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randombush3 · 1 month ago

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the winner takes it all

alexia putellas x reader

summary: an unexpected invitation throws your world off-kilter

words: 6276

content warnings: it's a bit unfaithful

notes: in this universe real madrid is a proper opponent and rival to barcelona, in the sense that funding and history is relatively equal (so it's basically more like the men's rivalry)

idk where this came from tbh

Amb gran alegria,

Alexia i Olga

T’invitem a celebrar la nostra unió matrimonial.

10 d’agost de 2025

Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno

You haven’t read Catalan in years. You squint at the details.

You wish you had forgotten it.

Only Alexia would do this to you, twisting the knife as though it’s a favour, a compliment. Make it seem psychotic for not wanting to go, make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

The invitation isn’t personalised. You are not special in her eyes. You have been allowed onto the guest list, you have no mark in her life. Surely Olga would have objected if she’d known, if she’d been told. Maybe Alexia doesn’t talk about it. Maybe she has heard your name on match reports and team sheets, announcements for captaincy, interviews with Las 16 who called you traidora then and call you traidora now.

As if she knew it was coming, your phone begins to light up with messages from Alba. Apologies, perhaps, in her own Alba way. Stuff like ‘are you coming’ and ‘you don’t have to’ and then more buzzing, vibrating the shitstorm into a phone call.

You don’t speak often. Why would you? But you answer it, listless, really, and unsure what the correct approach to this even is.

“Hola, traidorita,” she says with a nervous giggle, reclaiming your nickname in Barcelona but reminding you of how you are perceived nevertheless. “I don’t know why you are on the guest list.”

Alba is like this: straight to the point, unafraid of her sister and unafraid to tell you what she thinks. They are very different, which is why she is the only one who has your current number in her contacts.

“You told her where I live,” you respond. Your shock makes no room for manners. “Because no one there has my Madrid address, Albi.”

“No one here has it, yeah. But she asked around. Well, Olga did.” She laughs again. Her nervousness is high-pitched and easily detected. “Told Ale that she has to have her childhood best friend at her wedding.”

“Childhood best friend?”

“Estranged childhood best friend?” she tries, and you can hear the smile and the teasing fucking smugness in it. You wonder if anyone else knows you have been invited. Alba because your address was squeezed out of her, sure, but… “And my mother thought it was a good idea too, before you try to murder a woman you have never met.”

“I’ve met Olga before,” you say without thinking, because that’s far easier to focus on than the idea of Eli getting involved in this completely undesired reunion that is about two centuries too early. “When I was going out with, eh, I don’t remember her name. A model. You know what they’re like. Olga’s the one who works for… thingie.”

There’s a sigh from the other end. “So many models yet not one name has been retained. Do you even ask them?”

“We’re not usually doing much talking.”

“Zorra.”

“Coming from you…” You smirk at the thought of all the little secrets Alba’s had you keep, a tradition that started young and became increasingly frequent when you removed yourself from everyone else’s lives. It’s like a journal, only you judge her. “You’re doing a good job of distracting me until I agree to go.”

She hesitates, then. You’re not an idiot and you know why she called. Alba is supportive but she has her own agenda most of the time, and no one else knows the exact time you get back from training aside from your fellow teammates. Even then, most are too intimidated to contact you in general, let alone to ask about being invited to Alexia Putellas’ fucking wedding.

Alba is also very manipulative, a professional puppeteer. And she knows exactly what to say. “It’s been fifteen years. Are you going to let her win?” It’s an infuriating provocation but it hits its target with ease.

…

The first step of preparing for this wedding takes place in the form of the Euros: you’re going to win it and be happy enough to ignore the impending doom hanging over your off-season plans. Going into the competition with heavy medals round your necks makes cockiness the slippiest of slopes, and it is safe to say that most of your teammates are prepared to cruise through at least the group stages.

An unexpected injury rips Jenni’s opportunity to play from her grasp (an echo of her ex-girlfriend, you briefly think), and she is flying back to Mexico before the tournament begins. Montse is a captain down – of course only this kind of disaster could happen to her – and before Patri can even open her mouth to volunteer for the role, you are dragged into a leadership meeting.

You’ve worn the armband before, though it seared and burned and blistered until you threw it in Jorge’s face and demanded someone else absorb the hatred it brought. He went ballistic as you’d said it, you remember, his face going red in the soft glow of your hotel room the night before the World Cup final. He’d leaned forwards, fist clenched, knuckles white and wanting to choke the life out of you.

“You have no respect!” he’d roared, voice splitting like thunder against the thin walls of your hotel room. “Not for me, not for your country, not for anything!” His breath was coming out in sharp ragged gasps. He spat. You’d wiped it off your body. “I thought you had scraped all the Catalan out of you, but here it is!” he’d screamed, loud enough to be heard but so comfortable in his power that it did not seem to frighten him. “Selfish and arrogant. You should have made it Seventeen.”

He’d left in his rage, slamming his door.

You regretted smiling in pictures with him, shaking his hand, kissing his cheek. You regretted the press conferences and interviews, the shaky defence you had constructed, the words of faith and trust you had professed and tried to believe. It had changed you, just a little bit, that incident. Made you think about who you are, where you come from. Made you remember someone you’d tried to forget.

But Irene and Alexia, staring at you with both contempt and confusion as you take a seat at the conference table, don’t know any of this. Why would they? To them, this is the traidora.

“Y/n is going to take Jenni’s place as third captain,” says Montse firmly, if she even knows how to do that. Irene and Alexia share a glance. Their roles have been restored for this competition and they are not prepared for an intruder to take that from them, although Irene will later remind Alexia that it is not your fault Jenni got injured. “I trust you three will come up with a suitable management plan. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

None of you really do know where she lurks, but she is walking off before you can clarify.

“We already have a strategy.” And she says it in Catalan, looking falsely apologetic when she is kicked underneath the table.

“Good job, Alexia,” you tell her, so nauseatingly saccharine that you almost think of the nearest route to a toilet. She’s surprised you’ve granted her a reply though, which is satisfying enough. About to spit out another remark to divide yourselves further, you shift in your chair, stretching out your legs underneath the table.

It is then that her ring catches your eye.

It’s delicate, shiny. A neatly cut diamond set in platinum with slight details that tell you someone thought about Alexia when they had this made and got it all wrong. Or maybe this is what she likes now. It’s not what you’d have given her.

She sees your eyes fall to her fingers, watching carefully as your gaze heats the metal and makes it almost too hot for her to keep on. You don’t really want her to know that you’ve seen it but you’ve made it bleeding obvious and so the predicament spirals and Irene wants, desperately, to leave you two alone – she knows shouldn’t, she’s aware of the health and safety risk.

There is something about the way Alexia clenches her jaw, posture stiffening as she allows herself one flicker from your face to the ring, that tells you she is bracing herself for a bullet. She always did have an uncanny ability to read you, however unwanted it was.

You lean back in your chair, aware of how the bystander is holding her breath, and decide to swallow the words burning on your tongue. You’ve accepted her invitation, and bitter manners are still manners. “Congratulations,” you say, words clipped and brittle, each syllable more venomous than the last.

The chair makes a screeching sound as you stand. Irene flinches but Alexia does not move. She refuses to watch as you walk out of the room.

…

Three hours later, Alexia is off the phone with Olga and knocking on Irene’s door with an embarrassed suppression of urgency. Shoulders hunched and lips downturned, the sight is enough for her to be ushered inside with only the quiet flap of Irene’s arms to beckon her forwards. With this part of the training camp being not quite tunnel-vision yet, Irene’s room is littered with toys and toddler stuff. Usually Alexia would be looking at them in quiet excitement. Right now, she is not so sure.

“Second thoughts?” Irene asks, and Alexia half-jumps backwards in shock, about to furiously shake her head and profess her love for Olga– “I think the plan is good. I don’t think we need to worry about Y/n in the centre, seeing how she’s been playing there this season.”

It slowly dawns on Alexia that Irene has assumed this is pre-tournament nerves, and that she is being shown such a vulnerable side of her co-captain because, well, who else can be? No one wants to see their commander gulp at the sight of the battlefield.

“She still favours her left,” Alexia gets out. “She might drift, leaving a big gap for you to cover.”

“She’s got offers from PSG, Chelsea, and Washington Spirit. It’s in her interest not to drift.”

“She’s good at drifting.”

Irene doesn’t respond to that.

“Since when did you wear your ring to training?” is what she chooses to say instead, asking the question with a healthy fear of getting her head bitten off, taking a small step backwards to put her at a safer distance.

Alexia doesn’t reply immediately, her fingers grazing the ring as she thinks. The weight of it seems heavier now, almost suffocating in the sterile air of the hotel room, as though this is everything she’s been trying to avoid. Her heart thuds against her ribcage. It feels like everyone is starting to notice.

“I didn’t think it was an issue.” Her voice is tight, defensive, but with a subtle, betraying crack. She pulls her hand back from the air, letting it fall to her side. “We hardly did much more than pass the ball today so I kept it on.”

It’s a poor excuse. It comes off for the cameras, not the contact of the game. Irene knows that. But, to her credit, she doesn’t push. She just watches Alexia, eyes narrowed slightly in an unreadable expression. “I just thought you guys were keeping it a bit more… private.”

Alexia turns her gaze to the floor, staring at the scattered toys and items around the room. The simplicity of it all, the domestic innocence, makes her feel even more tangled. She feels an urge to lie, to say that Olga asked her to, worried that you’d misinterpret its absence, but Olga doesn’t even know she has reason to lose sleep. She hasn’t found the courage to explain. She hasn’t felt the need to.

And, really, the truth is right here, echoing between them. Irene would have pieced together the story, as many of Alexia’s teammates have, hearing drunken retellings on nights out from whoever has known the two of you the longest that time. Maybe Alba has spoken to her, revealing everything after a round of tequila shots, as she tends to do. There are a few suggestions the older woman could make to her teammate, wounds she could open and then nurse, but she doesn’t and so she waits.

Until, finally, Alexia admits, “it’s complicated. She has caught me off-guard.” It could mean many things, but it is either your captaincy or the acceptance of her wedding invitation that has done Alexia in. She wonders whether this feeling of dread and uncertainty is the game – or the life waiting for her after she comes back from Switzerland. “Look,” she says abruptly, “I’m not here for advice, Irene.”

“Then why are you in my room?” She doesn’t have an answer for that. Irene sweeps her outside, gently but firmly. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she treads lightly, “but when was the last time you had a conversation with her?”

…

The training pitch in Switzerland is unseasonably hot, the kind of heat that clings to the air and makes tempers run shorter than usual. It’s almost a cure to homesickness but then the team look at each other and are back to hating every minute of this. There’s an undeniable divide. Montse either does not care or has not caught on.

It’s about your twentieth rondo this session, the ball zipping across the wilting grass as it touches Barça foot to Barça foot, the girls obviously enjoying this. You’re only holding back because too much investment will lead to another injury, and you are getting somewhat tired of being called a traitor. The players surround you with a ruthless efficiency that is starting to fray your nerves, and you make a note to talk to your coach about training, knowing that it will be easy to manipulate her into following something akin to what the girls at Madrid are more accustomed to.

Alexia is one of your taunters. Of course she is.

“Just three more interceptions,” she calls out, false strain, false support, false encouragement.

You bite back a retort, instead standing still as Aitana rolls a ball right past you. You wipe the sweat from your brow, feigning exhaustion, but the pretense is only that in name. Everyone knows you are one of the best defenders, the Barça girls especially, with their insane pride for La Masia.

“Lazy,” Alexia mutters.

You don’t respond, focusing instead on the fire in your chest as you forcibly break the circle and march towards Montse. She looks up from her clipboard as you approach.

“We should split training.” She pauses and then nods. “Attack and defence, at least. And don’t let the press hear this, but, my god, Montse, I do not like how they’re all back.”

“We’re a stronger team,” she says, but she’s smiling and you are definitely her favourite. Another deep breath and she is calling a water break.

The girls retreat to the sidelines for ice and hydration, and you reunite with the people you like. Your club teammates prefer you at national camp, because there is something less reclusive about you. It’s as though you’re trying to prove that you get on.

Olga hands you a water bottle, the contents of which you guzzle down in one go. She begins to comment on the absurdity of Alexia’s mandated rondos (“why do they have to keep reminding themselves how to pass a ball?”) and while you agree, your attention is diverted. Alexia is standing a few meters away with Mariona Caldentey. She’s listening to something the forward is telling her, face focused, finger twisting her ring around in circles.

