending not to memorize the way your lips move.

When the song fades out, you lean back in your seat and sigh like your heart’s full. “You’ve got good taste,” Dean mutters.

You smirk. “You’re welcome.”

He glances at you again. “So… what else don’t I know about you?”

And just like that, the night stretches out again, full of questions, soft laughter, and neon-lit nothingness. No school, no rumors, no rules. Just a boy and a girl in a car that feels like the only place in the world that matters right now.

And neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing,

Shit. I’m screwed.

The ride back to your place is quiet, but not awkward quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels heavy in your chest, like the car is filled with all the things neither of you are saying. His hand’s on the wheel, your cheek’s against the cool window glass, and your heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing that it never does for anyone.

You roll your eyes at yourself. God, you hate this. You hate feelings.

When he pulls up outside your house, the porch light is off like always, and you don’t even hesitate before saying it. “Hey.” Your voice comes out softer than you expect. “You wanna… stay over?”

Dean shifts in his seat, one eyebrow cocking. “Stay over, huh?”

You shrug, trying to act casual. “My mom works nights. She’s a nurse or whatever. I just… I hate being alone in this house. It’s weirdly quiet.”

Dean smirks, that cocky little tilt to his lips already forming. “So you do wanna have sex with me.”

Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “No! I mean—not that—well, not just that—” You choke on your own words, and Dean full-on laughs, head thrown back against the seat like this is the best thing he’s heard all week.

You punch his arm. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Ow.” He grins at you, smug as hell. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay over. No sex. Cross my heart.”

You scoff. “Please. Like you’d survive a night in my bed without trying something.”

He leans a little closer, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Sweetheart, I’m flattered you think I’m that disciplined.”

Your breath catches—and he knows it. He sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow, the way your fingers fidget in your lap. But he doesn’t push. Not really.

“Come on,” you say, hopping out of the car and slamming the door shut before he can say anything else that makes your face warm.

He follows you inside, boots thudding against the wood floors, and you swear the air feels thicker with him in your space. More alive. You toss your keys on the kitchen counter, flip the hallway light on, and motion toward your room.

“It’s small. Don’t get excited.”

He takes it all in, the pink, the perfume in the air, the chaos of pillows and discarded clothes—and just smiles. Like it’s the best room he’s ever seen.

You sit on the edge of your bed, suddenly unsure. He’s standing there like he’s waiting, like you’re gonna change your mind or ask him to leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “You can take the left side. I don’t sleep on that side.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You got a side of the bed?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s a whole thing. I can’t sleep unless I’m facing the wall.”

He doesn’t laugh at you this time. He just moves, real slow, pulling off his jacket and tossing it over your desk chair like he’s done this before. Like he’s done it here before.

He crawls onto the left side, settling in with his arms behind his head, and he looks so at home it makes your chest ache.

You click off the lamp and slip under the covers next to him, the mattress dipping slightly from his weight. The silence stretches again. Safe, warm, not scary at all.

After a few minutes, you whisper, “Thanks for staying.”

Dean turns his head just enough for your eyes to meet in the dark. “Anytime, trouble.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been laying there, backs turned to each other, both way too aware of the other person breathing just inches away.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through your curtains. It dances across the ceiling, the shadows flickering softly with every passing car. You can hear Dean shifting, just a little, like he’s restless too.

You let out a soft sigh. “You awake?”

Silence. Then, “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

“I can’t sleep,” you murmur, fingers toying with the edge of your pillow.

Dean chuckles low in his throat. “Figured. You’ve been flopping like a damn fish over there.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Shut up.”

A long pause again. Then his voice. Quieter, softer, “Is this weird for you?”

Your heart skips, then thuds a little too loudly in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit. “Kind of. But like… not bad weird.”

Dean turns toward you, the mattress dipping slightly. You feel it. Feel him. And then there’s his voice again, low and rough and way too close to your mouth.

“What kind of weird, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. “Like the ‘I wanna kiss you but I’m scared if I do, I’ll never stop’ kind of weird.”

The silence after that is thick.

And then?

Dean moves. Slow. Careful.

His hand brushes your cheek, thumb sweeping against your jaw, and suddenly his breath is on your lips. “You sure about that?” he whispers. “Because if I kiss you right now, it’s not gonna be sweet.”

You feel your pulse spike. You whisper back, “Who said I wanted sweet?”

And just like that, his mouth is on yours.

It’s hot, messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His hand slides into your hair, tugging a little, and you gasp into him—his chest pressing against yours like he wants to devour you. You’re not used to this. You’re not used to feeling like this. Like your whole body’s on fire and all he’s done is kiss you.

You roll on top of him without thinking, straddling his waist. He groans against your mouth, hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he mutters, lips trailing to your neck, your collarbone, your chest. You tilt your head back, giving him more space.

“Promise?” you breathe.

Clothes start coming off, slower than you’d expect from the two of you, like every inch matters. Like you both want to remember this. Every little look. Every little sigh. You grind against him, and he hisses through his teeth, sitting up to bite your bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re so goddamn pretty.”

You’re losing your mind, your balance, your entire personality under his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes like he’s never wanted anything more.

Your legs are shaking, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

Dean’s hand is gripping your thigh like he owns it, spreading you open on his bed, and the look on his face? Dark. Hungry. Borderline feral.

He’s rock hard in his jeans, and when he grinds down against your bare core, dragging against your soaked panties? You actually whimper.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and deep, lips ghosting over your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me already. You been thinkin’ about this all day, huh?”

You nod, breathless. “Dean, I swear to god—”

“Swear to me later,” he growls, yanking your underwear down your thighs and tossing them across the room. “Right now? I wanna hear how pretty you sound when you beg.”

He drops to his knees between your legs, dragging his mouth down your stomach like he’s worshipping you—teeth grazing just enough to make your whole body twitch.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” he murmurs against your inner thigh, biting down lightly. “Let me eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy till you cry?”

You choke on your own breath. You’re soaked. You’re throbbing.

Then his tongue is on you.

Flat, wet, slow. One long lick up your center before he does it again, faster, rougher, messier. And then he’s moaning against you like he’s the one getting off.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, locking you in place, and you can’t even close your legs—you’re trembling, hands fisting in his hair while your hips stutter up into his mouth.

“Shit—Dean, I—fuck, fuck—”

You swear you’re seeing stars when he sucks on your clit, his tongue fucking into you so good, so deep, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. You’re already so close it hurts.

When you cum—because of course you do—it’s not soft or sweet. It’s loud, feral, messy. Your whole body arches off the bed, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, licking you through it until you’re pushing at his head, oversensitive and gasping.

And he just grins, face glistening, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he just finished his favorite meal.

“Thought you were gonna break the damn bed,” he jokes, climbing over you again, his cock hard and pressed right where you need it.

You drag his jeans down like you’re gonna die if he doesn’t fuck you in the next ten seconds.

When he finally pushes in? It’s deep. All the way. One long, slow thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. You’re clawing at his back, gasping his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Dean, please.”

“Yeah?” he groans into your neck, hips moving slow, deep, mean. “You want it harder, baby? Gonna give it to you just how you need it.”

He picks up the pace, fucking into you so hard the headboard hits the wall, and you swear you see white.

He’s moaning now too, close, head buried in your neck while his fingers dig into your hip.

“Can’t believe I’m inside this perfect fuckin’ pussy,” he pants. “So tight. So good. Fuck—gonna cum just from the way you feel.”

You’re babbling at this point—his name, please, don’t stop, more more more— And when you both hit your highs, it’s fucking chaos. Sweaty. Loud. Hands everywhere.

When he finally collapses on top of you, both of you gasping, skin sticking, bodies trembling, He looks at you like he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “We’re doin’ that again. Like. A lot.”

You’re still shaking.

Not from the orgasm—okay, also from the orgasm—but mostly from the way he’s looking at you right now. Face inches from yours, cheek pressed against the pillow, his hand resting low on your stomach like he’s claiming you, guarding you, soothing you.

Your legs are tangled with his. Skin against skin, still hot and damp and kinda sticky, but neither of you seems to care.

You’ve never been this close to someone before. Not like this. Not after letting them touch every inch of you, ruin you, whisper filth in your ear like it was a love song.

He’s just watching you. Silent. Studying your face like it’s got all the answers in the world.

