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endearng · 2 months ago

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Tie

Pairing: switch!Spencer Reid x sub!fem!reader Summary: Spencer gets unreasonably jealous of you. You let him take control to comfort and reassure him. That's what loving girlfriends do. WC: 3.6k Warnings: smut - oral (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, kinda softdom!Spencer, reader is compliant to everything he says, he's just as desperate as her, sir kink, creamp1e (i long for a better word), bondage, unprotected pinv, dirty talk (they yap), pet names, pussy slapping. Jealous Spencer deserves a warning of its own. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: I have no excuse for myself (I'm ovulating). This is pure filth and indulgent because I was being tortured with thoughts of Spencer.

Feedbacks are always welcomed and appreciated <3 Masterlist

Subtle touches from Spencer all night had you going crazy. Well, they weren’t exactly that subtle.

During a particular conversation you were having with Rossi about Italian cuisine (you were an enthusiast, both of cooking and eating Italian dishes like nothing else existed), Spencer, who had an armed slung over the chair you were sitting on, started twirling your hair in his fingers. When you laughed at some remark about how French people are insane for combining dairy with fish, your boyfriend pulled your hair rather crudely. You glared at him from the corner of your eye.

You got somewhat angry because it was uncomfortable for you to be that intimate around others, but his teasing worked wonders on you. Now, you wanted his touch to be bolder, thirstier, needier, just to match your own sinful thoughts and wants. Right now, Spencer was saying goodbye to Rossi, who was waiting for a cab to take him and his wife back home. Spencer's hand rested at the small of your back. The wine you sipped all through the night, combined with Spencer's bratty behavior, was now making your pussy throb with need for your boyfriend. Nevertheless, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you all worked up in public. "Goodbye, Krystall, and again, happy birthday. Thank you for including me! It was incredible," you said to the woman, who hugged you warmly and thanked you with a smile on her face. "Looking forward to those cooking sessions you mentioned earlier," you said, a big smile on your face as you gave David Rossi a hug.

"Anytime, bellissima." He said simply as you pulled away, smile gracing his face. You held out your hand to Spencer to walk back to his car.

The nickname had struck a nerve. He wasn't jealous, no, he trusted you with his body and his soul, even if he, as a man of science, didn't believe in the latter — that's how much he loved and trusted you, and it was Rossi, for God's sake... Still, he was just another man. Another stupid, territorial man. He opened the door for you and you entered the car, giving him a peck on the lips, "Thanks, handsome."

"Anytime, bellissima," he said through gritted teeth after he closed the door and as you fastened your seatbelt, out of your earshot. He turned around to enter the car, taking the driver's seat.

You went home silently, but you could sense the heavy atmosphere between you on the way there. As you entered your apartment, he got down on his knees to take off your shoes for you. He always did it, no matter what. Apparently, acting weird was no exception to his care with you. You bit your lip, a little apprehensive to bring up the subject. "Thank you, baby," you said softly instead.

"You're welcome, darling." he said, not looking at you and taking longer than necessary in his task.

You sucked in a breath. "Okay, baby, what was that? We need to talk about it."

"What was what?"

"Just when we left the restaurant. I said thanks and you basically ignored me all the way here," you explained, even if you knew he definitely knew what you were talking about. your hand found the nape of his neck, making him look up at you. He had a guilty look on his face.

Busted.

He sighed, "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was mean." He apologized, eyes sincerely searching your form and hands reaching up to rest on the sides of your hips.

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Bellissima. You know what it means. I just got... jealous? I should be the only one complimenting you," he said, now standing at full height in front of you. Kissing your lips, hands caressing your waist, touch light as a feather, "telling you how much you mean to me," you sighed as his lips brushed the skin of your neck, "how much it drives me crazy just seeing you," he bit the sweet spot just behind your ear, "my beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend. Mine."

You pulled on his hair so he could see your features. Looking him dead in the eye, with an almost angry look on your face. You wanted him to pay for everything he had done that night. "Baby, you were touching me all night, knowing that you were driving me insane. knowing you're the only one who gets to do that," you leaned in to kiss him softly. "And then throw a tantrum like the spoiled little thing that you are just because someone said a word to me? You know compliments mean nothing when it comes from someone who's not you, baby. Thought you knew better."

Silence. He looked at you like you kicked his dog.

"Remind me, then," he retorted, looking you in the eye. "Remind me how much you're mine and mine only."

One of your favorite things about your relationship with Spencer was that, in public, your dynamic was totally different from what you were like between four walls. When you were surrounded by people, Spencer acted like a gentleman, always making sure to cater to your every whim, opening car doors, taking off your shoes for you, picking nice places to take you on dates, accepting your suggestions of what to wear — it was no coincidence that he looked a lot more styled lately, but you also loved his usual attires. It was how you met him and how you fell in love with him, after all.

But, in the bedroom (or wherever he decided to have you), it was totally different. You were compliant to everything he said, letting go of the control you had over yourself, over your relationship, over everything so he could take you to fucking heavens. You obeyed everything without so much a "yes, sir", and he fucking loved it.