That fucking ring.

You look away before you are caught in such a compromising position, wiping your forehead with your damp training shirt.

“Oye,” Misa’s voice pulls you back, “are you paying attention?” You’re not even sure when she joined the conversation. Your relationship with the goalkeeper has always been overly complicated. You work very closely, what with you commanding the backline and her… also commanding the backline. But she’s friends with people who must have at least once wished you dead, so it’s hard to tell where you stand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, screwing the cap back onto the water bottle and placing it in Olga’s held-out palm.

“You’re never this spacey. You’ve been off since the meeting,” she presses, her voice gentle but insistent. “If this is about the captaincy–”

“It’s not,” you snap, harsher than what was meant. Her eyes widen slightly and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sorry. It’s not about that. I’m fine.”

Misa doesn’t look convinced but she nods, letting it drop. Gratitude relaxes your shoulders but the uneasy silence that follows is punishing enough for you to be eager for training to resume.

Now that the rondos have been left behind until tomorrow, you divide into teams for a scrimmage. The squad is split into four and you throw yourself into the exercise. Every touch, every pass, every run is perfect, and you are unrecognisable from your lackadaisical lull only ten minutes ago. You’re pushing your body and it flicks onto autopilot, driven by muscle memory and determination.

Your head’s not in it. You can’t outrun her shadow. You can’t think when your teams are against each other.

The ring must have come off now, and she is getting stuck in. She’s relentless and irritating, evading your teammates’ tackles and drawing you into her. It’s almost transportative: back you go to gardens after school or being barefoot on the beach, forced out of your relaxation and into an endless game of ‘tackle me like you mean it’. She has that same glint in her eye, that same goading gleam. You consider it, but crutches at a wedding is a low blow.

And so you lay off. Just on her, and only just enough so that she knows you are not trying. You do not care for petty squabbles. You are not willing to go back to those memories, to that time.

Or at least, that’s the message you hope she gets.

The games slowly wind down, prompted by Montse’s whistle to signal the end of the session. You stay on the pitch longer than anyone else, taking you time to collect the stray balls scattered across the grass. It’s partly an excuse to delay walking into the locker room, where the tension will be thick (you were not the right choice for third captain in the eyes of your teammates), and partly because you need a moment to breathe.

The others slowly disperse, peeling off to the showers or collapsing onto benches. Alexia lingers longer than most, wiping away her sweat with her shirt, abs exposed and tensed. She watches you as you move across the pitch, and though her gaze is subtle, you can feel it blazing hotter than the sun lashing down on you. But, despite her staring, she too is eventually coaxed away. You’re unsure whether she is thankful for the interruption.

When you finally make your way to the changing rooms, most of your teammates are in the showers, and the sound of running water mingled with laughter echoes. You take a seat at the locker you were assigned and let out a slow breath, peeling off sweat-soaked socks with mild disgust. You turn to fling them into your laundry bag, but their flight path is blocked by a blonde who has clearly delayed her own shower to talk to you.

She’s looking oddly pensive. You don’t like it.

“We need to talk.” It’s uncomfortable for Alexia to say and it’s worse for you to hear. You’re not sure you’re okay with her decision to become reasonable and mature. It’s quite the compliment to always be the cause for stoic, rational Alexia Putellas going absolutely batshit crazy.

Driving her up the wall is fun.

“I’ll send you an invitation. No need to tell me which room is yours.” You give her a smile. And, like you always do, you walk away.

…

There’s a charge to the air that is choking you by dinner time. The upgrade to captain allowed for your own room, and it is easy to blow off teammates who want to have plans with you with the simple excuse of needing to talk to your agent. You technically do, since you are going to leave Madrid during the transfer window, but you have no intention of dialling his number until he confirms the best and furthest team wants you.

You’ve spent the evening avoiding the majority of the players, which Montse took advantage of, encouraging you to spend dinner discussing tactics with her and her staff. You feel like the teacher’s pet. You know how angry it is making Alexia.

Collapsing on the bed when you back into your room, you let out a loud groan, sinking into the mattress. Your phone buzzes on the bedside table and for a moment, you think it might be Alba, allowing you no peace and quiet despite her distance. Instead, it’s a message on the team group chat from the strength and conditioning coach about tomorrow’s gym session. A wave of relief washes over you; anything but her.

Still, as you scroll, you catch yourself lingering on the names in the group chat, your thumb hovering near Alexia’s. Your stomach tightens and the memory of her tone, her expression, pulls at you like a tether.

She’s not going to drop this.

It’s no longer a matter of avoidance in the camp. You’ve said you will be present. She must want to ensure you will not make a scene.

A knock at the door, so quiet you are almost convinced it was imagined, breaks you out of your brooding. Your eyes watch the wood as though it will be splintered in a moment, but when you make no move to get up, a more insistent knock sounds. You sigh as you pull yourself off your bed, dragging your feet towards the door. Opening it, you find Alexia standing there, arms crossed and wearing an expression you can’t quite decipher. It lacks her usual burning hatred. She looks exhausted.

You struggle to feel any sympathy.

“What?” you snap. It’s a bit harsher than intended but you don’t let on that that’s the case.

“Can I come in?” You guess that she didn’t pick up the hint when you gave her no invitation. You do not want to talk. You don’t do that to people much anymore.

She expects the door to slam in her face – and you consider it – but it’s your hesitation that tells her she can, and so she slowly moves inside, shoulder brushing yours because you refuse to move out of the way. And then she raises a deliberate hand towards the door, pushing it shut. You ignore the ring.

You lean against the door once it’s shut, arms folded as she wanders further into your room. She looks out of place somewhere so personal to you, standing awkwardly in the centre and trying not to look at the explosion of clothes and books that has been detonated on the floor.

She reads the titles of a few – classics that look dense and boring. Something hungry inside her dulls a bit, because you have not changed in this respect.

“You’re quiet for someone who wants to talk,” you prompt, mostly because the silence is unbearable.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her arms drop to her sides, fingers twitching as if unsure what to do with themselves. She tries to meet your eyes, but falters when she sees the cold indifference staring back. You’re looking at her like she’s a stranger. It stings more than it should.

“I didn’t invite you to the wedding,” she says finally. “Olga doesn’t know about us.”

“There’s no ‘us’,” you snap, sharper this time.

Her jaw tightens and for a second, she looks as though she’s been struck. “Don’t lie.”

“There is no ‘us’,” you repeat, your tone icy now. “That disappeared the minute I–”

“Left,” comes her interruption, her voice trembling just enough for you to notice. She steps closer, her shadow crossing yours, and her eyes narrow. “Which was your decision, not mine.”

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping you. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a say in it.”

“I didn’t!” she fires back, her voice rising. There is something raw beneath it – something fractured. “You didn’t give me one. You walked out, and you shut me out like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

Her words hang in the air and for a moment, you don’t know whether to shoot or turn away. But her gaze pins you in place, fierce and unrelenting, as though daring you to deny it.

You hold her stare, your throat tightening. “And you didn’t try to stop me.”

The silence that follows feels deafening. Neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks. You’re both standing on landmines and have nowhere to go.

Her jaw clenches, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Her voice, though low, crackles with the heat of restrained anger.

“You didn’t give me a chance to stop you.” And she steps closer, ready to bite. The door presses against your back as you instinctively move away. “You made up your mind before I even knew what was happening.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see it coming.” You shake your head. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to leave, Alexia.”

Her expression darkens, something in her eyes flickering dangerously. “That’s not the point. You didn’t just leave the club. You didn’t just leave me. You left everything. Our family. Our life. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you walk away as if none of it mattered?”

Your chest tightens but you refuse to let her words land. “You don’t get to make me the villain here.”

“I don’t have to,” she snaps, her voice rising now, accent thickening with her anger. “You were part of my family, part of me. You were at every Christmas, every birthday. My mother adored you. Alba still loves you like you are her own sister! And you just disappeared like none of it meant anything. Like we didn’t mean anything.”

You flinch at the weight of her words but force yourself into steadiness. “I didn’t belong there. It wasn’t mine, it was yours.”

Her face twists in disbelief, voice trembling as it rises again. “That’s bullshit and you know it! You were my family. My first everything. My first kiss. My first…” She pauses, her voice cracking. You swallow hard – you don’t want the fucking itemised list. “My first time. You think I just gave that to anyone? You think that it was just fun and games?”

Your stomach churns as she stokes a fire you’ve tried to smother for years. “It wasn’t nothing,” you agree, although it sounds like you are contradicting her in a way that causes her to falter on her drive forwards. “It was everything. That’s why I left. Because I couldn’t be what was needed anymore. Because I knew if I stayed, I’d only–”

“Only what?”

You gulp.

She’s back in your face, voice laced with venom. “Hurt me? Ruin me? Let us all done? Guess what, you did that anyway. Leaving made it easier? Made it hurt less?”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” you shout, voice splitting.

“You stay!” It echoes and it bruises your skin. Her eyes are blazing now, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer force of will. “You stay, because that is what you do when you love someone. When you love a family. You don’t just walk away from them. You fight.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between guilt and pride. She sees it and it only seems to enrage her further.

Her voice drops, anger so torrid she has to purposely cool her tone. “You know, I thought that my world was ending then. I thought you’d done your worst. But I was wrong. Because your betrayal wasn’t just personal, it was… political. To not see someone you love except for when they are sitting at the feet of this. Corruption’s pet. Pandering to an organisation you hated, while the rest of us fought for scraps.”

Heat rises in your chest. How dare she– “I don’t pander to anyone.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she spits. She’s too close. She’s too inescapable. And her anger is no longer fiery but icy, piercing through your skin. “I’ve seen the way you act around them, bowing your head and playing the loyal soldier while they tear us apart. You think I didn’t notice how he favoured you? Or how Montse magically replaces an irreplaceable member of–”

“It’s not like that,” you counter, but the words feel hollow even to you.

“Then what is it?” she demands. “What is it that makes you stand there and let them walk all over us? Let them divide us? And don’t you dare say it is for the good of the team. The team hates you for it. We all do. You’ve earned every bit of it, traidora.”

The word hits you like a whip, lacerating and making you bleed. Your hands curl into fists so tightly your nails dig into your palms, the sting barely enough to contain the fury surging through you. “Don’t you dare call me that!” The sentence tears out of your throat, rough and jagged. You take a step forwards, the air between you crackling with tension, your voice breaking as you spit, “you don’t get to say that to me. Not you.”

“Why not?” she challenges. “It’s what you are. You left, you betrayed everything we stood for, and then you came back just to make things worse. You made your choices.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her, the anger and heartbreak in her eyes, eviscerating and leaving you hollow. But then, something shifts in the air between you, and you find your voice again, souring from before.

“Is that why you’re here, Alexia? To throw all of this in my face? To let out fifteen years of harboured emotion? Or is it something else?”

Her brow furrows in confusion. Surprise. And then her expression twists into anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You take a step forward now, and she is forced to retreat. “Do you not want to marry Olga, Alexia? Is that it? Is that why you’re here? Because you think you can come into my room, dredge all of this up, and make me the reason you’re unhappy?”

Her face pales as she takes a deep breath, hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t,” she warns, firmly enough to signal you need to push.

So you do.

“You came here because you’re scared.” She shakes her head but it’s rigid and forced. “Because you’re not sure you can go through with it and you want me to give you a reason to back out. Well, I’m not going to do that for you. This isn’t my mess. It’s yours.”

She says nothing and you feel sick. Her chest rises and falls with each gasping breath. She opens her mouth but again, you are left with silence, and the expression in her eyes flickers between defiance, confusion, and vulnerability. For a long moment, it feels like everything that could be said has been.

The air between you is charged, but neither of you know which way it will go.

You stare at her watching her waver. And it hits you: she doesn’t know what to do.

All of this, all the anger and the pain, all the accusations and betrayals, has led her here, to this moment. She thought she had an answer, she thought she would be able to end this, but now? Now, Alexia is lost. There is too much here, too much to lose. And for the first time in a long while, you are feeling the same thing. You are both no longer sure if you want to fight.

She takes a hesitant step closer and you freeze. But then, just as quickly, her hand moves – not to strike, not to harm, but to touch you. Her fingers brush lightly over the fabric of your sleeve, almost tenderly, before they fall away, and you don’t know if the motion was meant for comfort or something else.