“…What?” you finally whisper, heart still beating way too fast.

Dean shrugs a little. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

You narrow your eyes. “That sounds like an insult.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I mean—you’re mean as fuck. But you’re also…” His voice trails off, softening. “There’s somethin’ else. Underneath all that lip gloss and attitude.”

You roll your eyes, trying to bury the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t go soft on me now, Winchester.”

“I already am soft,” he smirks, glancing down between you two. “Unfortunately.”

You choke on your laugh and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you like it,” he grins, then sighs and shifts closer, pulling you flush against him. “You’re real warm, y’know that?”

You hum quietly, staring at the little constellation of freckles across his shoulder. “You’re not sleeping here.”

“I’m literally already here.”

“I mean tonight. Like, you’re not staying forever, Winchester. Don’t get ideas.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Would it be so bad if I did?”

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t know how to explain that something’s been shifting since you met him. Since he crashed into your life with his stupid leather jacket and that smug smirk and those green eyes that saw through you so fast it scared you.

And you definitely don’t know how to say that when he’s touching you like this—gentle, sweet, skin on skin like a promise—you feel like you could actually breathe.

You blink at the ceiling. “I don’t do soft,” you mutter. “I’m not some sweet girl that cuddles boys after sex.”

Dean leans in, presses a kiss to your temple so soft it makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”

You freeze. Because no one’s ever called you that before. And it’s stupid how much it makes your chest ache. You bury your face in his shoulder and mutter, “Don’t call me baby.”

He grins into your hair. “Okay, princess.”

You fall asleep like that. Naked, vulnerable, arms wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs and blankets and unspoken things.

And Dean? He stays the whole night.

The sun’s barely peeking through your blinds, golden and warm and way too romantic for how filthy you feel. Your thighs still ache. Your neck’s a minefield of bruises. And the sheets? Yeah, they reek of sex and Dean and sin.

But when you turn your head and see him—hair a mess, chest bare, lips parted while he blinks up at the ceiling like the devil he is—you can’t even pretend to feel guilty.

You just feel… hungry.

You shift, slow and quiet, the way you always do when you’re about to do something bad. And you don’t say a word when you disappear under the covers, your fingers grazing over his stomach, lazy and light.

Dean stirs. “S’too early for you to start with that,” he mutters, voice still rough from sleep. But he doesn’t stop you. Of course he fucking doesn’t.

You smirk against his skin. “Shh. Let me do something nice for once.”

He groans. “That’s the last thing this is, sweetheart.”

But then you’ve got him in your hand, hardening fast, already hot and heavy in your palm like he was waiting for this. Like he knew. You swirl your tongue once—just once—around the head and he jerks under you, fists clenching in the sheets.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “You’re—Jesus, you’re really—shit.”

You take your time with it.

Lick him slow. Deep. Let your nails scratch gently at his thigh, just to make him twitch. You hollow your cheeks, tease him with your tongue, suck him down so deep he forgets how to breathe.

Dean’s moaning now. Head thrown back. Mouth open. One hand gripping the sheets, the other tangled in your hair like he doesn’t know whether to pull you off or shove you deeper.

“Holy fuckin’—you’re gonna kill me,” he groans. “You’re—fuck. You’re not a real person. There’s no way.”

You hum around him, sending vibrations down his spine. His whole body jolts. “You’re so fucking filthy,” he pants. “Woke up and just needed my dick in your mouth, huh? Couldn’t even wait?”

You glance up at him through your lashes, lips wrapped around him, spit dribbling down your chin.

And Dean loses it.

He grabs the back of your head, thrusts into your throat, and you take it like a good girl—tears prickling your eyes, nose buried against his stomach. You gag once, but you don’t stop. You don’t want to.

He’s a mess when he comes. Loud. Breathless. Cursing like a sailor while his hips stutter and his hand tightens in your hair like he’s afraid he’ll float away without you there to anchor him.

You crawl back up once he’s done, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, and plop down beside him like nothing happened.

Dean’s still panting. Still staring at the ceiling.

“Morning,” you say sweetly.

He blinks at you. “I’m gonna marry you.”

You laugh, but you don’t say no.

You’re lying there in Dean’s arms, body still humming from the blowjob that could’ve sent him to the afterlife, all warm and sleepy and smug in your post-fuck glow. You’re tangled under the sheets in his T-shirt, giggling against his chest while he kisses the top of your head like he’s a boyfriend or something.

And then,

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“Y/N. Seriously? Stop locking the damn door. We’ve talked about this.”

Your blood runs cold. Dean’s eyes go wide.

“Shit.” You bolt upright. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Who’s that?” Dean whispers like a dumbass, like he doesn’t already know.

You scramble off the bed and hiss, “It’s my mom, you idiot!”

Dean launches out from the covers like he’s just been drafted into war. “Well fuck, babe, what do I do?!”

You’re both standing there like two deer in headlights—shirtless, sweaty, sinning—while your mom jangles the door handle like she’s about to call the Pope.

“Y/N. Open the door right now. I swear to God—”

“GET DRESSED!” you whisper-scream, throwing Dean’s jeans at him like they’re a grenade.

“I’m not even wearing underwear,” he huffs, trying to shove his leg into the wrong pant hole. “Why didn’t you warn me she gets home this early?!”

“She doesn’t! She’s still supposed to be on the night shift!”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“I swear, if you’re smoking in there again—!”

You panic. Full panic. You’re both half-dressed, and there is no way you’re letting your mom open that door to the sight of Dean Fucking Winchester standing in your room, shirtless and sinful with your lip gloss on his jaw.

“THE WINDOW.”

Dean blinks. “You want me to—what—the fuckin’ window?! Babe, that’s a second story drop!”

“I DON’T CARE.”

And you’re shoving it open like it’s your God-given mission, and Dean—still zipping up his fly—is climbing out barefoot while muttering, “This is so fucked. This is so incredibly fucked.”

“GO. NOW. I’LL TEXT YOU.”

“You owe me so much sex for this—”

SLAM.

He jumps.

Hits the ground with a thud.

Rolls once. Groans. And gives you a salute from the backyard like he just escaped a CIA sting operation.

You spin around, whip off your T-shirt, and throw on a hoodie just in time to—

CLICK.

Your mom opens the door. You’re sitting on your bed. Innocent. Alone. Breathless.

She squints. “Why are you so red?”

You blink. “Yoga.”

She eyes you. “Yoga.”

“Yup.”

Beat.

“Smells weird in here.”

“Lavender candle,” you lie. “Mindfulness. You wouldn’t understand.”

She walks off. Grumbling.

You don’t even breathe until you hear her go back downstairs. And even then, you just fall flat on your back and stare at the ceiling like,

Holy. Shit.

You grab your phone and text him,

You stare at your phone, fingers frozen over the screen, the text you just sent still lingering like a brand on your mind. “You owe me a handjob under the bleachers.” God, was that real? Was that actually real? You fucking did it. You fucked Dean Winchester, like, the Dean Winchester. You were so cocky, so in control last night, but now, with the post-sex fog lifting, you can feel the heaviness setting in.

You step into the shower, the hot water cascading down your skin, hoping it will wash away the constant whirlwind of thoughts in your head. The steam fills the bathroom, but it doesn’t clear your mind. If anything, the silence only makes it louder. You try to focus on the warmth, on the feeling of the water rushing over you, but no matter how many times you scrub away the tension, the thoughts won’t leave. They swirl around you like ghosts, relentless and heavy, refusing to give you any peace.

You take a deep breath, staring at the ceiling, your heart thumping in your chest. You let it all crash over you. The realness of what just happened. You had sex with him. You let him in. Not just physically, but—fuck, emotionally too? Because, goddamn, he actually kissed you after, like he gave a shit. He actually held you. He didn’t pull away like all the assholes you’ve been with before. This isn’t some casual hookup. It felt too intimate, too real.

The sound of your mom calling your name almost makes you flinch. You freeze. “Y/N, Amber’s here!” She calls from downstairs.

You snap your eyes open. Shit. Amber.

You finish up as fast as you can, nerves kicking in again. You need to act normal. You need to act like you didn’t just have sex with a boy who practically had you wrapped around his finger. You need to be cool about it. Right?