He unzipped the skin-tight dress after leading you back to your shared room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, you stood before him, whose tie was loosened around his neck. "Is this all for me?" he asked as he saw what you had underneath your dress all night long, absolutely sick with the slightest idea that someone else could have that.

You sighed as he kissed your neck and trailed down to your breasts, easily unclasping your bra. "Yes, sir, all for you."

Just like clockwork, all his attention drifted to your breasts. One of his large, calloused hands held your waist securely and the other played with one of your nipples as he licked the other, his hot tongue circling the nub, making you whimper and sending a rush of wetness through your core. "mmm, always need my mouth full of you, angel."

"nnngh, it feels so good."

He smiled on your skin, biting your nipple afterwards. The sting made you see stars and desperate to feel him in some sort of way, you'd take anything he had to offer you. You just needed to be touched. As he continued your ministrations on your breasts, switching from one to the other, you moaned, your hands finding his hair. "Sir—ah—, can you please—touch me?"

He stopped his movements and looked up at you, laughing mockingly. "Is that all it takes, pretty? A few minutes of my mouth on you and you're already so pliant? So eager for me to touch you?"

"Yes, sir. I need you so bad."

"Tell me, then," he scoffed, "where do you want me to touch you?"

Your incoherent babbles meant nothing, so he just laughed at your poor attempt at an answer.

"You're so good at begging, aren't you?" You nodded, licking your lips with the sight of his wet ones. "Wanna kiss me, baby?"

"Always do. Can I?"

"Yes, you can." No matter how dominant he was, he could never deny you a kiss.

You leaned down to kiss him. The brush of your lips alone made Spencer crazy, craving more and more. He could spend hours just kissing you, never getting tired of the mind numbing sensation it had on him. You deepened the kiss, your tongue caressing his, earning a moan from his end. You smiled. "I love kissing you." You whispered as you barely pulled away, breathless.

"I know you do, pretty."

His hands trailed on the sides of your body, earning a shiver from you. Just as he reached the hem of your panties, they traveled up again, grazing the skin of your arms instead. As he found your hands, he gave them a gentle squeeze. He stood up and looked down at you, in for another kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me," he groaned. His words only spurred you further. "Take off my shirt. Slowly." he commanded. And you complied, taking every chance to brush your fingers against his hot skin, desperate to rake your nails on his chest, to make him shiver for you, too.

Spencer turned you around gently so you could see yourself in the big mirror placed in front of the bed. You watched as he pushed your hair out of his way, resting it on your left shoulder to give him access to your neck, his hands finding your breasts so he could play with them, too. He started with light kisses on your neck, lips barely brushing the area, making goosebumps soon erupt on your skin. His caresses got gradually more aggressive, making you blatantly moan his name when he bit the sweet spot behind your ear and grinded his clothed dick against your ass. You whimpered, overwhelmed with so many stimuli.

Turning you to face him, again, he sat you on the edge of the bed, covered only by your underwear in front of him. You could see the tent in his pants and you were desperate to taste him, to take him in your mouth in order to make him as crazy as he made you. God, the things you'd do to hear him whimper like he knew you loved to hear...

"Thinking about something, angel?" He chuckled, mocking you yet again when he saw what were you looking at and the position you put yourself in: cunt in full display after you placed both feet at the edge of the bed.

You nodded violently. That was how you always found yourself pleading for him. It didn't take much, honestly. "Please, sir, I'll do anything. jus', please, let me feel you,"

Anything...

"Aw, pretty, you're so desperate for me," his tone was condescending. "thought you'd wanted someone else for a moment tonight."

"No! No! Never, sir. Never. I only want you. I only want you to touch me."

Leaning down, his fingers raked over your stomach, ghosting over the fabric of your panties. Spencer groaned as he touched the wet patch on your underwear, glistening, begging for attention.

"'s just how much I want you..."

"Look at you, angel, begging me to have my way with you," he sneered, "so pretty..." he muttered, getting down on his knees.

Through your soaked underwear, Spencer caressed your mound and outer lips, almost as if he was drawing your cunt from scratch, tracing every single feature, making it cling even harder to the garment. Each touch made you feel eager. Want something, say something, right?

He teased you for what felt like hours, but when you were finally able to form a sentence, he pushed your panties to the side and he moaned lowly at the sight of you. "Spence—sir..." You started, but were cut by a breathless grunt that raked through you as he licked a broad stripe on your slit.

"You are soaked, princess, had to have a taste of you... you were sayin'?"

"Please, don't stop, sir," your hands flew to his hair, trying to push him back to what he had started.

"Nuh-uh, princess," he tsked, gathering his tie from the floor, "You don't deserve to touch me after the little show you put up today. I’m gonna have to tie you up, alright?"

There it was. Your punishment.

One thing about Spencer is that he always made sure to tell you whatever he was planning on doing with you, both so that you could say no if you wanted to and also because it turned you on beyond limits. It made your heart soar, he was so careful with you, making every man on earth seem like straight up Neanderthals. You whined at his plan as he looked at you to see if you were okay with the idea.