Her breath is ragged, coming in slow, uneven gasps. Her eyes never leave yours. You don’t want them to.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” she murmurs, the rawness in her tone shattering any remaining wall between you. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

How do you respond to that? You want her to leave but the thought is unbearable. You want space but she is not close enough. Something inside you stirs, something you can’t fight; a need to understand her and make her understand you. To make her see how tangled this, how impossible it has always been.

Before you can form the word, before you can even think, she moves in closer, and there is no longer distance. She doesn’t ask for permission. She doesn’t hesitate. And then, without warning, her lips are on yours.

It’s soft, tentative at first, as though testing the waters of something neither of you is sure of anymore. But then it shifts. Her body leans into yours, and the kiss deepens, more urgent now, as if this is everything that has not been said and has been at the same time. Your heart races, a million conflicting emotions crashing through you. Anger, betrayal, love – it is all here, you can taste it on her lips. It’s fierce, desperate, and it feels like an endless cycle of need and regret, pulling you both back to something raw, something irretrievable.

Her hands find your waist, gripping tightly as though anchoring herself to something that could pull her under. You instinctively respond, pulling her closer, drawing in the heat of her touch, the scent of her skin, the pressure of her body against yours. For a fleeting second, everything else fades away. There’s no past, no future, only here and now.

And then the fog clears.

You pull back, breathless and worse off. You’ve fucked up again. Alexia is crying.

“I’m not the person you think I am anymore,” you say, but it’s hard to meet her gaze. “I can’t be that person for you.”

Her eyes search yours desperately for lies, for deceit. She wants it to be wrong. She doesn’t know why. And she replies, “I don’t care what you think you’ve become,” because she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to her.

You stare at her, heart pounding, and you want to feel like this will be worth it, but nothing comes except cold emptiness. You force yourself to stay upright. “I think the wedding will be good.” She swallows. “You’ll be happy with Olga. I’m sure of it.”

It’s a death sentence.

This time, it is Alexia who leaves.

…

The wedding is beautiful. Blissful sunlight makes the venue seem to glow and it is hard not to be impressed with how they have set this up.

The model at your side is also beautiful, but you remind yourself it is not a competition. You focus on the whispers of anticipation from the guests, the rustle of the dresses as people pass in merry groups, clinking their glasses and finishing their champagne as they take their seats. Everything looks perfect, plucked from magazines and tasteful brochures. This must be what Alexia wanted.

Your date is occupying herself in conversation with the man seated next to you, who might be hitting on her, though you don’t care. She slides a hand over your thigh anyway.

The ceremony begins, although you’re not really concentrating on it. You try to focus, listening as the officiant speaks, but the words have become a dull hum. It’s all so rehearsed, so expected, and it’s boring. You won’t be getting married anytime soon, that’s for sure.

You know the flow of these things: the vows, the promises, the kiss, and the crowd’s applause. It’s a performance, though it’s not quite a farce.

And then, it comes. The moment. The one that feels like a trap.

The officiant pauses, glancing out over the gathering. “Si algú s'hi oposa, que parli ara o calli per sempre.”

For a heartbeat, time slows. The air thickens. Every muscle in your body tenses and the world around you goes still. You catch yourself holding your breath, gaze instinctively shifting to the woman standing at the front of the altar.

Alexia.

Her eyes flicker briefly in your direction – just a flicker, but it’s there, unmistakable. It’s her moment of hesitation, well masked but clear as day to you. But before you can make sense of it, she’s looking away, eyes fixed back onto Olga. Her expression hardens, more composed now, and you know that you are not going to break this silence.

The officiant, oblivious to the storm passing between you both, waits for a beat longer before continuing, his voice echoing in the silence.

And she’s married.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s over now. You’ve let her win.

#woso x reader #woso #randombush3 #barca femeni #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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killerpancakeburger · 5 months ago

Text

Scary Dog Privilege w/ Ghost

PART 2

With the captain's away, you're left to deal with his intimidating lieutenant's temper.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, suggestive at the end, GuardDog!Ghost x Handler!Reader, smug!Ghost. Reader is careful of Ghost's boundaries. 1.3k words

Ghost's "outburst" (no idea how to call it tbh) is based on how @valiants drew them here and there. I just love this depiction so much, it's too relatable.

Part 1. Part 3.

Heaving a sigh, you glower at the shiny plaque adorning the mahogany desk you’re sitting at.

Cpt. John Price.

The aforenamed is away for a week, something about a higher-ups seminar. Left you in charge and, when you started to heft some heavy cardboards full of paperwork, he suggested you take his office too. It wasn’t conventional by any means, but what John Price wants, John Price gets.

You imagined that being the big boss would be fun.

You didn't expect his men to be… such a hassle.

Soap could not go one day without getting involved in a fight.

Gaz was sweet as pie to your face, only to use your own gratefulness against you later when he wanted something.

And Ghost. Oh, Ghost. From the very start, he had been playing with you like a cat plays with his food. Acting like your right-hand man. Always by your side, dutiful shadow. His relentless stare was like a torch against the nape of your neck, like the tangible weight of gloved hands on your shoulders. Following instructions but always with a snarky reply, and a smirk on his lips that you could guess behind the mask simply by the look in his eyes. Not mentioning the times you were alone together and he'd stop covering the bottom of his face. Made it easier to drink — tea but also bourbon —, to smoke, to tempt you with his scarred lips—

You shake your head in an attempt to refocus.

Your concentration doesn't last a mere minute that it's already shattered by the slam of a door.

A familiar slam and a familiar door, if that is even possible.

One of your men is acting out again.

You slip through the group massed in front of the room you need to access, ignoring their warnings and brushing off their attempts to make you turn back.

Knocking three times in rapid succession so he knows it's you, you glide in wordlessly, taking care to lock the door behind you so there won't be any interruption. You lean your back against it, taking a moment to assess the situation.

Your eyes linger on the knife lodged into the table before fixing upon the sizable being sitten nearby. Bending at the waist under an invisible force, his elbows rest on his knees while his fingers clutch the part of his mask that covers the back of his head. One word immediately comes to mind— overwhelmed.

His back is turned on you. You can almost distinguish the dark aura he exudes, an inky blackness that matches his t-shirt and his gloves.

You pull away from the door and join him, absently noticing that your steps are loud enough for him to locate you— force of habit.

“Ghost?”

A metaphorical outstretched hand.

Silence.

Stopping behind his back, you instinctively raise a tentative hand— to ensure his attention? To provide comfort?— before halting halfway, reconsidering. Pulling it back, you opt for a verbal approach instead.

“You really need to stop terrorizing the new recruits.”

You can’t help the fond, amused smile that stretches your lips as you say it.

Silence, still.

It doesn't deter you. After all, you’re no stranger to the need to drop verbal communication in favor of onomatopoeias or hand motions.

Nevermind that, you can fill the silence with retelling of your day.

As the quiet remains your only interlocutor for the third time in a row, you decide to cut your losses, at least for today. You’re unsure whether Ghost's in a mood where he'd rather stay alone, or one where he'd appreciate company but only the silent kind. Eyeing the knife again, you reckon it must be the former.

But as you turn around to leave, a pair of arms circle your waist, putting a swift end to your exit. The sudden embrace causes you to sway a bit, nonetheless you keep your cool.

“Changed your mind?”

A light gibe, essentially harmless, but provocating enough to prompt an answer.

He replies with a muffled groan, before pulling you closer and pressing his face into the small of your back. The contact, admittedly unexpected, but not unwelcome, sends shivers down your spine.

“That's certainly an… interesting position,” is all you find to say, picturing the expression someone would make if they were to stumble upon you two.

Twisting around a bit, you manage to see half of him, and use the view to reach back and pat his head. You quickly come to the conclusion that you’re stuck there for a while, same as if a pet cheetah nominated your lap for its nap.

A few moments later, a minute or an eternity, you end up chuckling to yourself. There's a grumble in your shirt, and it takes a second or two for you to comprehend that the grumble is actually words.

“What's so funny?”

You sigh pensively.

“Was thinking about the recruits you scared. They were shaking in their boots when I got here, you'd think they've seen worse than a ghost. But the most formidable thing here is a cuddle monster.”

The limbs around your torso release you unpromptedly, and as you pivot to face the lieutenant, he only has one step to take to corner you against a wall.

“S'that so?”

The sarcasm in his tone is familiar, yet you fail to see what he's getting at.

“... yeah?”

You don’t try to hide the interrogation in your voice; you want your confusion to be known.

He props one forearm on the wall, right by your head, and leans closer to murmur huskily:

“Do I scare you?”

You bite your lower lip not to laugh, his antics evoking some sort of dark, tortured protagonist. Yet, you'd be lying if you pretended this little display was leaving you indifferent.

Hell, you wish you were scared, because then you wouldn’t long to reduce the distance between your two bodies, already scandalously limited.

Wavering about your reply, you ultimately select the truth.

“Not anymore.”

You swear you can make out the corners of his mouth rise behind the mask.

“Good,” he appraises, laconic as ever.

Stricken by a timidity as sudden as it is intense, you start to ramble nervously, avoiding his intense stare.

“No but, for real, you'd laugh too if you'd seen their faces. They were so worried, imploring me not to go. It's like they were convinced you'd eat me alive.”

“Could be arranged.”

The suggestive line has the merit to make you stop dead in your tracks. His insufferable confidence fills you with irritation and arousal yet again.

You can’t let him win this one, you categorically refuse to let him have the last word. So you bring your face even closer to his and purrs:

“It's such a shame you’re wearing a mask, otherwise I would have already shoved my tongue down your—”

He rips off the bottom part of his mask with such haste that it would be comical if you weren't busy being squished between him and the wall the next second. He presses you against the stone the same way he presses his lips against yours— insistent, warm.

Once again, his hands settle on your hips like they belong here, and his thumbs slip under the cloth to stroke your hipbones.

His newfound urgency is the antipodes of the restraint he manifested until now, leaving you short of breath.

A call of your name pulls you apart, but barely, noses almost brushing. You shoot a look at the door just to see the handle lowers in vain. Letting out an amused and relieved scoff, you rest your forehead against Ghost's torso, thanking yourself for locking.

The voice persists, asking if everything's okay. You raise your head but, as you open your mouth to answer, Simon silently orders you to stay quiet with a forefinger across his lips. You frown and mouth silently— no, YOU shut up— before hollering to be heard.

“All good, thanks!”

Obviously, answering is a much better solution than a suspicious silence. Yet Ghost doesn't seem to share that opinion, as he stares at you unimpressed, but you kiss him before he can make any disagreeable comment.

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yandere-metal-family · 6 months ago

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hiiii this is my first metal family request and I feel a bit silly but this is my new obsession....

if it doesn't inconvenience you, could I have a yandere dee x reader?

the reader is sheltered and usually keeps to herself because she's shy and has a hard time making new friends. She's very innocent and tries to see the best in everyone, which is how she doesn't pick up on dee's yandere tendencies and just brushes them off as him being nervous or something

tysm in advance!

Lol yeah this is a more normal request tbh

Pt II: WIP

Moving to a new school in the middle of the year was the worst thing in the world. It was one thing to go at the beginning of the year, but the middle of the year- Everyone already had established relationships and such.

It didn't help that you weren't the most extroverted person in the world, so you doubted you'd ever make friends.

---

You went into class before school started, because there was no way you were going to introduce yourself to the class. The teacher, who had his head in papers, looked up when hearing you enter and told you to sit at the third table. There was a kid named 'Dee'[?] who sat there by himself.

When the bell rung, you felt the anxiety run down your spine. You hoped no one asked you anything or mentioned anything, because you would rather die than to be noticed.

That was short lived when a blonde kid spoke to you.

"Move."

You looked at him, a little flustered, "Excuse me?"

He gestures to the seat that he was leaning on and you made an 'Ooh,' face and moved seats.

---

Dee's eyes stayed on you during the whole period. You didn't look over at him once, because you wanted to pretend that maybe he wasn't looking at you and it was just your paranoia, but you were almost positive that he was looking at you.

Dee was interested in you. He knew you were new, obviously, but where were you from? Why are you here? What's your name? So and so.

He felt weird being so interested in another person, because he usually didn't care about other people. But he liked new things- and you were a new toy.

He looks down at your hands to see that were painted a nice dark purple, almost black, color. When the teacher's back is turned he nudges you.