Quickly, you dry off, throw on a cute black mini skirt and a matching, fitted shirt. You check yourself out in the mirror—nothing too revealing, but just enough to make you look put together, fresh-faced, and unbothered.

You take a deep breath, pull your hair into a messy ponytail, and head downstairs.

Amber’s there, chatting with your mom about something you barely register as you walk into the room. She shoots you a smile when you walk in. “Hey, you’re late. You okay?”

“Yeah, just… tired,” you mumble, your voice tight. You’re doing your best to sound casual, but Amber’s always been able to tell when something’s off.

Your mom gives you an exaggerated ‘be careful’ look as she waves you out the door. “And don’t forget your jacket! It’s gonna be cold.”

Amber waits by the car with a smirk, already knowing you’re gonna be late. You get in, slam the door behind you, and settle into the passenger seat. You’ve barely settled in when Amber shoots you a look—her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“So,” she starts, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, “something’s been up with you lately. You’ve been kinda… weird? Is everything okay?”

You bite your lip, trying to hide your thoughts. Amber’s not dumb. She can tell when something’s on your mind, and she’s not one to drop it easily. She’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to figuring things out.

“What do you mean ‘weird’?” you ask, trying to sound more neutral than you feel.

Amber raises an eyebrow at you. “I mean… you’re usually a little more on top of shit. And you’re way more… I don’t know… yourself, you know? But lately, you’ve been all distracted, kind of… off. Is it about Dean? Is something going on?”

Your heart drops. The last thing you want is for Amber to know what happened between you and Dean. She’s always been super protective of you, sometimes a little too protective, and if she knew what went down… she’d have a field day with it.

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool, but she’s not buying it.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re playing hard to get or whatever with him. He’s cute, you’ve been eyeing him since he walked in, and I know you like the bad boys, but if something happened… I’ll keep my mouth shut. You know I will.”

You groan inwardly, hating the way Amber’s so damn perceptive. But maybe you need to get it off your chest, even if just a little. You can’t hold all this in, especially when she’s practically demanding to know.

“Okay,” you start slowly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt. “Fine, I’ll tell you what happened, but don’t judge me, alright?”

Amber’s expression softens, and she leans in a little closer, eager to hear what you’re about to spill. “I’m not gonna judge you, I swear. Just tell me.”

You take a deep breath, then let it all spill out. The running from detention. The flirting. The kiss. The way you ended up in his bed, tangled up in sheets, him saying things that had your brain fuzzy. You tell her everything, even the part where you didn’t realize how much he affected you until after it was over.

And when you finish, Amber’s face is unreadable for a second. Then she grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Holy shit, girl,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “You and Dean… you did it. And you liked it.” She wiggles her eyebrows playfully, clearly excited.

You roll your eyes, half embarrassed but also kinda relieved. At least she’s not freaking out.

“You’re lucky I’m not making a big deal about it,” she adds, giving you a teasing side-eye. “But honestly, if you want to talk about it more later, we can. You can always talk to me, you know?”

You sigh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders, at least for now. “Thanks, Amber. I needed to tell someone.”

She pats your knee affectionately as she pulls into the school parking lot. “Anytime, babe. But seriously… if you want to get back to that Dean… I’m all for it. But don’t get too wrapped up in the bad boy act. You know how that usually goes.”

You give her a small smile as you get out of the car. “Thanks for the warning, but I think I got this.”

Amber grins. “Sure you do. Just don’t make any dumb decisions.”

When you walk into the school, you walk like you own it—because you do. The heels? Clicking. The skirt? Skimming just high enough to break hearts and start rumors. Lip gloss? On. Eyes? Deadly. The halls are vibrating with tension and you’re soaking in every second like it’s a slow-mo music video and you’re the star. Amber’s by your side, chewing gum like it’s someone’s soul.

“Girl,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning every look thrown your way. “The way they’re staring at you like you just descended from Mount Drama with two stone tablets and a bad bitch complex.”

You smirk. “Let ’em look. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

You’re two steps from your locker when you hear it. The wrong voice at the wrong time.

“Damn, Y/N,” some crusty, overconfident linebacker-looking freak calls out. “You and Winchester have fun last night? Heard he had you moaning like the school bell.”

The hallway goes dead silent. Dead. You turn your head slow, like a horror movie villain, heels pivoting, hair swinging.

Amber gasps, “Oh no, he did not—”

You hold up a manicured hand to silence her. You don’t need backup. This one’s personal.

You saunter up to him, that fake sweet smile on your face—the one that means someone’s about to get verbally demolished. “Remind me,” you purr, “what’s your name again? Oh right. I don’t care.”

He opens his mouth but you’re already talking. “I think it’s cute that you’re so obsessed with my sex life when your dick’s so small it’s legally considered a choking hazard for toddlers.”

Amber chokes.

You lean in, dropping your voice so it slices. “Three girls, Chad. Three. And every single one of them told me you cum quicker than their Uber Eats.”

A soft ohhhh ripples through the hallway.

You’re not done. “I don’t need to fake moan for a real man, but keep projecting your fantasies, baby. Maybe if you’re lucky, Dean’ll give you some tips… or a real orgasm to study off.”

His face is bright red. His friends are backing away like his social life is contagious.

You smile— sweet, poisonous. “Now fuck off before I file a harassment report and a Yelp review about your microdick.”

The hallway erupts. Whispers, snickers, and one very loud “Damn” from someone you don’t even know.

Amber grabs your arm and drags you down the hall, giggling like it’s Christmas morning. “You are a savage, girl,” she gasps, “I think you just ended a bloodline.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just verbally castrate a football player at 8:03 AM.

“Just doing my civic duty.”

But the second you turn a corner and the chaos fades? Your mind drifts. Back to last night. Back to Dean. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at you like you were something worth ruining everything for.

Yeah. You shut the locker. Toss your hair. Walk down the hall like you weren’t just fantasizing about climbing that boy like a jungle gym.

High school’s never seen a queen like you.

Amber and you share a quick, almost too sweet hug—her laugh in your ear as she pulls away, and you’re reminded once again why she’s always your number one partner in crime. You both are probably the most vicious duo to ever walk this school, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Catch you at lunch, bitch,” she says, giving you a final wink before strutting down the hallway, leaving you to your next adventure. You watch her go for a second, a smile playing at the corner of your lips.

After a second, you shake off the moment, eyes darting to the clock above the hallway door. Time’s running out. You’re waiting for your class to start, so you lean against the lockers, mind wandering to everything that’s happened over the past few days, Dean, the whole mess that was last night… A familiar feeling still swirling in your chest, that mix of excitement and what the hell am I doing, but you’ll deal with that later.

Suddenly, you hear voices, the low murmur of someone being picked on. You roll your eyes, already over it before you even look up, but when you do, you freeze. There, standing just a few feet away, is Sam Winchester—the younger brother of your late-night regret and satisfaction.

And there’s some freshman jock—little shit—standing there, poking fun at Sam, his voice dripping with something like self-righteousness. You can’t help but overhear some of the taunts.

“You’re really just a nobody, huh? Just like your family. That’s all you’ll ever be. Too bad your brother is too busy banging all the girls to care about you.”

Your blood boils at the mention of Dean—seriously? They were talking about Dean, about Sam’s family… and they think they can get away with it?

The pieces fall together quickly. You already know what’s going on, these idiots have been targeting Sam over family stuff, probably using his brother as some kind of twisted “joke.” You’ve seen enough of this bullshit to know exactly how to handle it.

You stand up straighter, pushing off the lockers and walking toward them, your heels clicking against the floor. You know the jock doesn’t see you coming until you’re practically right on him, your eyes sharp, face cold.

“Didn’t think a freshman had the balls to act like that,” you say, cutting through their petty conversation like a hot knife. The guy turns toward you, his cocky smirk fading when he sees the look you’re giving him. “You think picking on a kid is cute?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning in a little closer, watching his bravado crack. “You’re pathetic.”

You glance at Sam quickly, he’s standing there awkwardly, his face flushed with embarrassment, but you see that flicker of gratitude in his eyes. He’s not exactly saying it, but you know he’s relieved someone’s stepping up for him.

“What, you think it’s cool to talk shit about people’s families when you’ve probably got nothing going for you?” You turn back to the jock, whose face is now slowly turning red. “Oh, and you’re just so clever, huh? Hiding behind the fact that you know his brother, and that’s your whole angle?”