You jutted your lip out, brows furrowing, but you couldn't disagree with him. Adorable, he thought. He tied both of your hands behind your back, using his fucking tie. "... Yes, 's alright. I jus' wish I could touch you so badly," you complained.

"I know, pretty," he cooed, "that's why I'm gonna give you a chance to be good for me, and when you prove to me you can do it, you can touch me all you want."

"O-okay," you stuttered as he started placing teasing kisses on your inner thighs. You sighed.

"You smell so good. Want me to taste you too, hm? You're soaked, your pussy is begging me to do something about it."

"Yes, yes, I do!" you almost yelled. "Please, sir, I'll be good for you."

"I know you fucking will." he stated. Just then, he started licking your pussy, delicately at first just so you could get used to the feeling of finally having him the way you wanted. His hands held your hips in place to stop you from moving. He was the one in control, after all.

Then, once he sucked your clit between his lips, he started flicking his tongue against the nub, eliciting moans from you. The taste of you in his tongue was something he could never get used to, every fucking time felt like the first. He felt addicted to the power it had over him. The best he could do was at least try to be in control. You squirmed, almost like you wanted to get away from him, but his firm hands held you in place. "Be good and stay still," he muttered against your core, slapping your pussy once. You nodded, whining, too lost in the feeling after the sting, in the feeling of his tongue punishing you in a rhythm that put you in a frenzy. Spencer's middle finger slowly pushed inside your fluttering walls. "You're dripping all over my fingers. What a messy girl."

Knuckle deep inside your cunt and mouth feverishly and steadily working on your clit, your boyfriend started to feel more and more desperate by the second with the sounds coming from your mouth. You, on the other hand, could almost taste your release, a complete mess on the bed, chants leaving your reddened lips from all the biting, "yes, sir! You make me feel s'good, you're s'deep in me. Fuck! I'm your good g—" as he heard your words tinged with desperation in a high pitched voice and felt the muscles in your pussy tighten, he quickly stopped his actions.

He would bet money that it hurt him more than it did you.

"Noooo..." you whined, like a spoiled brat. A breathless, messy, spoiled brat. You knew what you were in for from the moment he took off your shoes. "Please, please, sir. You can f-eel how desperate I am for you," you blabbered, trying to argue. "Can I show you?" You decided to take matters into your own hands. Well, as best as you could.

He stood up. "Let's see what you've got, princess." He gripped his shaft in front of you, making saliva pool in your mouth. "You're not even being fucked yet, and you're already this dumb, baby?" He sneered at you. You looked up at his face, taking in his dilated pupils watching you. You looked like any man's wet dream, perfect pussy on display, chest heaving with anticipation of what was coming next, face contorted in the filthiest expression in the world.

He would be happy just to watch you, but he was actually able to taste, touch, see, smell and hear the whole thing.

He was the luckiest man in the world.

Half sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and already off of his slacks and briefs, he beckoned you over to his lap. You kneeled somewhat awkwardly on the bed to hover on his lap, cunt dripping arousal on his belly as you did so. He groaned, the dominant facade faltering for a moment. He had to be the most indulgent dominant man ever, because he was barely able to resist you and your seducing ways. "See how wet you make me?" You whispered, eyes focused on his, which looked directly at the sheer liquid pooling on his stomach.

"You're such a good girl, baby" in a weakened voice made its way out of his mouth. "Since you asked so nicely and you have proof, why don't you show me how much you love riding me, huh? Come on, pretty, sit on my cock. Ride me." His commanding sentences made your cunt gush yet again.

"Yes, sir!" you exclaimed, ready to obey his commands.

Spencer gripped his base and rubbed his dick against your folds. He groaned, biting his lip and it took every single ounce of self control not to kiss him senseless. After some more teasing, he muttered, "You can do it now."

You sat down on him, slowly, pushing the tip in. "Fuck," hoarse voice, just the way he loved it, "you feel so good, sir. And you're not even fully in yet."

"Come on, nice and slow, princess."

You sank a little further, his girth stretching you out so deliciously that it made you shut your eyes closed as goosebumps erupted on your skin, pure bliss running through you. "Fuck—ah— you're so, so hard, sir," you hissed.

"Yes, that's it," he grabbed your hands in one of his. He felt you clench around him. "Gonna make sure you get off on my cock alone."

Recalling his demand, you obeyed. Nice and slow, savoring the feeling of having him buried to the hilt inside of you. each time you pulled back just to slam his dick inside again made you feel dizzy. Spencer was mesmerized by the sight before him. First, your expression told him how much you enjoyed riding him, mouth agape to let out the dirtiest moans and words, unlike the poised woman he liked to brag about to whoever listened. "Fuck, you're so deep. 's so good, love it when you let me ride you, sir."