You look over at him, a little confused, before he gestures towards your nails.

"I like your nails."

"Oh, thanks?"

After that he doesn't talk to you for the rest of the class.

---

You pack your bag, before finally leaving the school. You were glad it's over and thankful no one had approached you.

---

Dee wasn't listening to his brother. His eyes were instead focused on the school's interest. Heavy noticed his brother's lack of interest and looked over to the closed doors.

"Who are you waiting for?"

Dee looked at his brother, annoyed, "Nothing."

"Okay, are you ready to leave then?"

"No."

Dee was so quick to respond that it had taken Heavy by surprise. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Nothing..."

He turns around, thinking maybe you had already left. But as he's about to leave, he hears the door open and looks back and is thrilled when seeing you. He is thrilled and walks up to you, leaving his brother behind.

"Uh, Y/n, right?"

You looked up at the voice to see the guy from one of your classes. You think he was an emo? You were unsure of which he was, but you were almost positive it was like emo punk kind of thing.

"Uh, yeah. Dee right?"

He smiles at his name, "Yeah. Uh, do you want me to walk you home? You know, so you're not alone?"

"Sure, yeah. Thank you."

He walks with you down the stairs, Dee ignoring his brother's call, but that doesn't last long.

You were confused when an orange haired boy came up to you and Dee. The kid looks at Dee, complaining about how Dee was ditching him.

"Oh, do you have to walk your little brother home?"

Dee grimace, rolling his eyes, before turning to you, "No, he can walk by himself. He's fine. Let's go," He quick to push you past Heavy, hoping that Heavy would get the hint.

#metal family #yandere metal family #metal family x reader #yandere metal family x reader #dee x reader #yandere dee #yandere dee x reader #dee metal family #dee metal family x reader #dee schvagenbagen #dee schvagenbagen x reader #yandere x reader

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noyasmashing · 8 months ago

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If it isn't too much trouble, may I request mad dog with a nerdy reader. In public they have scary dog privileges but in private he becomes such a whiny puppy who doesnt know how to ask for master/mommy to touch him? No hurt feelings if you don't want too, I just don't see enough of him being a sub. Thank you!

CW: names such as pup and mommy are used, semi public, praise, hand job

A/N: i’m so sorry this took so long 😭 tbh i have no excuse

he would be suchhhh a grouch in public. Picture yourselves on the public train together. He's casting menacing glares at anyone who dares to glance your way, positioning himself protectively in front of you. Meanwhile, you're engrossed in your book, wearing a delighted expression that's impossible to hide.

And when you venture out together (a rarity in itself), despite your occasional awkwardness, you effortlessly connect with others over obscure subjects, radiating joy and warmth. Kentaro, on the other hand, stands by your side, arms folded, engaging only with you.

Its quite endearing how different you two are-personality wise. People often wonder why you're with such a seemingly grumpy individual, but they don't see the tender side he reveals to you. He's incredibly sweet and attentive, always accompanying you to your favorite bookstores for the latest releases. Despite his aversion to socializing, he willingly joins you for coffee outings.

What may be the most adorable thing about him, is his sudden shyness in private. Suddenly, he's flushed red, stumbling over his words, nervously fidgeting with his hands, unsure where to place them.

He gives up any ounce of control easily, falling to his knees at your request. Your favorite thing is making him work for his pleasure. He knows what he wants. He wants to cum until he can't think. But he doesn't know how to ask.

Recently, you'd discovered a new favorite pastime: teasing Kentaro in public. There was nothing quite like watching him squirm as he struggled to maintain his tough exterior, only to be undone by his own pent-up desire.

It was a simple matter to get him riled up. A strategically timed pause to admire a book cover, a suggestive lick of a lollipop, or a deliberate lean forward to show off your cleavage would send him into a tailspin. His eyes would flash with desire, his face would redden, and his lips would tremble.

But the best part was the moment he'd snap, his eyes pleading for mercy as he grabbed at your shirt, his voice barely above a whisper. "P-please… y-you… I need y-you…"

You'd feign innocence, playing dumb as you led him on a merry chase. "Hmm? Need me to what, Kentaro?" You'd ask, looking up at him with a concerned expression. He'd hesitate, his words faltering as he scanned the empty store for an escape route. "You know.." He'd mutter, gaze low and hands sweating.

Finally you relented, firmly grasping his cheeks, directing his gaze toward the family bathroom that was tucked away but still in sight of you two. "That'll work yeah?" you inquired, locking eyes with his widened ones, before proceeding toward the bathroom. "What if someone sees us?" he'd nervously stammer, but still following closely behind you.

You'd simply smile, your eyes glinting with mischief. "It makes it more exciting, Kentaro."

Once inside, you'd press your lips against his, drawing out a soft groan as he struggled to keep up. But you were just getting started, taking a seat on the bench, beckoning him closer.

"Y-you want to do it here?" He'd ask, his voice laced with anxiety.

You'd bat your eyelashes, playing innocent once more. "Do what puppy?"

Being the nervous dog he is, he'd trail off, his face flushing with embarrassment as he stumbled forward. You'd laugh at his shyness, running your hands up his shirt and down his stomach as he stood in front of you.

"P-please… touch me," he'd beg, his voice cracking as he dropped his head in shame.

You'd toy with him, running your fingers over his hips as he squirmed beneath your touch. "I am touching you, baby," you'd purr, but he wasn't having it.

He needed something more – something that would make him feel like he was truly alive. And so, he forced out the words: "My c-cock., touch my cock, mommy"

Your eyes lit up with amusement and a hint a sadism, unzipping his pants and pulling his underwear down without hesitation. "That's all you had to say puppy." You'd coo, while wrapping your fingers around his hardened member. It boasted a rather prominent vein tracing its length, accompanied by a slight curve that he found rather embarrassing.

You couldn't resist the urge to tease him with gentle strokes that coaxed a soft whimper from his lips. Spitting into your free hand, he'd gasp at your boldness, wanting to say something. But words quickly faded in his mouth when you smeared it long his length, making him throw his head. He'd look up at you, pleading for more, but you'd merely smile wickedly and instruct him to "be a good boy and fuck yourself with my hand."

Immediately, he would protest with a whiney, "noo I-I can't" his inexperience evident in his hesitant tone. But as you met his gaze with a firm, expectant look, his hesitation gave way to an exploratory thrust. With the help of your praise, he'd slowly become more comfortable with your embarrassing request.

As he quickened his pace, his breath would catch in his throat, his member pulsing in your hand. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and his thrusts became more erratic, your seductive voice making it harder for him to stay steady. His usually narrow eyes seemed to be welling up with emotion, and his face flushed.

Your other hand grasped the soft skin of his hips, guiding him into a harsher rhythm. He let out a loud, desperate moan, forgetting their surroundings as he succumbed to his pleasure.

Useless pleas would tumble from his lips, but you refused to indulge them, instead, instructing him to "show that pretty tongue, baby." He had no choice but to obey, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, coated with saliva as he reveled in embarrassment.

He'd pant and whine, his red tip darted back and forth between your hand, his face contorted in a mix of pleasure and shame. "M-mama, I'm close.. gunna cum.. c-cum, cum all over," he'd babble, his movements becoming more frenzied by the second.

Your grip tightening around his member, moving and twisting in tandem with his thrusts would send him over the edge. He'd cum with a loud, broken moan, tears threatening to fall from his eyes as he convulsed in your grip.

His body felt shaky and weak, his legs trembling beneath him. You stroked him through the aftershocks, praising him as he sat down, still flushed from his climax.

"You did such a good job, pup," you'd coo, making him blush once more. "Just sit there and look pretty for me and I'll get you allll cleaned up."

#sub haikyuu #dom reader #haikyuu #dom!reader #haikyu x reader #sub character #sub!character #haikyu x you #haikyu smut #mad dog #kyoutani kentarou #kyotani kentaro #WHY R THERE NO TAGS FOR MAD DOG #kyotani kentaro x reader

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smittenmeraki · 1 month ago

Text

I have so many random ideas of Andreil being found out by the media in the strangest ways. My personal fav so far is them going pro and being on different teams. They end up playing against each other and everyone starts to think their rivals because Andrew keeps launching the ball at Neils helmet. After like 7 headshots from across the court Neil swears at him in german something along the lines of "I know you're doing that on purpose quit being a bitch for the sake of your entertainment or I swear I will empty your candy drawer" and of course Andrew's just there with his blank expression leaning on his racket, knowing Neil will forget all about it when they're home. However, all the fans see is Andrew targeting Neil over and over no matter where he is on the court so everyone thinks they hate each other until some weeks later an article is released with pictures of them grocery shopping together. Andrew is in the cart eating candy he hasn't even bought yet while Neil scans the aisle with a hand in Andrews hair. Another picture of them loading everything into the car, Andrew with a hand on Neils waist as he opens the backdoor. The article is titled something like "rivals or lovers : a deep dive into their history" and it brings up points like Andrew protecting Neil from Riko and Neil getting Andrew to shut down the goal with just a few words (ones no one knows), but also points of them shoving each other and getting in each others faces (tbh they were just flirting but from an outside prospective it was violence because they are never normal) all of the fan theories come to a head when Neil gets interviewed.

"What is your thoughts on the rumors about you and Minyard?"

"Rumors?"

"Yes, the ones about you two being teammates turned rivals turned lovers. Many fans are speculating what your relationship is and several articles have become very popular over it."

"We were never rivals??" Neil is absolutely lost at this idea, complete confusion.

"Really? Never once over the years?"

"No? And what articles? I don't understand how this has anything to do with Exy."

"Its about your career in the sense that Andrew Minyard has been a challenge for you." Neil smiles at the idea of Andrew being a challenge. "There was a really big article that shared some photos of you two together at a grocery store. It's rather unusal to see you two in a domestic setting, can you tell us about that? Many are wondering why you shop together." The first photo is pulled up on the big screen and Neil just stares for a moment, unsure of when it was taken.

"1. Its creepy that that was taken without us knowing. 2. I don't know what you want me to tell you, Andrew's not allowed out of the cart because he's a mence to shop with or maybe he refuses to let me go alone because I constantly forget things. Its just normal every day life, same as everyone else. 3. Because we live together?? I still don't see the relevance any this has to Exy. Many spouses go against each others teams, it's a part of being pro's."

"Spouses? So you are confirming you and Minyard are married?"

"Not on paper. Fundamentally yes. I thought this interview was supposed to be about how our season is going?" Neil sits back, baffled but also slightly smug from the look of shock on the interviewers face.

Meanwhile Andrew is at home with the cats eating a tub of ice cream while watching the interview thinking to himself 'yeah, fucking tell her. Noisy ass drama seeker.'

#aftg #all for the game #all for the gay #andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten

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pedge-page · 4 months ago

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does tommy ever feel the wrath of joel’s pregnant wife or does she reserve that specifically for joel? I feel like tommy would get on her nerves a little bit 😂

I was waiting for someone to ask this! Tbh I think preggo wife saves her wrath for Joel simply because shes comfortable with him and can relax and let her guard down. With Tommy alone....

Tommy Dealing with Preggo Wife

Warnings: just language and Joel and Wife being insecure in their own (slightly toxic) ways

- - - -

You were super pregnant at this point. A couple weeks away from making Joel a doting husband to a doting father, and he was probably more on edge than you were. Your anxious little poor husband Joel, freaking out that he needed to take a weekend trip away, and the only person he can rely to watch over you--

"I don't need to be fucking baby sat--!"

-- his sweet, helpless, innocent little pregnant wife, is unfortunately, Tommy.

"Ok listen very carefully," Joel starts, now having Tommy's full attention like he's about to ask him to do his first heart transplant. "She doesn't go anywhere unless you decide. She eats what you put in front of her, and you don't take her shit. She's gonna be bitchy and whiny and crying. She needs to rest. Rub her shoulder, put her feet up, whatever. But you gotta tough through and just make sure she understands that you're in charge. And what you say, goes. Got it?"

He knows Joel is relying on him to take care of his most precious belonging...who also is the devil. "Ok...ok. I mean it's like a... like watching a toddler, right?" Tommy asks, unsure about the whole thing.

"Yeah... a pregnant one that weighs more than ya and swears and probably will slap you a lot."

Joel smacks Tommy's shoulder lovingly with an encouraging smile.

Tommy feels even more hesitant. but he knows that he just needs to channel his inner Joel this weekend: stern, unmoving, and commanding, and he'll do just fine navigating you.