The jock opens his mouth to argue, but he doesn’t have the nerve. You can practically see him shrinking in front of you as you stand there, holding your ground with that same sharp look. You can feel how much this is rattling him, how his stupid self-confidence is quickly slipping away.

“You better get your head out of your ass, because you’re embarrassing yourself. Don’t talk about family shit unless you’ve got your life together, which clearly you don’t.”

With that, you give him one last look of disgust. He stammers something, but you cut him off before he can make himself any dumber.

“Get lost, freshman.”

You wait a second, just watching him skitter off in a hurry. When he’s finally gone, you turn your focus back to Sam. His eyes are wide with a mix of shock and something else—appreciation, maybe.

“You alright?” you ask, though you already know the answer. The kid’s shaking a little, but his posture’s already a bit straighter. He’ll get there.

“Yeah, I—I didn’t expect you to… stand up for me like that,” Sam admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shrug, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s what I do. People like that don’t get to mess with anyone I care about.”

He gives you a small, almost shy smile. “Thanks… you didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not about ‘having to’, it’s about making sure they know who’s in charge here,” you reply, tone dripping with confidence.

You can’t resist one last jab before leaving him. “And maybe next time, don’t let these little idiots run their mouths. You’ve got potential, Sam—just don’t let it get wasted, got it?”

Sam nods, his face more serious now, but with a grateful edge to it. As you walk away, you can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at the way you handled it. You might’ve just met him, but you could tell Sam didn’t deserve to be anyone’s punching bag.

You’re still cooling down from your little hallway mic-drop moment, high heels clicking confidently as you walk away from Sam, your hand brushing through your hair like nothing just happened. But your heart’s still racing just a bit. You weren’t doing it for clout or attention—you did it because you meant it. Because the thought of someone dragging Dean’s little brother through the dirt made something mean and protective awaken in you. And honestly? It felt kinda good to scare the life outta that punk.

You’re halfway to class when you sense someone walking up beside you, closer than a stranger, familiar in the way your body already knows. You don’t even have to look. The leather jacket. The smell. The heat. It’s Dean.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just kind of walks beside you for a beat, his hand brushing against yours like he’s asking without words if he’s allowed to be here.

Then, finally, in that low voice of his—quiet, almost stunned—he says, “You care about Sammy?”

You pause, turning your head just slightly, eyes glancing up at him with that casual little smirk you know he can’t stand. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

Dean laughs, barely under his breath, shaking his head like he’s trying not to show how hard it hit him. “Yeah. I mean, you’re this… glitter-covered menace who threatened to light the school on fire yesterday, and now you’re out here defending freshmen. Just—I dunno. I think I might already love you.”

You snort, rolling your eyes at the way he says it like it’s a joke but you know it’s not. You can feel it, how serious it is behind his voice. How his gaze lingers on you like you’re some kind of miracle. And you can’t help it—your stomach flutters and your lips tug into a smile. But you play it cool. Always.

“I’m late to class,” you murmur, but your voice is softer now. Sweeter.

Dean shrugs, walking a little slower like he doesn’t care. “So am I.”

You glance at him again, a little more serious this time. “You don’t care about the rumors?”

He raises a brow. “What, that we snuck outta detention, that I’m screwing the hottest girl in school, or that I’ve got a criminal record?”

Dean’s voice drops low; almost a growl, but still sweet somehow.

“Fuck ‘em. They don’t know shit.”

And before you can say anything else, he grabs your waist gently, pulling you back against the lockers like something out of a movie. Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Not even close. His lips crash into yours, slow but deep, and the world just blinks out for a second. No rumors, no people, no classes or chaos— just his mouth on yours, warm and sure, like he’s been waiting all day to do this.

The kiss is over way too soon, but he doesn’t let you go right away. His forehead leans against yours and you both just breathe for a second.

“Go to class,” he mutters finally, lips brushing yours.

“Gonna miss me?” you tease, already turning on your heel.

He watches you go with a grin that practically glows. “Every damn second.”

And you walk into that classroom like you didn’t just get kissed breathless in the hallway by the boy who might just break your heart—or save it.

The weeks blur together in the best kind of way. School becomes background noise. The lockers and the bells and the classrooms; they’re all just placeholders for where he’ll touch you next, where he’ll say something that knocks the wind out of your chest, or where you’ll roll your eyes and pretend he doesn’t already have you wrapped around his stupid calloused finger.

It starts with hook-ups that are messy and wild. Behind the bleachers after practice. In his car when the windows fog up, and your skirt’s rucked up to your waist while he groans into your neck. His hand gripping your thigh like he owns it. And maybe he does. You never meant for it to be more than physical, but he kisses you like he’s asking a question you can’t quite answer. And you keep letting him.

But then it shifts. Subtle, soft, dangerous. You’ll be in his room with the lights off, sharing a bag of chips and half-laughing at some dumb movie while he traces lazy shapes on your bare hip. And then he’ll ask something like, “Do you ever wonder who you’d be if none of this shit happened?” And you’ll freeze, because no one ever asks you that. Not seriously.

So you answer him. And he listens.

Then there’s the nights when he sneaks in your window like some walking cliché, but it still makes your heart race. And he’s not there to fuck, he’s there to stay. He lays down next to you, both of you still in your clothes, and you talk about everything and nothing. Your dreams. Your fears. His dad. Your stress. That time he stole a pack of gum when he was seven. That time you thought you’d never make it to senior year. He always touches you softly in those moments. Like you’re delicate and untouchable, even though you’ve proved a million times you’re anything but.

There’s laughter too. God, so much laughter. Like when he heard you singing Beyoncé under your breath and nearly crashed the Impala. Or when you made him try pink glitter lip balm and he wore it proudly the rest of the day just to piss people off. You make fun of him constantly, and he takes it. Because he knows you don’t do that with just anyone.

Sometimes he shows up late to class with a new bruise and you don’t ask, you just press your thumb over it gently and give him that look. And he kisses your hand like a promise.

Other days you fight. Over stupid shit. You’re mean, and he’s cocky, and your chemistry is nuclear. But the makeup sex? Yeah. Legendary.

And through it all—this whirlwind of chaos and craving—there’s this quiet, growing thing that neither of you name yet. Something that looks a lot like love, but feels way too scary to say out loud.

Yet.

It’s not like there was some big talk. No dramatic declaration, no “will you be my girlfriend” scribbled in Sharpie across your locker. Dean Winchester doesn’t do clichés.

He just shows up.

He’s waiting outside your last class, leaned up against the wall like a scene out of a movie. That stupid leather jacket, that smug half-smile. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be there, for you.

“You’re gonna make me late,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your lips betray you with a smile before you can stop them.

Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Figured if I’m gonna be seen with you, might as well be at peak visibility.”

Cocky bastard.

“You’re such an ass,” you say, but there’s no heat behind it. Not anymore.

Then he does it—holds out his hand. No big speech. No dramatic gesture. Just… waiting. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

Your heart’s a goddamn mess in your chest. You feel the eyes, the whispers, the way the hallway quiets like everyone’s holding their breath. But when you look at him, all you see is him. And something in your chest softens.

So you take it.

Your fingers slip into his and his grip tightens around yours like he’s been waiting his whole life to hold your hand in public.

You walk together like that, past open classrooms and stunned stares, and you swear you hear someone gasp. Dean doesn’t flinch. He just keeps walking, swinging your hands a little, like none of it touches him.

You’re not sure how something this small feels so loud. But it does. It’s loud and real and terrifyingly sweet. And it doesn’t matter that just last month you swore you’d never fall for a boy like him.

He glances at you, and the look in his eyes isn’t smug—it’s soft. And that softness slices through you in the worst and best way.

Because you didn’t want this.

You didn’t want him.

And yet here you are, hand in hand with Dean fucking Winchester. Laughing at nothing. Blushing at everything.

You catch your reflection in the glass as you pass; your fingers laced with his, your whole body tilted just slightly toward him like gravity has decided to betray you.

A few weeks ago, you hated him.

Now?

Now you’re scared of how much you don’t.

Which is probably the worst possible time for him to disappear.

NEXT PART.