Spencer kept silent for a moment, still admiring your form. He watched as the hair on your skin shivered each time he started to meet your thrusts, eager to make you his. his eyes drifted to your breasts, bouncing with every movement of your bodies. It was wanton, watching you get off on top of him, using him to chase your own high, but the sight that got him enthralled was your pussy making his cock glisten with your arousal. "Yeah, pretty? So what do you say? D'you remember you have to be nice?"

"Thank you, sir"

"Thank you for what?" he urged.

"That's right. You're taking me so well, princess, fucking hell," he cursed. "Such a tight pussy, baby, so perfect for me."

“Thank you for letting me sit on your cock. Ah! I'm all yours, sir! Yours."

At this point, Spencer was a goner below you. You rocked your hips and he met you thrusts ruthlessly, focused on chasing your high. You slowed your movements, clit grinding against his pubic bone, dick still rock hard inside of you. You felt the telling signs of your orgasm approaching and, mind filled with thoughts of all the filth you've done with him. You still wanted to do much more. "Fuck, pretty girl—you're so good at taking me."

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, your tits brushing against his skin adding to the whirlwind of sensations. "Can I come, sir? Please! I want to come all over your cock," all your sentences sounded like heavenly, pathetic whines to Spencer's ears.

"You hafta take it, princess," he groaned, hands guiding your movements. "Take. It." He urged, words emphasized by two particularly hard thrusts. “Wanna come inside of you.”

"Yes, please! I'm all yours—Spencer!" You yelled out his name as your orgasm washed over you, still grinding against him.

The sound of his name leaving your lips was enough to follow you not shortly after. “Gonna come—fuck—inside you.” He gritted. After spilling inside you, he kept fucking his cum back inside with a few sloppier thrusts.

You crashed beside him, taking a minute to catch your breath. Spencer quickly reached to undo his tie on your wrists, kissing the soft skin after removing the garment. You chuckled at his care. “Don't ever stop me from touching you again,” you muttered.

“What are you going to do, angel? Stop me?” He laughed softly.

He cleaned you both up and you had your hands free to caress your boyfriend’s skin all night long.

The next morning, Spencer had you on the phone as he walked in the bullpen, saying “yes”, “of course”, and a series of different agreements, gleeful expression on his face.

He heard Derek Morgan chuckle. "Aw, Reid, she already telling you what to do?"

"There's no time for her to start, you know that, Derek," Emily quipped.

They had no idea you were telling him about the wet dream you had about him fucking you in the middle of the bullpen.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #switch!spencer reid #softdom!spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid self insert

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travel-with-ray · 2 years ago

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travelwithandrew · 2 years ago

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babytaximelbourne · 3 months ago

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witchywithwhiskey · 6 months ago

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a birthday ended with a bang

pairing: best friend!steve rogers x female reader

summary: your best friend picks you up for some ice cream on his birthday on the fourth of july and things escalate.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, sexual tension, kissing, dry humping/dry sex, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (sunshine, baby), aftercare, very quick friends to lovers

word count: 4.1k

a/n: ooof i have been suffering from the worst writer's block and i seriously didn't think i was gonna be able to post anything for steve's birthday, which would've made me so sad. i finally got through the worst of it i think, as of yesterday, but so this was written in a rush and i'm sorry if it's not very good but i tried!!!! anyway i hope everyone has a happy steve's birthday ❤️🤍💙

I’m picking you up in 10.

It was just after sunset on the Fourth of July, the sky still fading from a glowing indigo into the deep midnight blue of night, when the text from your best friend Steve Rogers came through.

His text came as a surprise. Steve had been scheduled to work all day and he’d said he just wanted to go home and sleep after, so you hadn’t thought you’d see him. Instead, you had plans to celebrate his birthday on the weekend, but you’d have been a liar if you’d said you weren’t disappointed you wouldn’t get to see him on his actual birthday.

So you were excited by his text—but less so by the implication he would be taking you somewhere.

After all, you’d already gotten comfy and cozy in your bed, wearing a skimpy tank top and shorts you’d sleep in, and you didn’t want to get dressed again. Thankfully, you knew Steve wouldn’t care what you wore, but you were a nice friend, so as you dragged yourself out of your comfortable bed, you sent him a warning.

i’m already in my pjs

By the time he replied, five minutes had already gone by. You’d managed to collect your keys and wallet from your bag, shoving them in a little wristlet that you looped around your arm as you stuffed your feet into some sandals. You read his text as you pushed through the door to your little cottage, prepared to wait the other five minutes for him in the cool July evening.

Idc what you’re wearing. It’s my birthday and we’re getting ice cream.

You snorted a laugh, hearing your best friend’s bossy tone in your head, shaking your head to yourself at how much you loved it while you locked your door. Shoving your phone in your wristlet, you sat down on the top step of your porch and watched the neighborhood kids run through the yards along the street waving sparklers through the air.

Steve’s truck rolled to a stop in front of your small yard exactly 10 minutes after he’d texted you. An easy smile pulled up the corners of your mouth and you bounded down your wooden stairs, hurling yourself into the cab of your best friend’s truck.