Joel hugs you real tight and kisses your forehead, inhaling your hair deeply as if to etch it into his brain. "I love you, baby, I'm gonna miss you so--"

"Later fucker." you pat his bum and wave him off as you waddle away in his large T shirt towards the freezer drawer, pulling out a Ben and Jerry's fudge pint with wet lips and a grin.

Tommy shrugs and helps Joel out to the truck with his bag. he waves goodbye as his brother backs out the driveway, shouting "YOU'RE IN CHARGE!"

I'm in charge, I'm in charge, he chants to himself, taking a deep breath before entering your house again.

"Alright!" he claps his hands together awkwardly but with a tone leadership. "We are going to stay in bed today,"

"Mall," you grump though a big scoop of ice cream.

"W-what?"

"M'goin ta mall. Yur takin mee," you nod towards him casually, gulping another spoon.

"uhh-h." Tommy looks around anxiously. Was this part of the test? He should put his foot down, yeah, Joel said you go no where unless Tommy explicitly said so. "N-no."

you swallow. "'Scuse me?"

"N-no? I mean... no! I said, we are putting you in bed, and what i say, go--"

"Thomas Miller," you say, and an eerie sense of fear swallows Tommy, sending shivers all over his body. Despite the 90 degree forecast, its like someone just tossed his insides into a freezer, and you were locking him in.

"Y-yes...maam," he whispers, feeling small.

"We can either do this... the hard way," you tilt your head with a sinister gaze towards him, as if referencing that bit of "Joel" he's trying to channel inside. "Or, we can do this... my way." The way you smile at the end is somehow even more threatening than the chilled tone you're having with him.

It was like when he and Joel broke his grandma's vase, and rather than yelling at them, she had the exact same terrifyingly threatening voice, and it made Tommy sleep with one eye open for a week.

"What will it be, Thomas."

He remembers to breathe shakily through his nose, licking his parched lower lip.

He doesn't want to be known as the guy who got beat up by his pregnant sister in law.

"Do you want a pretzel?" you ask kindly.

"Ah... no--no that's okay--"

"I'm getting you one, honey, just say Thank you."

"Okay. T-thank you."

Tommy bites into the cinnamon sugar one with the extra glaze you had ordered, and he had never felt such sweet heaven.

"Joel used to yell at me for my sweet tooth," he admits as the two of you stuff your faces and waltz slowly down the mall halls.

"Me too!" you bump his shoulder heartily.

Tommy lets out a relaxed sigh. From the moment he agreed to do whatever it was you wanted, the weekend had been fantastic. Turns out, you're not only super fun to blast kareoke to the worst songs in the car, but also all full of warmth, laughter, and even more suprisingly, extremely generous at offering to spoil him rotten like a mother with her favorite child.

"What can I make you for dinner?"

"Wha--no I'm supposed to cook for you--"

"Tommy stop please. I want to make you something. You have to be stuck with me all day walking like a slow penguin. I want to do something for you. You deserve it. "

You hadn't noticed Tommy pausing along your walk, watching you in awe as you waddled about, gently caressing your tummy absentmindedly as you window shopped.

This was the demon that Joel complained about every hour of the day???

And even more concerning was: how did someone like JOEL manage to score a girl like YOU???

You were so peaceful, generous, kind, loving, all smiles and willing to take care of him.

Was he doing everything right or everything wrong?

The two of you return home, with Tommy hauling more gifts that you had bought him. He really wasn't able to protest, with you somehow disappearing from sight conveniently, to his horror that he somehow lost you like a puppy in the park, and then finding you suddenly swiping your card at a register.

He should feel bad, truly, but you were just in such a good mood, he didn't want to seem ungrateful. And he also.... really liked all of it.

"Oh these are so fuckin nice!" He cheers, pulling out the new sneakers you had just bought in it's wrapping paper. "Mine are--"

"Old and ratty, yes I know that's why I bought them. Sick of your nasty shoes trailing my house--"

"S-sorry--"

"Bought you some fuzzy slippers too so you can switch out when you come in."

"Im not really a slippers guy..."

"You are now."

You ended up making a quick spaghetti, slapping him away every time he tried to hover in the kitchen. "I wanna stand! good exercise!" you nod with a smile.

And it seemed like you meant it. Despite babyzilla cooking and ready to burst out, you were light on your feet in the kitchen. Like a ballerina dancing and swaying, you hummed to a tune in your head as you tasted the sauce on the spatula. You were in the zone, in your world. and it was genuinely... beautiful. He understood it now, when people say pregnant women glow. the entire time, Joel always said you did, but he only ever saw how tired the pregnancy made the both of you.

Was... Joel the problem?

After a hearty dinner, Tommy washed up the dishes. You said your goodnights and headed to your master bedroom, tucked in, and lights off just as Tommy gathered his pillows down the hall in the guest bedroom.

He sighs, laying on his belly and inhaling the fresh linen before closing his eyes.

Not more than a few moments pass before he hears some sniffles down the hall. Then again, a cough and whine.

He sits up and heads down to your room, the door cracked and dark. he flips the light switch on to see you sitting upright in your bed, rubbing your eyes.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"M'good!" you give him two thumbs up. "Night!"

He nods and flips the switch off again, turning away. he doesn't make it two steps before he hears your unmistakable crying.

He turns the lights back on to see you wiping fat tears from your cheeks, sobbing into your shirt--Joel's shirt.

"Hey...what's wrong? Are you okay? ya in pain? What can I--"

You pull your face up, lips trembling and all tear soaken. He sees your clutching one of Joel's jackets in your hands, wrapped tightly like you don't want it to leave you. A completely emotional mess as you huff and puff.

He puts the pieces together. "Ya miss Joel, don't you--"

"I MISS HIMMMMMM!!!!!!!!" you wail, erupting into a long cry into the air with slunked shoulders and larger tears strolling down from the creases of your closed eyes.

He tightens his lips awkwardly, not wanting to let out a chuckles. Turns out big scary pregnant "later fucker" wife really did love that dumbass. Its also probably the first time he sees bags under your eyes, like you were hiding your exhaustion. When Joel is around, you almost never looked tired. Just pouty and groutchy like a spoiled senior cat.

Maybe Joel wasnt the problem, but the solution. He knew how to take care of you, knew what you needed when you needed it, knew when to put his foot down, and even when hed watch you two bicker and bitch, joel knew exactly how to get you in bed wrapped around him like gumby. Every. Single. Night.

He rubs your arm soothingly.

"Why"-hiccup--"did he"--sniffle--"leave me!"

"He aint leave ya, just had some work."

"HE HATES ME!!!!!!!!!"

He shakes his head, knowing you're inconsolable. rather than trying to reason, he brings you to his shoulder so you can cry your heart out on him as he hugs you. "There there," he hums, swaying you two side to side.

like a crying toddler indeed.

"M'sorry," you whimper, rubbing your eyes with your balled fists. "Wakin' you up, me crying like this. I can't--I can't help it some times..." your voice waivers, face warm in embarrassment that you're burdening Tommy so much.

"Don't sweat it. You did a lot today. Can I get you anything to cheer you up?" he suggests, expecting a trip down to the freezer for a nice tub of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cr--

"Can you get the jar of pickles?"

That...is fine too.

He brings up the largest jar of dill pickles he's ever seen in his life, sets them in your lap. He pops open the sturdy lid for your eager fingers to pull a long dill out and slink it into your lips. the satisfying crunch echoes in the room as you munch.

You start crying again. "I Fucking HATE Pickles!" you groan angrily before taking another generous crunch with a confusingly delightful hum. "Like--I hate it, but they're good?"

He chuckles, taking a piece. He pauses, eying you fearfully as if he made a wrong move not asking your permissions to take one of your hated yet coveted pickles. You nod, and the two of you crunch down on the peculiar snack.

"It's probably from the baby..."

"Fuckin' weirdo." you pat the rounded hump of your tummy and swallow the rest of your slice. Though, the way you stroke along the skin so delicately with a little smirk, he knows you're already in love with your "fuckin weirdo" baby more than anyone could love anything in this world.

Tommy never really thought about the word "uncle" until this moment, and the first emotion he has to associate it with, is excitement.

"Mkay. I'm done now." You hold the jar out to him so he can close it. "Thank you, Tommy," you say sweetly with the gentlest, sleepiest smile. "I really appreciate it."

THIS IS THE ANGEL JOEL HAS THE NERVES TO COMPLAIN ABOUT????

He swears, if Joel comes back and calls him up later saying how insufferable you are, he may just have to size up and smack his big brother.

Tommy pats your head, tucks you in again and turns of the lights.

The next day you make Tommy take you to breakfast and get him as many pancakes and French toast he can stuff his face with. A spoiled little brother indeed, and as he swallows another lump of the best breakfast eggs he's ever had, he wonders how sweet life would have been with a big sister like you spoiling him every day instead of Joel making him do chores and shit.

Its not until Joel is meeting the two of you at a lunch spot that Tommy remembers exactly what Joel always groans about.

"Hi baby!" He grins, rushing to give you a big hug for the first time in two days.

And despite your crying for him last night, you only retort with "sup fucker" casually and near bored, as if you weren't sniffing his jacket and Wagging your imaginary tail in disguise.

Joel purses his lips sarcastically, knowing you mean well, and Tommy laughs. You two definitely understood each other way better than he thought.

"Im gonna wash my hands, you two get a table," Joel says, and disappears down the back entrance.

Your waitress greets you just as Tommy is helping you slide down into the booth, big baby belly and all.

"Just three waters, please,"

"And a pepsi! Lots of ice. Two pepsis actually. And bread. And maybe like uh milkshake to start off?--"

The waitress glances at Tommy with a raised brow, wondering if you're genuine or not. He shrugs and nods, noting "she's pretty far along if ya can tell."

"My older sister was the same way. I'll get that in. You two...sorry I shouldn't say it but you two make a cute couple--" she says kindly.

Unfortunately, its exactly at the same Joel returns and hears that last bit, directed towards you and Tommy.

She walks away just as you catch Joels bewildered expression, conveniently with Tommy's hand on your bump and another around your lower back (supporting you into the booth of course but JOEL doesn't see it that way with this new context).

You and Tommy open your mouths to dismiss the claim and misunderstanding, but ever defensive Joel just shoves Tommy aside, slides into your booth next to you and slams your hand into his lap, his bear paws enclosed around yours. Tommy quietly slides into the opposite end, met with Joels flaring nostrils and billowing steam coming out of them.

The younger Miller realizes that slapping some sense into Joel and "sizing him up" was a total pipe dream. He'd be lucky to live long enough to an uncle at this point.

You gotta defend your poor brother in law. "The waitress just saw--"

"Cute couple, huh," he seethe with gritted teeth his entire seething focus at Tommy rather than paying any mind to you.

"Joel stop, Tommy was REALLY great to me this weekend--"

"Oh I BET he was," he grunts, turning towards you with a scowl. "S'that why he got new shoes on?" Joel damn well knows Tommy didn't just pony up and buy new shit for himself this weekend, given he refuses to buy himself anything new for years past it's expiration.

Tommy knows he's never allowed to baby sit you alone again at this rate.

"She was crying last night saying how much she missed ya," Tommy blurts.

You kick his shin under the table, not wanting to let Joel know what a pathetic groveling mess--

"Wait really!?" he nuzzles closer to your, as if all the anger in his body dissipated at the notion his poor little wife was calling out for her hubby.

Tommy chuckles and nods. "We shared some pickles in bed, ain't that right?"

You slap your face just as Joel rears his once again flaring red face towards Tommy. "You did WHAT in WHERE????"

- - - -

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow @wintersquirrel @fluffygoffpanda @picketniffler @bbyanarchist

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 2 months ago

Note

girl i love your stories that i reread them A LOT. idk if your request is open but if it's not then you can do it whenever I WILL WAIT MY WHOLE LIFE FOR IT

some angst (but end with fluff) about y/n being bad at directions (me tbh) so she keeps clinging to minho and his friends (during idk maybe their tour in japan or other vacations)so when minho snaps at her she left the restaurant immediately and thought about going back to hotel but get lost and her phone died then when minho find out she's not back till late at night he starts going crazy looking for her around

i'll let you get creative from here! tq!!!!

I hope you enjoy!!!