ꕤ notes: omg hi. chapter two is hereee finallyyy. tumblr glitched and didn’t let me color this part pink (crying real tears rn) but whatever she’s still cute. thank u sm for reading and loving this series it means the world to me fr. i’m obsessed w these characters and i love how messy and dramatic it all is. more chaos soon. love uuuu.

SPECIAL THANKS TO @rosemichael12 ‪‪❤︎‬

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[ellethespaceunicorn]

Nothing More Than An Animal

Title: Nothing More Than An Animal

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Henry!Wolverine (Cavillrine) x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Summary: After entering a dangerous biker bar alone, you’re almost assaulted. You are saved by a mutant with metal claws who might be more animal than man.

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, unwanted attention, bar fight, Wolvie being Wolvie, unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids, claw kink

Beta: @peyton-warren

A/N: The title is taken from this quote from Savage Wolverine #13: “Most people think I'm nothing more than an animal!” Thank you to my amazing beta, Peyton, for giving me this idea in the first place.

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

You couldn’t help yourself. You stand across the street from the biker bar, a flickering streetlamp above you casting an off-white haze. The only thing keeping you from entering the establishment is your sense of self-preservation. This place, Torque Tavern, screams danger. But that only draws you in further.

You’re dressed in your usual style: your favorite Joan Jett shirt with the sleeves cut off, a denim jacket, a pair of figure-hugging black jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens boots. While normally you walk around with a sense of power, tonight was different.

A chill in the air makes you wrap your arms around yourself. You step off the curb into a dirty puddle, crossing the street after looking both ways. With your hand on the bar door, you pull it open and step inside.

The smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke hits your nostrils as the door closes behind you. A dozen heads turn to you, and your heart pounds. You look across the dimly lit room and notice one person who hasn’t paid you any attention, sitting on a stool at the L-shaped bar. You walk up and sit on a stool, a couple of seats away from the large man.

While you wait for the bartender to attend to you, you peek at the behemoth that sits near you. Wild, dark hair that comes to a point on each side, bushy sideburns, and a non-connecting beard outline his face. A white tank top stretches across his wide, thick frame. Bulbous, sweaty biceps glisten in the glow of the lights behind the bar. Hairy, veiny forearms lead down to strong hands: one grips around a lowball of amber liquid so tight that his knuckles are white, and the other balances a fat cigar between two fingers.

“Take a picture, bub, it’ll last longer,” the stranger says, letting out a plume of smoke from his chapped lips before turning his tidepool blue eyes on you.

After a few seconds that feel like minutes, you’re finally able to turn around and look away, mumbling an apology. You can still feel his eyes on you for a bit before he turns back to his drink and his solitude.

Your eyes shoot up once the bartender knocks on the bartop in front of you. “What’ll you have?”

“Uh, yeah. Moosehead and a shot of J.P. Wiser’s,” you reply, unsurprised when the bartender raises a brow at you. He then shrugs, cracks open a bottle of lager, and sets it in front of you. Grabbing a shot glass, he pours you a bit of the blended whiskey.

As soon as the light golden liquor is pushed toward you, you lift it and inhale the vanilla aroma. Tossing it back, the taste of licorice and cinnamon cascades over your tongue and down your throat. You exhale the burn and turn your attention to your lager.

You notice the murmurs behind you. A chair is pushed away from a table, and heavy boots are walking up behind you. A strong hand lands on your shoulder, and you freeze. “Hey, doll. Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your beer and decline, “I’m fine, honey.”

“Aw, come on. Just one drink. Promise I don’t bite, ‘less you want me to,” the source of the voice laughs, coming around to lean on the bar between you and the cigar-smoking stranger, his bald head glistening in the low light as he strokes his long, scraggly beard. His beer belly is barely contained in a Limp Bizkit shirt. This man is a walking red flag, and you roll your eyes and shake your head.

“Look, pal. Let me enjoy the drink I have, ok? This is my one fucking night off this week, and I’m not in the mood to let you ruin it with any of your shitty pick-up lines or the promise of hanging out with you and the rest of the rejects from Sons of Anarchy, got it?” You surprised yourself by bellowing these words to a stranger, one who could probably benchpress you with ease.

You flinch as his expression turns dark and he raises a hand. “You stuck-up little bitch, I ought to—”

The cigar-smoking stranger interrupts, seizing him by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground as if he were a mere feather. While holding him aloft with one hand, the other hand balls into a fist while sharp blades appear from his knuckles.

He’s a mutant! You’d never seen anyone use their abilities up close, but now a man with incredible strength and metal claws is gallantly defending your honor.

“I think the lady has everything she needs, so why don’t you and your little friends scurry along before I get really angry and carve you up in front of everyone, eh?”

The sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked has every head whipping to the bartender. “Get out of my bar, freak!”

The mutant simply turns and deposits the asshole on the ground in a crumpled mess. Blowing another puff of smoke into the ceiling, he throws back the rest of his drink before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and walking out. Halfway to the door, he turns to you and asks, “You coming or what, bub?”

You couldn’t scramble off your stool quick enough after he challenged you to follow him. Stepping over the man left on the floor, you scurry after your mutant savior. Once back in the night air, you look over as he stuffs the bottle into the storage of his Harley-Davidson. As he swings his leg over the bike and settles into the seat, you can't help but notice the bike sagging under his weight, as if he weighs a ton.

He turns back to his storage, taking out a helmet and holding it out to you. You’ve seen enough movies to know that riding with a stranger is a dumb idea. However, if that mysterious stranger happens to be attractive and cruising on a Harley, who could resist the allure of a thrilling adventure?

Taking the helmet, you pull it down over your head and lift a leg to get onto the bike behind him. As he turns the key, you clench your thighs at the vibration and wrap your arms around his waist.

“You don’t have to hold me so tight,” he informs.

“Oh, this isn’t tight," you remark, suddenly realizing that you don't know what to call this man. You offer your name, and he repeats it before giving his own.

“The name’s Logan.” He drops his cigar butt on the asphalt and stubs it out with his boot before putting up the kickstand and backing out of the parking spot. He revs the engine, and you are off on your way to wherever Logan wants to take you.

The drive is smooth, the city whizzing past you as Logan speeds down the highway. You end up at a garage that houses a few more Harleys in various states of repair. Logan puts the kickstand down and lets you get off the bike first. He watches as you take off the helmet and look around at where he’s taken you.

Exiting the bike, he takes the helmet when you hold it out to him. You don’t miss the way his fingers lingered on yours for a beat. He takes the bottle out of his bike pack and takes a hefty swig, then hands it to you.

You read the label, ‘Forty Creek Confederation Oak’, and put the bottle to your lips. Tipping it, you are delighted to taste the honey flavor. Handing him the bottle, you hold the liquor in your mouth until it starts to burn, and then you swallow and exhale the nutty finish.

He appears to be quite taken aback that you managed to drink without gagging, and his intrigue deepens as you begin to move closer into his personal space. The warmth in your chest from the alcohol has you feeling full and content. The heat coming off of his body as you stand close enough to breathe in his air has you feeling something completely overwhelming: pheromone-induced arousal.

Your libido is making itself known as you watch him watch you. Unable to stop your hands, they find themselves smoothing up his tank-covered torso until you tug at the collar. He gets the hint and sets the bottle down before removing his shirt.

You encounter a soft, furry chest that invites you to sink your fingers into its warmth. Tightening your digits in the hair on his pretty pecs, you revel in the growl he makes. He then levels the playing field, grabbing you by the nape of the neck with one large paw and bringing your face to his.

As you part your lips, a soft whimper slips out, unable to be contained, while he teasingly brushes his tongue against your lower lip. Growling again, he dips further to slot your mouth with his. He devours the moans that come out of you as he grabs a handful of your ass, chuckling into the kiss as you let him take the lead. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you feel drunk on his whiskey-laden kiss.

Breaking the kiss, he pushes down on your shoulders until you are kneeling at his feet. You start to unfasten his tight-fitting jeans, but he swats your hands away.

“Not yet, bub,” he warns. “I wanna try something.”

With that, he has you pass him the bottle. He takes a drink and then holds your cheek against his denim-covered cock. You can sense that he’s packing quite a surprise down there, and you’re eagerly anticipating the moment it’s unleashed.