“Happy birthday!” you cried as soon as you were inside. You tossed your wristlet on the dash and slid across the bench seat to throw your arms around Steve’s neck, hugging him tight while you pressed a smacking kiss to his cheek.

His low laugh was like warm honey trickling down your spine, his breath skimming past your cheek and making goosebumps raise all up and down your arms. Your heart thumped in your chest and you buried your face in your best friend’s shoulder, ignoring the way your body was reacting—like it always did when you got too close to Steve.

Seemingly unaware of your plight, Steve’s hand settled on your forearm, squeezing softly before his warm palm slid up to your shoulder, his other arm digging into the seat and wrapping around your waist to haul you closer. You let out a little squeak of surprise, burying your face further in his shoulder to hide the fact that you were enjoying the way he held you far too much.

“Thank you, sunshine,” Steve rumbled, resting his head on the crown of yours as he hugged you back. For a long, long moment, the two of you sat entwined together in Steve’s truck, just enjoying the feeling of being close, though you suspected it meant much more to you than it did to your best friend.

Finally, when you realized the hug might be getting weird, and bordering on something more-than-friendly, you extricated yourself from Steve, smiling up at him as you broke the quiet. “Let’s go get some ice cream,” you said, your voice a little lower and raspier than normal as you stared into his achingly familiar blue eyes.

A grin spread slowly across Steve’s face, and you felt your heart beat unsteadily in your chest at the devastating handsomeness of the expression. But thankfully Steve looked away and your lungs spasmed, begging you to breathe, so you sucked in some air while your best friend grabbed a ball of fabric from the backseat of his truck.

“Here, I’ve got the windows down,” he said, pushing the garment into your hands.

Only when you shook it out did you see it was one of Steve’s hoodies, the navy blue sweatshirt massive to fit over your best friend’s broad shoulders. On the front, to one side and below the collar, Steve’s name was stitched into the cotton. Your heart gave another flip at the thought of wearing Steve’s name stitched over your chest.

“I don’t want you getting cold,” your best friend murmured, his voice lower and rougher. When you looked back at him, Steve wore an expression you couldn’t quite interpret, his gaze almost possessive. It made something low in your belly squirm.

Swallowing thickly, you turned your attention to tugging the hoodie over your head, inhaling the familiar scent of Steve’s cologne. For the brief moment when your face was hidden, you closed your eyes in pleasure, feeling your body heat—from more than just the warmth of the sweatshirt. Then you pulled the fabric down over your head and stuffed your arms into the sleeves.

The hoodie was big on you, but you loved the feel of it, and you smiled up at Steve to show your appreciation. Your best friend was wearing a pleased smirk, his eyes a little hooded as they raked over the sight of you in his sweatshirt.

“Looks good on you, sunshine,” he rumbled, something new in his tone that you’d never heard before.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you whispered shyly, wrapping your arms around yourself. You felt a little awkward under the weight of his gaze, his eyes feeling like they were burning you up from the inside out, so you gave your best friend a goofy grin and said, “Now’m all nice and toasty.”

Steve snorted a laugh, which broke the tension between the two of you, the mood in the truck lightening instantly. Shaking his head and wiping a hand over his face, Steve turned back to the steering wheel, and shifted his truck into drive.

You started to move into the passenger seat, intent on buckling up, but Steve’s big hand shot out and he grabbed your thigh, just below where the hem of your pajama shorts ended. His palm was warm, his fingers slightly rough with callouses, and you were immediately, acutely aware of the fact that Steve had never, ever touched you there before.

Heat crashed through your core as you sucked in a gasp of surprise. Instinctively, your fingers closed around your best friend’s wrist, holding him where he was, making sure he kept touching you. You stared down at his hand, your mind spinning a little at the sight of him clutching your thigh.

Steve’s fingers dug lightly into your thigh, almost reflexively, like he couldn’t help himself from seeing just how soft you were beneath his hand. Before you could do more than squeak out a quiet sound of delight, though, Steve pulled away and cleared his throat. The fingers of the hand that had been touching you curled and flexed like he already missed your softness.

“Want you close,” Steve muttered, his tone almost apologetic, like was asking for forgiveness for grabbing you so suddenly. His eyes dropped to somewhere near your feet and you watched as his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Please, sunshine.” His plea was rough and so quiet you had a hard time hearing it over the sound of the fireworks your neighbors were setting off at random intervals.

“‘Course, Steve,” you said, your own voice soft and breathy, almost sounding sultry to your ears. You swallowed to wash away some of the throatiness, and tried to put on a light, friendly tone to steer you and Steve back to something normal—not whatever alternate universe you’d entered when you’d gotten in his truck. “You want birthday cuddles, you’ll get birthday cuddles.”

Steve let out a small snort and, as you watched, a tension you hadn’t realized had been there drained from his shoulders. Your best friend’s eyes raised back to yours, a flicker of something restless and reckless coursing through you while a small smirk tugged at the corners of his soft lips.

“Yeah, sunshine, gimme some birthday cuddles.”