The trip to Japan had been an exhilarating whirlwind of sights and sounds. But for you, it also became a constant struggle to keep up with the group. Your terrible sense of direction was something you’d always laughed off, but here, in the bustling chaos of unfamiliar streets, it felt like a glaring flaw. You clung to Minho more than you intended to, relying on him to guide you when you inevitably got turned around.

By the third day, his patience began to wear thin.

It started with small sighs, then curt remarks. But tonight, as you hesitated once again at an intersection, unsure which way to go, Minho snapped. His voice cut through the group’s chatter, sharp and biting.

“For God’s sake, Y/N, can you stop acting helpless for five minutes? It’s not that hard to figure out where we’re going.”

The words stung like a slap, and the embarrassment that followed was suffocating. The others fell silent, their eyes darting between the two of you. Chan stepped forward, his voice firm and reprimanding.

“Minho, that’s enough! You don’t ever talk to her like that. You hear me?”

Minho opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, guilt flashing across his face under Chan's firm glare. Still, the damage was done. You felt small and out of place, like an unwelcome burden. Chan gave you a shoulder squeeze before going to scold Minho a bit more. The group resumed walking, the atmosphere tense as all the boy looked over in your direction with awkward and pitiful glances. Felix and Jeongin tried to lighten your mood by talking casually with you, but the lump in your throat wouldn't shake.

When you reached the restaurant, you quietly excused yourself, claiming you needed some air. No one stopped you. Outside, the cool night air hit your face as tears blurred your vision. You decided to head back to the hotel, thinking it was better to remove yourself from the group altogether.

But as you wandered through the maze of streets, panic began to set in. Every turn seemed to lead to another unfamiliar alley, and your phone’s battery was dwindling fast. When it finally died, leaving you stranded without maps or a way to contact anyone, fear took hold.

Back at the restaurant, the group noticed your prolonged absence. Jisung was the first to speak up, glancing around nervously.

“Uh, has anyone seen Noona? She’s been gone for a while.”

Minho, who had been unusually quiet since his outburst, froze. Chan frowned, his protective instincts kicking in.

“I’ll check outside,” Jisung offered, already heading for the door. He returned a few minutes later, his expression grim.

“She’s not out there,” he said, his voice edged with worry. “I think she’s gone.”

Minho shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know!” Jisung replied, his voice rising. “I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not answering her phone either.”

The weight of the situation hit Minho like a freight train. His earlier anger dissolved into a nauseating mix of fear and guilt. Without another word, he bolted out of the restaurant, desperate to find you.

You’d been wandering for what felt like hours when a man approached you. He looked to be in his fifties, his kind eyes and warm smile a stark contrast to the bustling city around you.

“Are you lost?” he asked in Japanese. You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you tried to explain your situation.

“Come,” he said gently, switching to broken English. “My daughter recognized you. Said you are with boyfriend, Minho? Safe at our house. You charge phone.”

Too exhausted and desperate to refuse, you followed him to a modest house nearby. His daughter, a young woman about your age, greeted you with tea and a charger. The warmth of their home was comforting, but your heart ached with the weight of the evening’s events.

Minho was spiraling. He darted from street to street, asking anyone he came across if they’d seen you. When he entered a small cafe, the owner paused, recognizing your description.

“Yes,” she said. “She left with an older man. He seemed…kind. Not dangerous.”

Her words did little to calm Minho’s fraying nerves. The thought of you- vulnerable and alone- with a stranger nearly pushed him to the brink of a breakdown. His hands trembled as he tried to focus.

“Where? Which way did they go?” he demanded.

She pointed him in the right direction, and he took off without a second thought. When he finally reached the house and saw you through the window, sitting safely with the older man and his daughter, the relief was overwhelming. He knocked and burst through the door, his chest heaving.

“Y/N,” he choked out, rushing to your side. “Are you okay? I was…I was so scared.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Minho pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if to make sure you were really there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I…I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t mean it. I…I can’t lose you.”

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could respond, the daughter handed you a photo card she’d been holding. It was of Minho, from a recent album. She giggled nervously, gesturing to the collection spread out across the table.

“I'm a big fan,” she said in English, and you couldn’t help but smile. "So, I recognized her from your posts."

“Thank you for helping her,” Minho said to her and the father in Japanese, his voice hoarse. Then, in a move that stunned everyone, he sank to his knees. Lowering himself further until his forehead almost touched the ground, he bowed deeply, the ultimate gesture of gratitude and humility, as he cried out words you couldn't understand, but the small family did.

“Thank you,” he said again in English, his voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you.”

The father’s eyes widened in surprise before he helped Minho up, patting his shoulder reassuringly before he looked at you. “She…good girl. You take care of her, yes?”

Minho nodded fervently, his gaze flickering to you. “Always.”

As the family waved you off, Minho kept a protective arm around you the entire walk back to the hotel. Neither of you spoke much, but his grip on you never loosened, his actions speaking louder than words ever could.

By the time you reached the entrance you took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry-"

Minho pulled you into his chest before you could say anything else. "You scared me." He whispered. "I was so scared- people...they can be dangerous."

You didn't say anything, just sunk further into his embrace, your lips turning into a pout as Minho held you.

"You found her?" Chan's accent cut through the sound of Minho's rapid heartbeat as him and Han rushed over. "I'll call the rest of the guys and tell them to come back."

Another wave of guilt hit you and you tried to sputter out another apology but Han spoke.

"It's not your fault Y/N. It's Minho's for acting that way."

You looked up at Minho, whose eyes were blank. "I'm tired. Let's head to bed." He said quietly, pulling you along. He walked into your hotel room and kicked off his shoes, pulling you under the covers with him.

He pulled you flush against his chest and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He said again. "I'm a horrible boyfriend." You turned in the bed towards him, and your heart tugged at seeing his eyes. He had been silently crying, and when he felt he didn't want you to see him cry any longer he buried his face in your chest, hugging you closer.

"I forgive you. You don't have to say sorry."

"I do. I put you in a dangerous position because of my frustrations. That's ignorant of me. If anything had happened-" His voice was muffled but you heard the slight crack in it.

'Well, nothing happened so I'm okay. I'm safe. And the father and daughter were such a cute little family and kind. You were her bias as well so if anything I was probably the most safe there." You teased. Minho didn't say anything instead pulled the blanket tighter around you.

You sighed and closed your eyes, deciding to just let Minho wallow. When he thought you were asleep he moved the strands of hair stuck to your cheek and laid a gentle kiss there.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight for the rest of this trip." You stayed still as he placed another kiss on the corner of your lips, then forehead.

"I love you, jagiya." He murmured, before resting his forehead against yours, a drifting off into a dreamless sleep with you.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

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#skz imagines #skz x reader #skz stay #skz reactions #stray kids #skz fluff #skz angst #skz #stray kids reactions #lee know #lee minho #stray kids minho #skz minho #pnutbutternjelyy #🥜🧈🪼

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presidentsdaughter · 2 months ago

Text

LIMERENCE !

ft. jimmy x fem!reader

tags. implied/reference rape, failed rape recovery, talk of incest and underage but not in regards to reader, public humiliation, obsession on readers part, sort of stalking, one mention of suicide, slight boot kink, just humiliation tbh..

note. waow.. don’t know what this is.. unedited and kind of sucks.. rbs n feedback always appreciated. ignore any typos!

What do you do when your rapist is the most handsome man you’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking?

He wasn’t ugly or fat and he wasn’t the tallest, but everyone has their shortcomings.

You feel like a total fraud, picking at the lint on your sweater as you listen to a girl bawl her eyes out while recounting the time her father raped her in the back of his pick-up after school.

The woman before her was gang-raped by her delinquent boyfriend’s lackeys, the man to her left is the victim of his middle-school teacher, another lady pushed out two rape babies from her deadbeat husband before she managed to get away from him.

They’re all ghosts; beaten down, so broken, and you are you.

The same as before, if not a little bit better.

In fact, you’ve stopped getting those night terrors where all your teeth fall out.

You got raped and everything just felt right.

Like he knocked something into place, dug so deep into your cunt he rewired your brain.

Your therapist said this would be a chance at community, some place to bring you comfort, like-minded individuals who have gone through all the same things you have. Circle time for victims of brutal, life-ruining—life-changing rape, you should fit right in.

But you have never felt more out of place.

Pick-up girl can’t continue, she’s choking on her words, they come out her throat like the creak in an old floorboard. The box of Kleenex is significantly lighter.

“We can move on,” says a lady with kind eyes, shifting on her chair to face your way.

They all look at you with their haunted, dark eyes, gaping black chasms that lead right to fucking hell. God. You’re going straight to hell.

“Erm..” You squeeze your hands into fists. You unstick your thighs from the plastic chair. You count to ten and try not to think about how nice he looked on top of you.

“It’s okay, honey, take your time.” She places her hand on your knee. You think of him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing your tender flesh until it came right off the bone, the way it inched up your skirt.

You go stiff and she notices, gasping softly like she has done something wrong. And she has. She’s turned you the fuck on, the warmth of her encouragement going straight to your cunt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think about—“

“No, it’s okay,” you strain to get it out, avoiding her eyes like sympathy is a highly contagious disease of some kind.

They’re all feeling bad for you when you have finally started to feel good about yourself.

Man, you suck.

“He was my boyfriend.” Your voice cracks for dramatic effect, hold the applause. You wish he was your boyfriend. “He did it almost everyday.” You wish he did it everyday. “It would be after I came back from work…” It would be great stress relief after your Friday shift, it’s nearing Christmas and everybody is crushed into the stores like cattle in free stall barns.

You open and close your mouth, unsure of where to go from here, so you stand up and the chair screeches against the ground. “Sorry… I’m so sorry—I need to go.”

You leave and it looks real.

Like you are a real victim with a real story and very real feelings. The type you see on TV, dressed in white, trembling like lambs, abhorred by the notion of anything sexual. Squeaky clean like you should be.

For just a moment you feel normal. Your therapist is not eyeballing you like a mildly fascinating organism in her Petri dish. Your friends don’t give you a funny look when you say you’re fine—great actually. Your mom is not hanging her head in secondhand shame when you refuse to file a police report, disturbed when she unearths your bloodied underwear beside the prayer book you keep tucked beneath your pillow, rosary nowhere to be found.

They mutter quietly amongst themselves.

Poor thing she can’t even speak about it, it must’ve been awful, I can’t even imagine what she went through, so young.

You can’t speak about it, you really can’t, you might start reciting wedding vows if you think about him longer than a second.

Your loneliness is like the crack in a China cup, fine and glossy on the outside but delicate from years stowed away in show cabinets, passed from bidder to bidder. He pressed golden lacquer into the seams of your fracture, put you back together like you were something worth holding, something to be used.

Stored away in your bag, a sacred place your mother has not yet invaded, is his work ID. You say his ordinary name like you’re uttering a prayer, you drag the jagged tip of your nail over his tiny photograph. His hair and beard are longer than you remember, he’s handsome underneath the scruff, a strong nose and a broad chest. The collar of his company-issued jumpsuit is half popped, and he’s scowling at the camera like it’s an inconvenience.

There’s no phone number on it and part of you is glad you won’t have to call into the company, requesting Jimmy like The Pony Express is a sex hotline and he’s their newest, youngest, bustiest doll.

You wait outside the warehouse instead. It’s a big old thing, the last of its kind, muted in colour, blending into the silver skies. You look at the horse who sits on top like a weathervane on a cathedral, oversized features and the stomach of a pudgy toddler.

Every day from two to eight you circle the block a few times, take a window seat in the cafe opposite until the staff begin to stack tables and chairs, sit at the bus stop beside the same lot of people who wonder why you never get on.

The horse watches from above, wide eyes glowing in the dark beside the moon, unsettlingly reverent, sparkling with diamond-sharp logic, like it knows something you do not, a silent witness to your dog-like devotion.

One day, you leave work early and find a truck parked in front of the hulking, metal mass. Two men are unloading it, one is old and the other is blond, but they don’t matter to you. A third steps out of the cab, your breath gets caught in your throat, scared your exhale might blow him away.

You don’t look when you cross the street.

“Excuse me?” You call out, you’re sure he hears you, but he’s choosing to ignore it. “Are you Jimmy?” You ask once you're close enough to go unnoticed.

“Depends,” he says in that voice you have heard so many times in your dreams, rough like the serrated edge of a knife. “Who’s asking?” He hasn’t looked up once, disinterested and completely unaffected while you burn just being near him.