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

You watch as he takes the bottle and pours about a shot’s worth of liquor over his chest. Watching as the liquid washes over him, you are more than eager to taste it directly from his skin. After you’ve cleaned his chest of all traces, he takes another drink. This time, he holds your face by the jaw and leans down, spitting the whiskey directly into your mouth.

You gulp it down eagerly, on the verge of pleading for another sip, when he scoops you up from the ground and twirls you around, positioning you over the bike you arrived on. He yanks down your jeans, your panties going with them. He lands a slap on each cheek before you hear him unzip his pants and feel his heavy dick teasing your clit.

He kicks your legs open further, pulls your denim jacket off, and lines himself up with your soaked entrance. Sliding in, he hisses at the heat of your tightness. You whine at his girth, stretching you more than any other cock you’ve ever taken. Once he bottoms out, the tip kisses your cervix, and his hairy ball sac rests against your puffy pussy. He pauses to let you get used to his size, but as he continues to take his time, it seems he is just tormenting you.

“Logan, please. Need you to move,” you plead, wiggling your hips to get any kind of friction.

You don’t see the toothy grin that covers his face, but you know by the way he tightens his grip on your hips that he is about to fuck you ten ways from Sunday.

Gradually withdrawing his hips, he eases out until only the tip of his shaft stays nestled within you, and then he thrusts back in with force. Doing it again, and then again, he pauses after each thrust to tease you. But on the third plunge, he doesn’t stop; he just keeps driving into you.

The rhythmic sounds of your sweat-soaked skin colliding form a captivating tune, harmonizing with the slick, squelching rhythm of his thrusts deep inside you. Coupled with Logan's deep, primal growls and your breathy moans, it creates an intoxicating symphony of desire.

You sense one of his hands sliding away from your hip, pushing your top up your back, and then a sharp SNIKT! pierces the air. You almost turn to inquire where the sound came from, but you soon feel something razor-sharp and hot to the touch sliding down your back. Once you realize that he’s touching you with his claws, you’re overcome with arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He fucks you through your orgasm and retracts his claws.

He slows his hips, pulling out and moving you both over to a nearby armchair. Sitting down first, he crooks a finger at you, and you remove your jeans and boots before straddling his hips. As you lower yourself onto him, you feel him fill you once more, the sensation overwhelming as you settle in.

You close your eyes and begin to ride him slower than before. Before you know it, you feel hot steel, or what you assume to be steel, at your neck and open your eyes to see his fist a few inches from your face. The claws, held within a millimeter of your jugular, glide across your skin.

“Hey, bub? You gonna keep pussyfooting around, or are you gonna ride this cock like the good little slut I know you are?” He asks, his pupils dilated until there is barely any blue left.

Your mouth opens and closes, but there is no sound coming out besides whimpers of fear that he might push those claws through your neck. Honestly, it added an extra little something to the experience, feeling that he might cut you at any moment.

The claws disappear back into the skin between his knuckles, and instead, he wraps a hand around your neck, guiding you to ride his length exactly as he wants. Your hands hold his thick wrist as you impale yourself over and over again.

“That’s it. Ride my cock just like that,” he praises, sticking two fingers in your mouth that you gluttonously suck. He locks his gaze on yours while you reach another peak of pleasure, your inner walls tightening around him as you release a wave of warmth that cascades down his length and between his legs.

When you threaten to slow down, he fucks into you, chasing his release. At this point, you are drooling over his fingers and looking like the fucked-out little doll that you are. You can tell that he is close as his hips stutter and his brows furrow as he removes his fingers from your mouth.

“Come inside me, Logan. Want it, need it so bad,” you beg, moving your hips as he drives into you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. He lets out a throaty growl and buries himself to the hilt inside of you. Feeling him twitch inside you, rope after rope of his cum painting your cervix, you reach back and play with his balls.

It’s minutes before his cock softens enough to slip out of you, and you rest your head on his chest as his jizz drips from your thoroughly used hole. To your astonishment, his hand rises to gently stroke your back while you find yourself gripping his chest hair.

Little did you know, this was only round one with the big lug. He’ll let you get some shut-eye for now, but later? He’d like to fuck you on every available surface in his garage. And what he wants, he always gets.

A/N: I intentionally used a line from the X-Men (2000), but then failed at “Chekov’s Gun” sort of. But this story only has two acts. So, fuck Chekov. I hope you all enjoyed my little fuckfest here, and please do let me know what you thought!! Writers are fed by comments!

**Tag List**

@littlefreya @mrs-solo-walker @viking-raider

Let me know if you want to be added (or removed). 😁

[dramagodesss]

four : pose for the fans

playin' the players

y/n's phone

rafe's phone

tuesday, 3:00 PM. studio 2C.

the space was sun-drenched and quiet, all clean white walls and tall windows cracked just enough to let the spring air drift in. you were already setting up when jj walked in—five minutes late, a little smug, holding a soda can and wearing that same “i know i’m hot” expression.

“you’re late,” you said without looking up, adjusting the tripod.

“nah,” jj said, stepping inside and stretching lazily. “i’m fashionably on time. there’s a difference.”

you gave him a quick once-over. clean tee. denim jacket. nothing too loud—just what you asked. “points for following instructions,” you said, holding back a grin. “miracles do happen.”

he tossed his jacket onto a chair and walked toward the backdrop. “so what now? you gonna make me look like a tortured artist? or should i do blue steel?”

you rolled your eyes. “just… sit. act natural. don’t overthink it.”

jj flopped onto the stool, legs splayed wide, arms resting loose on his thighs. you stepped back and lifted your camera, squinting through the viewfinder.

“yeah, okay… not bad. chin up a little.”

“like this?” he tilted his head, eyes locking onto yours with a lazy grin.

you clicked your tongue. “less ‘bedroom eyes,’ more ‘existential crisis.’”

he laughed. “damn. i didn’t realize you liked your models depressed.”

“i like them honest,” you shot back. “now shut up for two seconds, pretty boy.”

you moved in closer, quietly adjusting the angle. jj watched you, his smile softening. and just when you had the shot almost perfect, you paused.

“hold still,” you murmured. “hair’s messing with the light.”

he raised an eyebrow but didn’t move as you stepped in, brushing a thumb across his temple to fix a loose strand. the room felt weirdly quiet all of a sudden.

jj didn’t move. didn’t blink. just watched you.

your hand lingered for a second.

then you said it—low, casual, like it meant nothing. “what? falling in love?”

jj’s breath caught, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile, like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt back or just melt on the spot.

you fixed the strand, adjusted the collar of his tee like you hadn’t just sent his brain into static, and stepped back with the same calm energy.

“relax, maybank. it’s just for the shot.”

you lifted the camera.

click.

jj blinked like he was just now remembering how to breathe. the smirk crept back onto his face, but softer this time. almost… shy.

you kept shooting. quiet clicks in a sunlit room. and for once, he didn’t have anything to say. he just looked at you—eyes less cocky, more curious. like maybe he was trying to figure out what kind of game he’d just walked into… and if he was still winning.

you circled around him again, low to the floor for a wider angle. “elbows on your knees,” you murmured. “lean forward a little. yeah—just like that.”

jj did what you asked without question this time, his gaze following you like gravity. when your shoulder brushed his leg as you stood back up, he didn’t flinch. didn’t move. you felt it—the way his breath hitched just enough to make you smirk behind the lens.

“you always this bossy?” he asked, voice low, the usual edge dulled into something slower.

you shrugged. “only with boys who need direction.”

jj huffed a laugh. “that so?”

“mhm.” you adjusted the focus. “stay still.”

click. click.

“and you always this flirty with your models?” he added, lips tilting.

“only with boys who can take it,” you replied, not missing a beat.

he leaned back slightly, expression somewhere between impressed and wrecked.

you gave him one last look. “a little less smug. more thoughtful. like you’ve got secrets.”

“i do have secrets.”

“yeah?” you smirked, raising the camera again. “hope they’re photogenic.”

click.

jj ran a hand through his hair and gave you a crooked grin. “you know,” he said slowly, “i didn’t think being objectified would feel this good.”

“you’re welcome,” you said, lowering the camera.

you lifted the camera again, already lining up another shot before he could get too cocky.

“smile,” you said softly. “but for real this time.”

jj quirked a brow. “what, you don’t like my usual smirk?”