When you’d said the words, they had sounded friendly, innocent even. But there was something in Steve’s voice that sent a shiver racing down your spine, heat simmering between your thighs. You told yourself he hadn’t intended his words to have such a reaction and pushed your body’s desirous response to the back of your mind as you shifted into the middle seat.

Carefully, you tucked yourself into Steve’s side, wrapping your arms around his bicep and clinging to him like he was your favorite stuffed animal. The bare skin of your leg brushed against the rough denim of his jeans and you trembled slightly, the sensation feeling far more erotic than it should. Steve’s hand landed on your leg just above your knee.

It was, ostensibly, a much more friendlier grip on you, but you felt arousal flare, hot and quick, in your core. Again, you ignored it and tipped your face up, planting your chin on the edge of Steve’s broad shoulder as you smiled up at him. Steve ducked down, kissing your nose and making you giggle, seemingly back to his normal self—your slightly silly best friend.

“Alright, let’s get some ice cream,” Steve rumbled, repeating your words while he gave your knee a squeeze, using his other hand to turn his truck around on your street and head in the direction of town.

There was a slight chill in the air as it swirled through the open windows of the truck cab, the heat of the July day having burned off and leaving only the coolness of night. Thanks to Steve’s hoodie, and the way your body was pressed into his warmth, you didn’t feel anything but comfortable, the breeze tickling your cheeks and making you smile.

For a little while, you rode in silence with your best friend, but your mind kept straying to the feeling of Steve’s hand on your leg, to the memory of him gripping your thigh. You couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have his big hands roaming all over your body, groping your thighs and hips…and other things.

To distract yourself, you raised your voice above the wind and asked, “How was work?”

“It was fine,” Steve answered, his deep rumble sending a tremor of delight through your body.

His eyes were on the road since he was navigating his truck through the town where you both lived, making turns to get to the small ice cream shop that would be open late for the holiday business. Still, Steve managed to shoot you a smile that made your insides flutter as he went on.

“I would’ve much rather gone to the fair with you, though.”

A melty, gooey heat swirled in your belly and you squeezed his arm in yours, hiding a big, beaming grin in your best friend’s shoulder at his comment. When you managed to get control of yourself so you didn’t look like a lovesick fool, you raised your face again.

“We’re going on Saturday,” you reminded him, still smiling a little goofily. “Are you going to win me a new stuffie?”

“Sunshine,” Steve started, using one hand to turn his truck into the small parking lot of the ice cream shop. “I’m going to win you all the stuffies.” His voice was warm and affectionate and you couldn’t help the way your heart beat unsteadily at his promise. Your best friend was none the wiser, though, as he parked his truck and turned to you. “C’mon.”

Steve helped you climb down from his truck, lacing his fingers through yours as you walked into the shop. It was busy, families and groups of friends getting some last-minute ice cream before heading over to the fireworks just outside of town. Steve and you fell into an easy conversation, your best friend asking you about your day to pass time while you waited in line.

Once it was your turn to order, you asked for your favorite in a cone, then Steve got a couple scoops of dark chocolate in a sugar cone. You fought with Steve over who was going to pay. He insisted he should pay because he’d dragged you out of bed, and you argued it was his birthday and there was no way you were going to let him pay.

Unfortunately, Steve’s arms were longer than yours and he was able to shove his card across the counter farther than you could. Grumbling about your stubborn best friend, you dropped a couple dollars into the tip jar and grabbed your ice cream. Steve followed you out, laughing at your poutiness and led you back to his truck, opening the driver side door for you and holding your cone while you got in.

Without being asked, you sat in the middle seat again, and held Steve’s ice cream while he drove, pushing it in his face whenever it started dripping. Both of you were laughing at the ridiculousness of him licking up the dripping ice cream while trying to drive by the time Steve pulled onto a dirt road that led up a hill beyond the edge of town.

After a few minutes, the trees parted into a clearing at the top of the hill and Steve rolled his truck to a stop, putting it in park overlooking the field where the town’s Fourth of July fireworks display would be. Wordlessly, you handed him his ice cream and the two of you sat in comfortable silence waiting for the show to begin while you enjoyed your sweet treat together.

Steve finished his cone first, and you could feel his gaze on you while you licked up the last remnants of creamy goodness. You popped the last little bit of your cone into your mouth with a satisfied hum, your tongue licking sticky sweetness from your lips.

“You have something on your…” Steve trailed off when you turned to him, his eyes dropping to your mouth and sliding along the curve of them.

You felt his gaze like a physical thing, heat settling heavily in your core as warmth bloomed between your thighs. Then his thumb was following the the path of his eyes, swiping away some ice cream from the edge of your mouth that your tongue hadn’t been able to reach.

Acting on impulse, and not questioning where it came from, you chased after Steve’s thumb, your tongue darting out to click the sweetness from the pad of his finger. Since your eyes were fixed on your best friend’s face, you watched his blue gaze darken and go heavy-lidded, his own mouth falling open with surprise.

Heat filled your cheeks, making your face feel like it was on fire. “Umm,” you said, not knowing what else to say.