There is a woman near those other two men, leant down amidst some crates, a clipboard pressed to her chest. Her face is white and her nose is long like the snout on a hound dog, her charcoal eyes are sad and droopy.

You wonder if he has touched her like he has touched you. Either she just has one of those faces or she can take your slot at circle time. She would fit right in with the rest of them. Herbivores hiding in long grass.

“I’m asking.” You clear your throat, he looks up at you with his lidded eyes and you don’t look away, openly admiring the colour of them, how they look in the sunlight. There are a million things you want to ask him.

Was it just me? Was I your first and only? Have you been thinking about me? Do you want a summer wedding or a winter one? Vanilla or chocolate cake? We could do floral arrangements in your favourite colour.

He seems to grow slightly antsy when you continue to stare, Adam’s apple bulging out of his throat when he swallows. He looks like he’s started to feel sick, like he’s waiting outside the principal’s office after breaking a window.

It’s different, he’s different in the day. Long gone is his barbed tongue and wolf-like smile. “What do you want?”

You.

Your fingers toy with the rounded edges of his employee card, if you hand it to him now it’ll all be over.

“Listen,” Jimmy starts, lowering his voice, “if it’s something I did, I’m sorry.” Apprehension twists his mouth into a frown, and he doesn’t sound all that sorry. “But you can’t show up—“

“Here.” You fish his ID from your purse, reluctant to hand it over. His fingers don’t brush yours like you hoped and he seems all too eager to get rid of you.

“Thanks, cool,” he says with all the enthusiasm of a funeral celebrant, tucking it into his breast pocket for safekeeping, his disengagement is a knife in your chest. You’re a stain on a shirt he has no intention of cleaning.

“Yeah…” Does he not remember you? Is there nothing about you that is worth remembering? Were you not good? “Cool.” The longer you stand there the more likely it seems he’s going to grab a broom to chase you away. “Well, bye, Jimmy.” You blink at him sadly, expectantly, longingly. This is it.

You walk away and that was it. That was it. You’ll never see him again, you have no reason to be caught lurking outside the warehouse.

You start to think long and hard on your way home about the fuck is wrong with you.

Everyone is shaped by the sum of their exposures. A product of the people you meet, the enemies and friends you make, who you go home to. Every smile, every scowl, every bad habit is the reflection of another. But to be completely fucking honest, you think you’re just like this. The root of the problem is you, it stems from deep inside your very core, a fundamentally fucked up instinct that makes life a fucking inconvenience. It turns everything into a complication and that is why you’re like this.

God, you wonder what it would be like to wake up and think about normal things like normal people who do not have this constant flurry of wrongness whirling around inside of them. You want to go through life like you’re meant to be on earth, not like an alien species that crash-landed here and never managed to get out, unable to acclimatise to the human way, not like you’re a manufacturing defect.

You want to laugh at the right moment, you want to know what everyone else is thinking, you want to be raped so badly. Again and again and again. You can’t be normal if you can’t stop thinking about the most abnormal thing about you, that just defeats the fucking point.

Your friends think it is their fault for bringing you home that night, for letting you go home all on your own, for getting drunk and leaving you sober. They feel responsible for the best night of your life and you hate it. You hate that they don’t get it. You had a good time in your own right, they don’t need to feel guilty—Or maybe you need to start thinking how they do. Like normal people. They’re horrified when they’re supposed to be horrified. Their minds are tailored to the tastes of this world, yours is somewhere else, some rotten, tumultuous, toxic planet.

Therapy is supposed to be helping you learn how to be even slightly human, little by little, step by step. But you can’t take it in small doses, you need all of this wrongness gone at once like a decidual cast. It doesn’t make you lighter, it doesn’t put a pep in your step, it doesn’t do shit.

So you keep going to wait outside the Pony Express warehouse. You camp out in that cafe all day on days off from work. The staff know you by name, six holes punched in your reward card, special access to the staff bathrooms. You’re set for stalker life.

He never comes again, but you do everyday.

The nights are getting darker, stars bleed into the sky as the sun dims, the moon is larger than usual tonight and if you weren’t so taken by the brightness you would be quicker to notice the dark figure in your peripheral.

When you finally do, you think it’s the devil, cloaked in darkness like the devil probably should be. “Oh, it’s you.” You try to hide the smile in your voice as you watch him put a cigarette between his crooked lips.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He’s unbothered in tone, indifferent in manner. It would be flattering that he remembered you if he hadn’t said it like that.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, from last week.” Jimmy’s eyes glow radioactive in the dark like tiger eyes when he lights his cigarette, the flame flickers and casts him uneven light, softening the right side of his face with a golden haze and plunging the left into shifting darkness. “You stalking me?”

“No!” You say all too quickly. “No, no… I study at the cafe opposite you.”

“Okay.” He was joking you think, making fun of you maybe, you wouldn’t be able to tell either way. “Studying the menu or what?”

That was a joke, that has to be a joke. It’s your cue to laugh so you force one out, it crackles unnaturally. “I wish, but I meant before that, do you remember me from before that?”

You look different under the street lamps, they do nothing for your skin, light pools unfavourably in every pore, the jewel-toned dress you picked out today must look washed out.

Jimmy’s lazy eyes rake up your body, and then he shakes his head slowly. “No.” Even to someone like you, it’s clear he has no interest in taking this conversation anywhere.

“It was in November, the beginning, I was on my way home, and it was late...” You should’ve done this at circle time. “You grabbed me and I let you take me, and then after you told me to walk down the block and call a cab, and I did.”

“Hm,” Jimmy shrugs, though you notice his hand trembling as he raises his cigarette to his lip, “nope, don’t remember that.”

Frustrated, you clench your fists, wondering what could jog his memory—Did he do it often? Nab a girl off the street corner so regularly that he didn’t remember a single one, faces all blurring together, the same hole with a different set of tits.

“Remind me again.”

“How?”

“Take off your jacket.” Jimmy’s cigarette gets crushed beneath his boot, he’s looking at you now. Really looking at you, and this is where it all goes pear-shaped. Your whole life is pear-shaped of course, but this is just fucking sad. You beg yourself to think it over, to think of the dozens of security cameras on this street alone. None of it seems too important when he’s here.

And then, you shrug your coat off your shoulders.

“Okay.” You’ve always been obedient because you have no reason to say no, you don’t care if he’s going to mug you, at least he’s talking to you now. At least he is looking at you.

“Think I’m gonna need to see more to know who you are,” he says, detached like there are a million better things he could be doing with his time, but he’s spending it with you. “Take off your dress.”

“What…” You’re shaking slightly in the cold, wind stings your cheeks and the tip of your fingers have started to ache.

“Take off your dress, I might know you.” Fair enough. He’d seen your ass more than your tits and your tits more than your face. It was forced into a flat pillow for three quarters of the night, between his thighs for the last quarter.

You take off your dress, edging it off your ankles. He drapes it over his arm - he’s got enough humanity to not leave your pretty clothes on the pavement.

It’s cold. The type of cold that makes your brain freeze, the type of cold that only Siberian Huskies and yetis enjoy.

And yet here you are in nothing but your cotton panties, t-shirt bra and boutique winter booties looking like the most expensive kerb crawler in all the world.

“Turn around,” Jimmy hums, his hand is cold but not as cold as you, tracing along your spine when you listen like a good girl.

From here, the horse is watching you. Seeing it all, cartoonish eyes forced in your direction. It’s late so the cars that whiz past have no intention of stopping, some houses have their lights on.

Humiliation prickles your skin, it could be the cold, but you don’t think the cold gets inside of you like this. What are you doing? What are you doing? What is mom going to think? What is dad going to do? What are they going to tell your family when you’re sectioned for Christmas?

”That’s good,” his voice comes out in a whisper, “take ‘em off and get on the ground.” Lukewarm hands slide over your hips, checking you over like a piece of meat.

“Okay,” you whisper back to him, and you’ve gone so far there’s nothing to lose, stepping out of your underwear and doing just as he says.

There’s no praise from Jimmy’s end and you don’t expect any. His stern face, his flat tone, it’s all unforgiving like this cold, hard sidewalk is on your hands and knees.

“Jesus, there something wrong with you?” He sounds surprised and you don’t know what you’ve done wrong. (You do know. You do know.) Isn’t this what he wanted? “Sorry,” Jimmy says, not sounding sorry at all, “I shouldn’t say that, you’re not all there.”

Your head isn’t entirely intact, and there is this worm hole that eats away at your insides, but you’re here. You’re here and you’re on the ground, on your knees with your cunt bared to him. Does he not see you?

The horse sees you, perpetually wide-eyed and forever watching.

Something cold, like the nose of a dog, presses against your pussy. It takes you a moment to figure out that it’s the toe of his boot, the leathery texture is wet almost, smooth and still textured, grainy. The cold is making it too hard to focus on the feeling of it nudging your swollen clit. You close your eyes and focus on anything but your hands burning on the ground, how the wind is going straight to your bones.

You’re going to make this worth it. You will. You’ve been wet for months and you won’t let it dry up so quickly, not when the cause of the leak is here to plug it up.

Just as you’re about to push back into him, grind your clit into the leather, show off how much you want him—He kicks you down, your body skids forward, elbows scraping on the cement. It’s painful, but you’re so cold, so shocked, so confused.

Quietly, you hear him under his breath. “What the fuck… Fuckin’ freak.” You don’t know if it’s in awe or disgust. He drops your coat and dress over the flat of your back, you scramble to put them on. “Why did you do that?” Jimmy asks, and he is looking at you like you’re crazy, like he’s disgusted.

You can’t tell if it’s a trick question. “Because you told me to.” It’s a simple answer, the only answer. Your chest heaves, teeth chattering as you stand on aching legs. God. It feels like your bones are fragmenting.

“Are you a dog?”

“No.” You check your pockets to find some loose change is missing.

“Then you didn’t have to do that, it’s not fuckin’ normal.”

Rape is not normal. And neither is asking seemingly nice, well-meaning girls to undress in sub-zero temperatures. But you don’t want to talk back, you don’t like to talk back, you don’t want to scare him off.

“Okay… Then, I’m sorry.”

“What…” His tone lilts in what might be confused laughter, everything you say is a twist or turn in a tangled thread he can’t quite follow. “Don’t say sorry, no, I don’t—I don’t know, just go home.”

“You’re not going to take me?” You gaze at him sadly. Wanting, yearning. “I think I’m going to kill myself tonight,” you proclaim softly, not because you want to make him feel bad, but because you don’t know what to do with yourself and he is distant enough to confide in.

“Alright,” Jimmy shrugs, he lights another cigarette, the smoke billows out of his thin lips, lined with the slightest smile. “Tell me how that goes.” Well, now you feel stupid and wish to take it back. Then, before he goes, he asks a little too casually, “Your dad touched you or something?”

“No…” You answer slowly, wondering if you should’ve said yes, if that was what he wanted to hear, gauging his reaction like you’ll be able to read it at all.

“Right.” He laughs, and his shoulders are still shaking in disbelief as he wanders into the dark like something out of a nightmare.

You look over to the horse, it tells you he’ll be back.

Considering he works there and all you thought the same, so you’ll be back alive and well.

#dark fic #dead dove do not eat #mouthwashing jimmy x reader #mouthwashing jimmy smut #jimmy mouthwashing smut #jimmy smut #mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing x you

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whimsyfinny · 5 months ago

Text

He’s a Winchester

Chapter 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: It's been a long time since (Y/n) and Dean's paths have crossed. Last time they saw each other it was ‘98 and they were young and living in the moment. Nine years down the Line, their paths cross again, but (Y/n)s longest kept secret is about to become Deans reality.

Slow burn (ish), mom!reader

Warnings: language, anxious Dean, anxious Reader

Chapter Word Count: 2683

MDNI 18+

A/N: another slightly shorter chapter (sorry). Idk why but I rewrote this chapter so many times to try and get it right, so fingers crossed it’s not awful. But the encounter finally happens! Not long now until we get to see Dean doing dad things, and tbh, I’m living for it. Feedback is always appreciated! Love you all

A/N2: GUYS IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING but PLEEEEASE provide your age if you want to be added to the taglist and it isn’t in your blog. This story is tame now but it’s gonna get spicy, and my blog is strictly 18+. So pleeeeease save be a very long job and help a gal out.