“you look pretty when you smile.”

his grin came instantly—bigger, real, and so stupidly contagious it almost threw off your focus.

click.

“there it is,” you muttered, almost to yourself. then, louder: “you lil cocky bastard. you love the attention, don’t ya?”

jj let out a full laugh, head tipping back. “you’re the one aiming a camera at me like i’m a piece of art. can you blame me?”

“oh, so now you think you’re art?”

“you just said i’m pretty.”

you snorted. “that was bait. so you’d give me a genuine smile.”

he narrowed his eyes, still smiling. “oh? so it was all strategy?”

“obviously.” you peeked at the preview screen. “but it worked.”

jj stood and padded over to your side, shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in. “lemme see.”

you tilted the camera toward him.

he scrolled through a few frames, mouth twitching. “okay, not to hype myself up but… damn. you’re good.”

“i know.”

“send me the results?”

“only if you say please.”

he turned to you, lips inches from your cheek now, voice low and teasing. “please, winslow.”

you didn’t flinch. just smiled, unbothered. “check your inbox later.”

he lingered a second longer than he needed to, then stepped back with that familiar swagger creeping in again.

“you ever need another model…” he said as he walked to the door, “you know where to find me.”

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567

[sweetkpopmusings]

stray kids soulmate aus | s. changbin <3

a/n: finally posting the next skz soulmate au !! i loved writing for sweet baby angel changbin :,,,-) i'm really in my skz feels these days, so hopefully i can write more soulmate aus soon <333 pics not mine~

content: fluff, soulmate au | wc: 1.6k | warnings: none! | pairing: soulmate!changbin x gn!reader | requests: open

♡ chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin ♡

every month, you send a package to your soulmate, knowing only your names before you meet.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“changbin?” chan called from outside the bedroom, “are you ready yet?”

changbin, half-dressed and digging through his closet, answered, “almost!”

chan peeked his head inside, tilting it in confusion, “is something wrong?”

“it doesn’t fit.”

“what doesn’t fit?”

“the new shirt i ordered. i could’ve sworn i ordered it in my usual size…ugh!”

“oh that sucks, but…can’t you just wear another shirt?”

changbin groaned, “yeah, sure, i can. the whole point was to wear that shirt today.”

hyunjin appeared in the doorway, “do you need help picking out an outfit?”

chan explained the vague situation to hyunjin, and, during that time, changbin settled for a plain black t-shirt and denim jacket that matched his jeans. the car arrived to pick them up, so, with a final loud groan, changbin grabbed his favorite necklace from his dresser and headed out for the day.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

as soon as you opened your eyes, you checked your phone to confirm today’s date. earlier that month, your soulmate, whom you only knew as “changbin,” sent you a custom t-shirt in the mail. when you unfolded the shirt, a cute handwritten note slipped out, telling you that it needed to be worn on a specific date because i’ll be wearing one just like it. it’ll be a long workday for me, so knowing that we’re matching will give me the strength to do well! please take a picture, so, one day, i can see how cute you look~~ thank you for being my good luck charm, my love <3

rolling out of bed, you smiled. you had never heard changbin’s voice, but you imagined he always had a bright tone. his messages were always so sweet. even if he sent you a glamorous gift, you cherished the handwritten note more than anything. 

with your outfit completed, photo taken, and your mood at an all-time high, you decided to make the most of your day off. hoping the soulmate airwaves connected you, you thought let’s have a good day today, changbin! i’m rooting for you! as you stepped out your front door.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚  

“all right,” chan sighed, stretching his arms, “i say we move onto the next track, yeah?”

jisung agreed, so changbin checked to see which song they needed to record next, “let’s see…ah, it’s jisung’s song, ‘volcano…’” changbin’s tone dropped, but he spoke again quickly, “who’s up first?”

changbin made a mental note to apologize to jisung later. it wasn’t jisung’s fault that they were recording the song he wrote about his soulmate on the one day when changbin ruined his attempt to have a cute moment with his soulmate. chan, sensing the shift in changbin’s energy, suggested they take a break. even the members who weren’t in a sour mood enthusiastically agreed, all shuffling out of the studio for some fresh air.  

“changbin-hyung!” felix chirped, “want to walk with me? i could use some company!”

changbin couldn’t resist the smile that formed on his face. even in his worst mood, felix’s sunshine demeanor would win him over. as they walked, they chatted about the new animation felix was obsessed with, with felix re-enacting the most interesting parts. changbin’s shoulders relaxed, and he was grateful that the evening air and felix’s voice were so healing. standing at the edge of a slightly crowded street, changbin thought that maybe the bad day was behind him.

“what’s been on your mind today?” felix asked.

“it’s going to sound so stupid.”

felix shook his head, “no way! if it upset you, then it’s not stupid.”

“okay,” changbin sighed, “today, i was supposed to wear this one shirt, but i guess i didn’t pay attention and ordered it in the wrong size. normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but i sent y/n the same shirt. we were supposed to be matching today…kind of like a good luck charm.”

felix frowned, “i’m sorry. it never feels good when a plan doesn’t work out, especially an exciting one!” felix paused, and then grinned as brightly as he could, “you’re wearing the necklace y/n got you though! you’ve been doing great in the studio today, so that must be working like a lucky charm, right?”

“yeah, probably. it’s just…” changbin frowned, “hearing jisung’s song made me feel even worse. i’m so happy jisung met his person, but i can’t help that i’m jealous. i see how much better he feels on his bad days after he talks to his partner, and it hurts to know that i can only talk to y/n once a month through handwritten notes. it’s beautiful, and i love every word they share, but on days like today, it feels like it’s not enough…”

changbin’s voice trailed off, turning his head toward the opposite side of the street. maybe people-watching strangers could counteract the tears forming in his eyes.

felix rubbed changbin’s shoulder, “it’s okay to feel sad. i know you’ll meet y/n when the time is right, but that doesn’t make it any better in the present moment. maybe you can write out your monthly message to them tonight, if that would help?”

felix glanced over at changbin when he didn’t hear a reply after a minute or so, “changbin? are you with me?”

changbin stared down the street, captivated by someone wearing the exact shirt he was supposed to be wearing today. though his heart was racing, he doubted it was real. he had to be imagining it since he was thinking about you all day, right?

your eyes searched the crowd in front of you, as you were unable to shake the feeling that someone was looking right at you. you slowed your steps, scanning every face to find one you recognized. you were about to give up, but then a familiar necklace caught your eye. everything stopped when you met the gaze of the person wearing it. 

it felt too good to be true. how could you just run into your soulmate on a random evening, in an area you’d only been to once or twice before? besides, he wasn’t wearing the same shirt as you, which he had planned. but that necklace looked exactly like the one you gifted changbin for his birthday. even as you doubted yourself, looking at the man in front of you gave you the feeling that he was the one you had been searching for all along.

you waved at him and asked, “changbin?”

you knew you were correct the second he started giggling and jumping up and down. you laughed, every cell inside you bursting with joy because there he is!

“changbin? what’re you…” felix followed changbin’s gaze, “oh my god! is that y/n?”

felix deciphered a yes!!! amidst all of changbin’s excited noises, so he nudged changbin, “stop waving and go say ‘hello’!”

changbin bounded towards you, unable to stop his smile from growing bigger and bigger as the distance between you two finally disappeared.

“y/n! i’m so sorry i’m not wearing the shirt! i messed up and ordered the wrong size!”

you giggled at the pout that formed on his face, despite the look of pure joy in his eyes, “it’s okay, changbin! you look cute! besides, that would explain why this one isn’t in my usual size.”

“really?” changbin felt relieved, “so i didn’t mess up as badly as i thought?”

“no, not at all,” you shook your head, overwhelmed by the cuteness of changbin, your soulmate, “i can switch with you–since you must have mine in your closet–so we can match next time!”

changbin shook his head, “no way. you look way too cute in that for me to give you a different one.”

“should we share it then?” you joked.

“why shouldn’t we? we’re sharing the rest of our lives, aren’t we?”

you felt heat rush to your face at his words, bringing yet another giggle to changbin’s lips. you heard someone call his name with the news that they had to leave in a few minutes, which prompted changbin to get your contact information. the smile never left his face, even when he started to say goodbye. in his mind, nothing was more exciting than the fact that tonight, he could finally ask you how was your day, my love?