It was on the tip of your tongue to apologize for licking your best friend, but just then, the first boom, pop and fizzle of fireworks sounded. Dazzling red light distracted you from Steve for a moment, dragging your eyes away to watch the fireworks display begin. You’d jumped at the first boom, the loud noise surprising you.

It was nothing, though, compared to the shock you felt when Steve grabbed your face, turned you back to him and ducked his head to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. Air filled your lungs as you sucked in a sharp breath, your body frozen while you sat there stunned, unable to do anything but feel the softness of Steve’s lips against yours.

Another sharp boom from overhead shocked you enough to make you jump again, and suddenly you remembered how to move. Your hands curled into the front of Steve’s shirt, clinging to him as you surged forward, pressing your lips harder against your best friend’s.

Steve groaned low in his throat and your response seemed to unleash something within your best friend. Between one breath and the next, he was hauling you into his lap, your legs were straddling his thighs and his mouth was doing its best to devour yours.

You could taste the chocolate on his tongue as it slipped between your lips, exploring every inch of you and stroking against your own. Giddy excitement and heated desire swirled through your body, making you feel like you could float away as you and your best friend tasted and explored each other.

Your hands uncurled from Steve’s shirt and slid up his shoulders, diving into the soft blond hair at the nape of his neck. He groaned again when you raked your nails softly against his scalp, his mouth going soft and slack as tremors of delight wracked his broad shoulders.

“Fuck, sunshine,” Steve grunted, his hands pushing beneath the hem of the hoodie you wore so he could grope your hips. You rocked into him, wringing another moan of pleasure from your best friend when your heated core pressed against the bulge in his jeans. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about feeling you like this.”

“Steve, I—”

Your response was cut short by your best friend’s teeth nipping at your bottom lip, making you whine and grind harder against his lap. Steve swallowed your sounds of pleasure, his big hands groping and kneading the soft flesh of your hips and thighs like he couldn’t get enough. It was better than you ever could’ve imagined.

“That’s it, sunshine, ride your best friend’s bulge,” Steve rumbled, a little bit of teasing in his tone. His lips trailed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. He sucked on the skin over your pounding pulse, pulling a whimpering sound from your mouth that was unlike any noise you’d ever made. “Ya gonna come on my cock, baby? Gonna come before we even take our clothes off?”

Your best friend’s filthy words poured over you like gasoline on a fire, turning the heat in your blood into a raging inferno. “Steve, god, please, I need…” You tried to form a coherent thought, your lips gasping for breath in between every false start, your hips working harder and faster as you chased your pleasure.

“Good girl, baby, take what you need,” Steve cooed in your ear, his hands slipping beneath your tank top and groping your tits. He plucked at your nipples, rolling the pebbled peaks between his fingers and making your eyes roll back in your head, your loud moans filling the cab of his truck and nearly drowning out the sounds of the fireworks from the field beyond. “Ride my bulge, sunshine, make yourself come all over my cock.”

You were making a mess in your panties and shorts, your arousal soaking through the thin garments until you were certain you were leaving a wet spot behind on Steve’s jeans, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when your clit was rubbing just right against the bulge pressing against his fly.

“Oh god, Steve, ‘m gonna…”

Your hips worked frantically, humping against Steve’s cock through both your clothes while he murmured encouraging words in your ear and played with your tits until he figured out what made you squirm and writhe the most. Then he kept that up until you were suddenly at the edge.

“Come for me, sunshine, come for your best friend.”

Steve’s words were what did you in. His soft, murmured urging pushed you off the ledge and sent you tumbling into pleasure as you came for him.

Your arms locked around your best friend’s shoulders, nails digging into the back of his neck as bliss like you’d never known swept through your body, leaving you a shaking, trembling mess. Mindless moans and whimpers slipped from your lips, your hips still bucking on Steve’s lap as you rode out your release.

It wasn’t until Steve let loose a guttural groan, a warm wetness spreading through the jeans pressed against your bare thighs, that you realized he was coming too. You wrenched your eyes open, your gaze locking with his, seeing your own pleasure mirrored in his sparkling blue depths. Then your mouths were colliding, both of you having surged forward to meet somewhere in the middle.

The kiss was messy, mouths sliding and teeth knocking, both of you swallowing down the pleasured sounds of the other. Steve’s hands gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your softness, helping you rock on his lap while you both rode out your releases and shuddered through the last remnants of pleasure together.

Finally, when you were sated, your lips broke free and you pressed your forehead to Steve’s, closing your eyes as you tried to catch your breath. You could hardly believed what had just happened, and your mind struggled to catch up.

“Christ, sunshine,” Steve rasped, his own chest still heaving shallowly. His hands were idly kneading your hips, like he was soothing any pain that might be there. “I really didn’t plan on doing anything more than getting ice cream for my birthday, but this was—wow.”

You giggled at the awe in Steve’s voice, leaning back enough that you could see him properly. His handsome, familiar face was slack from satisfaction, a dazed smile curving his mouth. Unable to help yourself, you ducked forward and sucked his lower lip into your mouth, making him groan like he was in pain. Beneath you, you felt his cock twitch, and you laughed again as you sat back.