Photos from Pinterest

New Readers Start Here: Chapter 1

Previous Chapter: Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Spilling the truth took a lot less time than I'd anticipated, so after a quick update texted to Kat and the much needed coffees, Dean and I decided to head over to the track. Dean himself was feeling every emotion under the sun. He expressed a constant string of heartfelt apologies for nearly the whole walk from Jolenes’ Café back to where we'd parked, despite me constantly reminding him that he has nothing to apologise for. He's here now, and that's what matters. The phrases ‘I have a son,’ and ‘I’m a dad’ seemed to intertwine with the ‘I’m sorry’s’ like a mantra, to the point where I had to stop him in his tracks and refocus his attention before his head got lost in the clouds.

“I get it, Dean. This is so much to absorb right now, and I can't imagine what is going on in that crazy brain of yours. You don't have to come with me right now, we can meet tomorrow if you want-”

“No, absolutely not. I've been absent for too long and I'll be damned if I waste another minute,” he nervously wiped his hands over his face as we approached my truck. I couldn't help but smile. “I mean, what if he doesn't like me?”

I couldn't stop the chuckle from escaping my mouth, earning a raised eyebrow from the man who was working himself into an anxious sweat.

“Dean, trust me, he's going to want to be your best friend. Especially when he knows that’s your car,” I nodded my head to the impala a few spaces away, recalling Levi's excitement when he saw it in town yesterday.

“Really?”

“Really. Plus…” I hesitated, unsure what emotion my next statement was going to stir within Dean, “he's been bullied for not having a dad around, and I think he'll be grateful for that to stop.”

Deans’ brows furrowed as he leant on the side of my truck, dropping his head and muttering a few curses.

“He's been bullied because I've not been there?” He looked up with a pained pinch in his brow. I sighed.

“Yes but trust me, your boy gives as good as he gets,” I smiled a little, bringing Dean some reassurance. I could tell the words ‘your boy’ had an effect on him. “Look,” I reached out to rub his shoulder affectionately, to which he responded with a warm hand over mine, squeezing my fingers. “We need to get going to pick him up. Why don't you come in my truck with me?” He paused for a moment, thinking, gathering his thoughts before standing up straight and nodding. “Great,” I grinned at him, a few nervous butterflies fluttering in my own stomach now. I reached for his hand again, giving it another squeeze, “let's get going then.”

Dean had insisted on driving, mainly for his own sanity and I’d happily obliged, remembering what a terrible passenger he was. After a couple of painstaking minutes of him readjusting my seat, we pulled away and headed down to the track.

The drive was about twenty minutes, and most of that was spent in a comfortable conversation about Levi. Dean wanted to know everything. And I mean everything. His hobbies, his favourite movie, his favourite cereal, his least favourite cereal, his grades, his favourite subject… the list went on. Before we knew it, we were turning down a dirt road and pulling into a large gravel car park. As we pulled up and hopped out, the buzz of dirt bikes and loud chatter filled the air, along with the intense smell of petrol. Dean walked around to my side, looking around and taking it all in.

“Levi does this? He can ride a dirt bike?” he asked, an impressed tone to his voice. Dean had forgone the leather jacket and as I glanced at him, I couldn't help but trail my gaze over his biceps and the way the grey fabric of his t-shirt stretched around the large muscles. I looked away quickly before he caught me. Now was not the time to let my eyes or thoughts wander.

“Yeah, he's really into it, and he's good too; he has a few trophies at home. To be honest, he loves anything with wheels and an engine,” I grinned, meeting Deans’ eyes with a knowing look. He smiled back.

“Really?”

“You know, he's a lot like you - even though you've never met. It's kinda crazy,” I started heading down to the gathering point, knowing that Levi would be coming off the track soon. Dean was hot on my heels. “He even looks like you.”

“Poor kid.”

I smacked him on the arm playfully as Dean chuckled.

“You're handsome and you know it, so shut your mouth.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just as we were approaching the gathering point I heard a familiar voice calling my name. Looking through the crowd I saw Kat trotting up to us in her poorly chosen footwear, Toby nowhere in sight. She pulled me into a hug with a smirk already growing on her lips, and as she pulled back she turned to study the tall man at my side.

“Hmm… you are even finer than your photograph.”

“Kat!”

She ignored me.

“I'm Kat, it's nice to meet you, Dean. I feel like we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. You know, since our son's are besties,” she stuck out her hand and grasped Deans, giving it a firm shake and dropping it before he'd even uttered a word. She turned back to me, her smirk still on her lips.

“Since Levi is coming home with you today - much to Toby's disappointment - how would you feel about him sleeping over tomorrow?”

“Yeah totally, he'd love that,” I grinned at her, forever grateful.

“Great! I'll pick him up tomorrow,” she beamed, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before turning on her heels and heading back into the crowd of parents. We'd normally wait for the boys to emerge together, but I know her, and she didn't want to step on Deans’ toes. This was a big deal, and in her eyes, she was the outsider here.

“What was that?” Dean looked at me, slightly stunned with a quizzical brow.

“That,” I gestured to Kat's disappearing figure, “is Kat. She's my best friend, and to be honest I don't think I'd have made it this far without her.”

“Kat. Got it,” he seemed to make a mental note of who she was, catching on quickly that she was an important person in my life. In Levi's life. I grinned at him, perhaps a little nervously before grasping his hand and pulling him with me in the same direction Kat had left.

“Come on, he’ll be out soon, let's wait for him.”

Dean flashed the smallest smile whilst taking a deep breath. He looked down at our hands and I noticed his palms were a little sweaty. He gripped tighter, hanging to me like I was a lifeline as I pulled him through the crowd. His silence spoke volumes of his nerves, so I stopped at the edge of the gaggle of parents, fearing that he would soon find this all too much.

For the whole five minutes that we waited, Dean didn't let go of me.

It didn't take long for the whirring of tiny engines to draw closer and closer before finally stopping, shortly followed by the chatter of smaller, childlike voices. Kids began to filter through the crowd, and it wasn’t long before a familiar outline pushing a small, black dirt bike headed our way. Suddenly Dean pulled his hand away from mine and raked his fingers frantically through his hair, pacing in a small circle.

“Shit…shit- what do I say to him? How do I talk to him? He's gonna hate me-”

“Hey hey hey, calm down, everything is fine! Trust me, Dean, Levi is not going to hate you,” I reached to rub a hand over the back of his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and flex with every deep breath he took.

“I've done a lot of terrifying shit in my life but this really takes the cake,” he dragged a large hand over his paleing face.

“He's an eight year old boy, baby. Trust me, you've got this.”

He sighed before stopping in his tracks, his gaze catching mine with a twitch of his lip.

“It's been a hot minute since you've called me that, sweetheart,” he stepped closer, reaching to touch the small of my back with tender fingertips.

It took a moment for realisation to dawn, and when it did I felt heat bloom across my cheeks.

“I-I'm sorry- it just slipped out- I didn't mean-”

“(Y/n) it's ok! I don't mind,” he chuckled slightly, his nerves seeming to dissipate. The playful glint had returned to his eye for a moment, but it was quickly replaced with something calmer, more serene. His grin lessened, but the warmth in his features remained. “I don't mind.”

I looked up at him, my heart and stomach feeling warm and light as we seemed to acknowledge our own familiarity between each other. It wasn't just Levi that connected us, and I seemed to forget that Dean and I used to be in a relationship. We were more than just a one night stand - we were intimate on multiple levels.

“Hey mom!”

The bubble around Dean and I popped as Levi had crept up on us, crash helmet still equipped and his bike to his side. I felt Dean tense beside me, the air around him practically sizzling with anticipation.

“Hey there, trouble! You had a good afternoon?” I stepped up to Levi and patted his helmet. He nodded vigorously.

“Great! You can tell me all about it in the car,” I paused and glanced at Dean, frozen in place and not taking his eyes off Levi since he appeared. It took a moment for Levi to realise that Dean was even standing there, his focus still on me and his fun afternoon. After a few breaths, Dean tore his gaze away from his son and he looked over at me, his expression heavy with a whole concoction of emotions. I offered him a small smile before nodding.

“Hey, Levi,” I crouched down to my sons’ level, “I have a surprise for you. I'm gonna need you to take your helmet off, ok?”

I saw his eyes light up as he nodded vigorously. Helping him to support his bike, he eagerly tore his helmet off, his short brown hair tousling in the process. He grinned at me, his helmet now tucked under his arm as he waited patiently. I heard a sharp inhale hiss through Deans’ teeth from behind me as he laid eyes on his sons’ face for the first time. I smiled at Levi, taking his smaller, dirt covered hand in mine.

“Ok, so… You see this man behind me?” I tilted my head in Deans’ direction, and Levi followed with his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, his grin unfaltering.

“Well,” I drew in a breath, “his name is Dean. And I knew Dean a long time ago,” there was another apprehensive pause as my own pulse quickened. “Sweetheart… Dean… He’s, well… He’s your dad.”

I watched as the grin fell from Levis’ face, his green eyes widening.

“What?” his voice was all but a whisper, his gaze flitting rapidly between me and Dean, who’d now taken a step closer.

“He’s your dad,” I repeated, reaching up to softly comb my fingers through the front of his wild hair. Levis’ bottom lip started to tremble as my words sunk in, the truth of the situation we were in starting to hit home as tears started to well in his eyes.

“You’re serious?” he squeaked with a sniff.

I nodded, the emotions from my son now bleeding into me, a lump forming in my throat.

“Yeah honey, I’m serious.”

Levis’ helmet hit the dirt with a thud and in that instant he’d thrown himself at Dean, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his mud streaked face into his shirt. His dad didn’t hesitate to return the gesture, wrapping his large arms around Levis’ shoulders and pulling him into the same crushing hug I’d received earlier today.

“Hey kid,” Dean spoke against the top of Levis’ head, his voice rasping as he choked his words out, “I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here.”

I stood up from where I’d been crouching, now clutching the small helmet that had been flung to the ground. I drew Deans’ attention as I shifted, and I felt like my heart could have exploded in my chest when I saw the glossiness in his eyes. Tears of joy, relief and perhaps even bittersweet regret were on the brink of spilling over, and the soft smile he threw my way said a million ‘thank yous’. The quiet sounds of Levis’ sniffling were what pulled on my heartstrings the most. The boy who loved nothing more than to race bikes, watch movies and talk about cars had grown up without a dad to share those interests with. He’d watched the other kids around him down at the track, their fathers joining in with the activities. Other kids had their dads to play sports with down at the park on a sunny Sunday afternoon. They’d had a role model who they could admire, always in the bedroom next to theirs. But not Levi. He’d had me, and I did my best to fill those fatherly shoes, but we both knew it just wasn’t the same. There were times when I think it upset me more than it had upset him, feeling like my child was missing out on something so important. But now… now that Dean was here, for however long he was planning on staying, Levi could finally experience the things he’d dreamt of for so long. I just hoped it would turn out to be everything that he’d ever imagined.

I watched as Levi finally pulled away from his dad, his tears having cleaned tracks through the mud on his face. He sniffed one my time before beaming up at Dean.

“Hey, kid,” Dean smiled softly, ruffling his hair with a hand the same size as his head, “maybe if your moms ok with it, we could hang out a bit. Maybe go and grab some ice-cream? My treat,” Dean shifted that smile to me, and I would’ve had to have had a heart of stone to decline that request.

“Of course,” I smiled back, “ice-cream sounds perfect.”

“Great,” Deans’ grin widened, a refreshed look in his eye as he let go of Levi and stepped towards me, taking the helmet from my hands. My breath caught in my throat when he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to my cheek. I took everything to not let my eyes flutter closed, to not get lost in that moment, but the familiar feeling of his lips on my skin and scent washing over awoke the butterflies in my stomach. My heart leapt in my chest, and I couldn’t help the sigh of relief when he pulled away, stepping around me. He kicked the bike stand back and wheeled the small vehicle forwards, looking at Levi and urging him to come and push it.

“Come on kid, why don’t you tell me all about this beast on our way back to the truck,” he smiled to his son who beamed back, leaping over to him. Dean chuckled slightly as the smaller version of himself burst into conversation about top speeds and engine strokes, and the wide look in Deans’ eyes as he glanced up at me, finally understanding what I’d meant when I’d said they were so alike. And as Levi chatted animatedly to his dad as we walked, my heart swelled as I watched them.

I couldn’t seem to look away as I witnessed Dean gaze down at his son, looking like the proudest father in the world.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4

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