“i’ll talk to you later then, yeah?” you beamed.

“yes, please! i’m so sorry i have to leave right now, but i promise i’ll make it up to you.”

“i do not doubt that, changbin.”

you waved, watching him walk in the direction he came from. after a few steps, he turned around to look at you again.

“what’re you smiling so much for?” you giggled.

“i guess you really are my good luck charm today, y/n.”

you felt butterflies swarm inside you as your laughs mixed, filling the crowded street with pure joy and endless possibilities.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[pedrosyouknowwhat]

surrender

Summary: Catfish is made to choose.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOOOOT EATTTT. Noncon, dark dark themes, sexual slavery, reader is in pain and exhausted, heed all previous warnings, threatening, Dark Joel, forced drinking, manipulation, mentions of noncon, idk what else to tag

Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x reader, Dark! Javier Peña x reader, Dark! Marcus Acacius x reader, Dark! Oberyn Martell x reader, Dark! Agent Whiskey x reader, Dark! Dieter Bravo x reader, Dark! Frankie Morales x reader

Series Masterlist

Joel felt over aware. As he sat down on the brittle wooden chair, fingerprints drawing circles on the table, the whiskey slid easily down his throat. Something he had gotten from trading with Jackson.

Your image dwindled on his mind, growing weaker by each passing minute. Naked, battered and bruised. He knew you were in pain, pretty cunt gaping obscenely. He knew that he could just crawl over you and fuck you once again if he wished it. You still laid in his bed, bathed and draped in new sheets, awaiting.

The door creaked open, the afternoon breeze accompanying the intruder of his thoughts. Whiskey’s shoulders squared with pride and his chest puffed, closing the door with a cocky kick of his heel.

Joel observed him as he strutted towards the table. His arm stretched under the thick denim of his jacket, and he presented his palm with a cocky grin.

The metal was tarnished, coppery, but the outline was clear. A tiny helicopter pin, Whiskey offered.

Joel felt amusement tug at his lips, but he schooled his expression. The pin clattered against the table, Joel’s eyes glued to it.

Sweet fucking Bingo.

The key to make you finally un-cling to Catfish right in his hands. He took it in his pointer and thumb, observing the way the kitchen light caught onto it.

Whiskey hummed, snapping him out of his thoughts once more.

“I think this settles for a good hour…” He drawled, eyebrow cocking teasingly. A part of him was joking, and the other part of him created a prominent bulge in his pants.

Joel avoided a disgusted scrunch of his face, fighting twitching muscles.

“She’ll need a break for tonight.” He declared, a solemn order that wiped the smirk off his man’s face. "But you'll be rewarded for this, that I promise."

Joel would he lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way Catfish flinched as the refrigerator door slammed closed under his grip. The cool, condensed bottle sent jolts along his hands. He was buzzing with excitement as he twirled on his feet and planted the bottle on the table with a slight thump.

He ignored the hollers of enjoyment of his fellow men, kicking the chair and taking a seat. Catfish froze under his stare, the all consuming guilt, he pondered.

He grabbed the tumblers on the table, filling them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He poured more onto the last one, and pushed the glass to his designated driver.

Catfish’s brows furrowed under the baseball cap, shaking his head slightly. Joel could see the circles under his eyes, could feel the tenseness of his tanned skin; all a result of you. Your stay in the house was driving him mad.

“Not drinking tonight.” Catfish grumbled, but Joel tapped the glass in front of him.

“You’ll need it.” He muttered, enough to make the others cast side eyed glances at him, with sneaky intrigue. An order.

Javier cleared his throat, flicking ashes into the tray. “How’s the bitch?”

Bitch. Joel liked the ring of that nickname.

Joel’s lips curled into a sloppy smirk. “Fucked out.” He responded casually. “Giving her some damn rest, she took it like a champ.”

Javier smiled in agreement, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Catfish’s hand tense around the condensed glass. Of course he wouldn't enjoy the way they talked about her.

“Gonna bring some ‘plan b’s tomorrow.” He informed, gingerly. “no need to knock her up.”

Joel felt his muscles turn taut, and he grounded his teeth.

“Definitely.” Dieter added, with an air of authority he shouldn’t have. “No need for a little fucker here.”

Some laughed, Oberyn tsked, eyes dreamy as always. “She’d look nice, all round, those tits would be something I’d die for.”

The chair screeched as Catfish rose to his feet, still clutching the tumbler in his hand. Eyes shot at him.

“Where ya going?” Joel barked, a bit more forceful than he would wanted to. God, adrenaline was nibbling at him.

Hatred.

It spread all around Catfish’s face as he looked at them. As if he was any more worthy than they were, any more good. A look he had from the very first time, when Joel recruited him, that told him he thought he was far above them.

“I’m going to bed.” He answered, though his feet stayed stuck to the ground, awaiting.

“No, you’re not.” Joel nudged to the chair. Catfish sat down with a sigh. Good boy.

“What’s the matter?” Acacius frowned, leaning back into the wooden seat. “Don’t like us talking about her like that?”

Catfish’s jaw twitched.

“You never had an issue before.” Whiskey added, the thick smoke of his cigar curling around him in the air. "you even fucked some bitches back then."

Catfish took a sip of whatever was in his cup, perhaps to deter the questioning, perhaps because of the way Joel burnt holes into his skull with his eyes was making him uneasy.

And they persisted.

“You are too soft on her,” Javier deemed between curls of smoke. "that's why she clings so much to ya."

They agreed silently, and Joel felt the flames of jealousy licking at his spine. Each time you mumbled his name softly, he could almost feel the need in your voice for it to be him. To be Catfish the man that was pleasuring you.

As if he was the only man that could do it.

"What were you talking about in the shower?"

Catfish's face paled, but he still cleared his throat. "Nothin'."

"Didn't sound like nothing." Joel bit, studying carefully the nervous flicker of Catfish's hands. "She wants ya to fuck her?"

Catfish grimaced at the crassness of his words, untouched by the way Joel dipped his hand onto the pocket of his shirt.

"She's loosing her mind." He cleared, voice a plea, an excuse, whatever. It didn't matter to Joel.

He shrugged before dropping the pin onto the table; Catfish's eyes flickered from the dark onyx pools that gazed slowly up at him and the tarnished metal that clattered against the table.

His lips parted.

Bingo.

"How's your boy?" Joel drawled, tapping his big, imposing fingers on the wooden table. For a mere moment, he was alone with Catfish, just them under the warm lamp light. "What was his name, Tyler?"

"Joel." Catfish groaned, eyes glued to the silver helicopter.

"When was the last time you saw him, huh?"

Hands curled onto fists, and they slammed against the table. Enough.

Perhaps Joel was blissfully ignorant of the men around them, but Catfish was painfully aware. They were the only thing deterring him from pouncing on top of him.

"What have you done?" He spat, voice shivering.

Joel chuckled darkly, "Nothin'." He retorted.

He could see the way silence clawed at his ears, oh so begging for an answer.

"I haven't done anything, yet." Joel punctuated, slowly feeding him. "Just like you haven't fucked our little bitch yet."

Realization casted on Catfish features, and he shook his head on instinct.

"Joel, this is serious-"

"You know what is serious to me?" He cut him short. "That I cannot possibly trust one of my men anymore, just because he is pussy-whipped with a pussy he doesn't even fuck."

Joel's glare was intense, diminishing Catfish with his sharp tongue.

"And if I can't trust ya, then I have no reason to keep evading that little camp were your son is at."

His final jab made Catfish's eyes cloud with frustration, tears almost brimming. Fear bubbled in his throat as he spoke.

"What do you want from me?"

Cracked.

"You have to fuck her."

Catfish let out a dry, humorless laugh. Panic was nipping at him.

"What do you win from that?"

Joel's brows furrowed. "I miss the times were you just obeyed."

But as his hand reached over to the pin, Catfish spoke again. "Fine, Joel, fine."

Sweat beaded at his forehead just below his baseball cap, and his puppy dog eyes were wide, fearful.

A smug grin tugged at Joel's lips, triumphant in all it's glory. He downed the glass and rose to his feet in anticipation.

"You don't mean-"

"Yes, now. Finish your drink."

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