“If you want, we can ditch the rest of the fireworks show and go back to my place?” you suggested, an eager smile on your face.

Steve chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning forward until every inch of your chests were pressed together. You could feel the steady beating rhythm of his heart against your sternum, making your smile soften as you melted in your best friend’s arms.

“Sunshine, the fireworks are already over,” he murmured before capturing your lips in a kiss. When he broke away, he left you panting. “And if you think I’m doing anything other than taking you home and taking you to bed…” He trailed off, getting distracted by pressing kisses against your jaw.

You hummed in acknowledgement, but then a thought suddenly occurred to you and you had to bite back a laugh. “Your birthday is on the Fourth of July,” you began in a leading tone. “And you know what that means, Stevie?”

Instead of responding, Steve sank his teeth lightly into skin over your thrumming pulse, sucking and licking like he was intent on marking you with his mouth. Your thoughts scattered for a moment, your head tipping to the side to give him better access while your fingers raked idly through his soft blond hair.

It took you a second, but you managed to finish your thought.

“Because it’s the Fourth of July, we have to end your birthday with a bang,” you murmured, unable to stop yourself from giggling at your own joke.

Steve, on the other hand, groaned. His mouth abandoned your neck as he buried his face in your chest, reluctant laughter shaking his shoulders. Before you could poke him and get him to admit he liked your joke, Steve was flipping you onto your back, laying you down on his truck’s bench seat and slotting his hips between your thighs. His revived bulge bumped against your heated core, making you moan softly.

“Y’know what, sunshine? You’re right,” Steve rumbled, his blue eyes sparkling with humor and affection as he stared down at you. There was so much emotion in his gaze, it nearly stole all the breath from your lungs. “We’ll end my birthday with a bang.” His hands began to strip you out of the hoodie he’d given you to wear, his gaze hungry and determined. “We’re gonna see if I can make you scream louder than those fireworks.”

Your laughter dissolved into a hot, hungry heat. You pulled Steve down at the same moment he ducked his head, your lips crashing together in a fiery kiss that fogged up the windows of his truck, your bodies working together toward the same goal.

Between you and your best friend, you made sure the Fourth of July—and, more importantly, Steve’s birthday—ended with a bang.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers au #best friend steve rogers #steve rogers one shot #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans smut #chris evans characters #friends to lovers #witchywithwhiskeywork #steve rogers fluff

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yeyinde · 9 days ago

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PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?”

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories.

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness.

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black.

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism.

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm.

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories.

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab.

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted.

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?”

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting.

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin.

Taking them in. Their shape. Then:

“Why Coyote?”

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.”

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck.

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.”

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it.

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout.

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger.

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe.

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby.

“What d’you want?”

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab.

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.”

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp.

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time.

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway.

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command.

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat.

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size.

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth.

“Ain't real moose.”

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above.

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?”

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?”

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers.

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im.

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes.

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good.

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty.

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest.

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell.

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom.

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat.

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue.

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted.

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later.

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement.

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle.

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse.

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault.

The problem is you don't think that's true.

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he?

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat.

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run.

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night.

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom.

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm.

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island.

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound.

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism.

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore.

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.”

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you.

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool.

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong.

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out.

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.”

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead.

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach.

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys.

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together.

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known.

You're not sure what to make of it.

What to make of any of this.

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size.

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown.

Inside is simple in design, too.

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest.

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around.

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove.

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really.

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military.

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar.

“Loft or bedroom?”

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell.

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.”

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take.

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam.

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight.

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty.

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead.

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command.

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm.

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for.

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks.

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted.

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything.

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck.

A life-changing, mind-melting thing.

You—

A mother.

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't.

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head.

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote.

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin.

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window.

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising.

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says.

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes.

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done.

And that's where you come in.

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs.

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always.

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later.

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.”

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman.

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through.

Or watching him.

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works.

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats.

But it's not seamless.

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur.

Bearish.

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry.

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work.

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself.

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent.

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands.

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at?

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door.

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good.

Most of the noise is in your head.

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind.

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together.

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave!

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better.

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy.

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust.

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing.

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it.

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity.

His charity.

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues.

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry.

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less.

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke.

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle.

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you.

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins.

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.”

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.”

“I'll pass on the message.”

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.”

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.”

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.”

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.”

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.”

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh.

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.”

You tend to hurt people like that.

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.”

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta.

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him.

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that.

Something has to break, you think.

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance.

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit.

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life.

Stalemate, maybe.

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare.

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother.

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better.

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.”

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice.

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist.

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away.

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain.

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.”

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice.

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks.

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws.

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered.

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice.

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #fic: prairie wolf #i hate picking names for people/ocs but i also have plans so the exbf couldn't be a nameless entity 😮‍💨#cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price/reader #price x you #captain price #cod price

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