#can you tell I have no idea what I’m doing lol

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

Jumping right back in to part 3!

Accurate depiction of me knowing what's about to happen to the readers dad. 👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻

And:

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off. “What? What is it?!” you yell. He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?” You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

I won't get my hopes up. I will be just as devastated now as when I find out that he is gone for good. 😭

Also I love that you said her mother refused to "entertain anything else" because Dean's job description is literally "anything else" lol. And it really is a wonderful thing (not wonderful like good but you know what I mean) that Dean and the reader can further connect on. Her knowing what Dean really did for a living and him being brave enough to risk his life on the possibility of "a chance."

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

It's too late for that kind of talk sexy mountain man. You're stuck with her and she is not going to let you go that easy.

Am I trying to hide my emotions over Dean going into the wilderness alone to face a wendigo with humor? Yes, yes I am.

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

It's a whole vibe 🍞

Side note: I did have to look up what nesting was in the A/B/O universe, but that is so cute. 😭

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket. Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open. 

Oh goodness, yes it was a bad idea and I am so happy that Dean showed up when he did, because my anxiety for this reader was THROUGH THE ROOF. I mean yes, go get your man, but gurl please it's snowing and you've got a broken ankle. At least catch a bear or something to pull you on a sleigh lol. 🤣

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him.  Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

See this is why I don't get my hopes up because OH MY SWEET GOODNESS I'M CRYING 😭 But at least Dean is there now to wipe away her tears. AND my tears will soon be dried with the fires of their passion so... LOL 😂

He finally drags you to him in a kiss.  It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

See I feel better already 🥰

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

This is such a wonderful comparison to what it's like being around him for the reader. It holds the warmth and the feeling of home whenever you read it. I love it.

And also you know how much I love the continuing idea of Dean thinking that he's not enough and that the reader would never like him. I know that I always point it out when I read something of yours, but it really always fits him and you write it so well my friend 💚

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

I also love this bit, because Dean reduces himself to physical wealth here rather than seeing all the wonderful qualities of himself that we all love being something that he can give the reader. It really makes their connection all the more loving and real, because the reader isn't asking for Dean to give her things or to be rich, she's just asking FOR Dean. And I think it will be a beautiful and wonderful thing when he realizes that.

This chapter was so wonderful Alex! I loved every heart wrenching bit and I can't wait to read the next one my wonderful friend! ❤️

Against the Wind - Part 3

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn

“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”

“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”

You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.

“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.

He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”

“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”

“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”

You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.

“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.

“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases. 

You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.

“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.

“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”

“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”

You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”

You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.

“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.

“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”

Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?

“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”

“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.

He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.

“What? What is it?!” you yell.

He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.

Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.

You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?

Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.

No matter what direction you take, you never find him.

“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.

Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.

“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.” 

You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.

“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself. 

A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father. 

When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes. 

“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”

Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it. 

Wendigo. 

“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”

You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”

You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.

You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.

“Where did it happen?”

Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.

“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”

“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.

“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say. 

Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”

By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.

“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.

Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.

“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.

“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.

Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?

“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”

His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.

“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.

At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.

“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”

You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin. 

Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside. 

After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.

For when he gets back. 

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser. 

On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)

On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.

With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.

You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either. 

But you’ll have to try. 

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.

Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open. 

A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive. 

“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.

You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt. 

You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.

“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.

“Yeah, just peachy,” he says. 

You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.

He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door. 

“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”

Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes. 

“I thought something happened to you,” you say.

Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”

Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”

His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”

You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.

“Did you find my dad?” you ask.

Dean’s expression sobers as well.

“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him. 

Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”

He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place. 

After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure. 

You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.

He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…

He finally drags you to him in a kiss. 

It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.  

But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair. 

“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.

He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion. 

“Why?” is all you can ask.

He doesn’t want to answer. 

“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.

“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.

That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.

“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”

Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance. 

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”

You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.

“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”  

“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.

“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”

You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin. 

“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”

You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.

Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands. 

You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin. 

“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.” 

Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free. 

He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.

AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) finale is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘

Next Time:

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return.

▶️ Keep reading: Part 4 (Finale!)

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Series Masterlist

Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 💜

Dean Winchester Tag List

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@thebiggerbear @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @deans-spinster-witch

@deans-baby-momma @sanscas @kaleldobrev @spnwoman @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@globetrotter28 @adoringanakin @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean @iprobablyshipit91

@chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@deansbbyx @sarahgracej @chernayawidow @mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @mxltifxnd0m

@my-stories-vault @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof @samslvrgirl @tortureddarkstar

@tmb510 @syrma-sensei @artemys-ackles @malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester

@jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

Request: can you do one where their sister is in purgatory with Dean and when they come out they realize Sam didn’t even look for them and was with a girl while they were suffering in purgatory fighting for their lives basically. The sister had a really really hard time in purgatory and is defientely scarred and has bad ptsd like super bad. I see how messed up it made Dean and I imagine it would take a huge mental toll on their sister. Make it dramatic and have Sam and her make up somehow and deans mad but for his sisters sake he has to keep himself together to fix their problem as a family.

A/N: this was so fun to write, I hope you like it! Requests are open please send in some ideas because I’m bored and want to write stuff LOL

Sam and Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

The ground was uneven beneath Dean's boots, the dim light of the underworld barely cutting through the suffocating darkness. He had just pulled himself and his sister, Y/N, out of purgatory with nothing but their ragged breaths to anchor them back to reality. But as the veil between those two worlds lifted and they found themselves standing on solid ground once again—on earth, on familiar soil—the weight of it all hit Dean harder than he could have anticipated.

They had escaped, yes. They had fought their way through the endless maze of creatures and the sickening, oppressive silence of purgatory. But that didn’t mean they were free. Not truly. Not when their minds were still wrapped in the haunting memories of everything they'd seen, everything they'd endured.

Dean knew it would take time, but he hadn’t expected it to start this fast. The moment his boots hit solid earth, his sister's body tensed beside him. Her breathing was shallow, a slight tremor running through her limbs. She wasn’t hiding it well. But Dean could tell. He always could.

He glanced sideways, watching her for a second longer than he meant to. Her face was pale, eyes wide and unblinking, as though she couldn’t fully comprehend the freedom they had just won. He reached out for her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Y/N,” he said softly, his voice strained with the weariness that had settled deep into his bones. “You alright?”

But as soon as she looked at him, her walls broke down. Her breath hitched in her throat, her hand shaking as she reached for him, her fingers clutching his jacket like she was afraid it would slip away. She wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot.

“Dean…” She gasped his name, her voice barely audible as it trembled. She looked almost feverish, her eyes darting around the open space, as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows at any given moment. The world was no longer a safe place for her—her mind still trapped in purgatory, the fight to survive still clawing at her chest. “I… I can’t—Dean, I can’t—” Her words were falling apart in front of him.

Dean’s heart twisted in his chest, and without thinking, he pulled her into his arms. It was instinctive, a desperate need to protect her, but it was also the one thing that seemed to ground him in this moment too. She clung to him, her body shaking uncontrollably, the sobs that had been building finally breaking free.

He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to feel this—the vulnerability, the absolute terror in her small, shuddering frame.

“Y/N… Hey, hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own heart threatened to beat out of his chest. "We’re here. We’re back. You’re safe. We both are. I promise."

But the words didn’t land. They were hollow, meaningless, because nothing could undo what they’d been through. Not the screams. Not the endless days of fighting without rest. Nothing could erase the raw, jagged scars that purgatory had left on their souls.

She pulled away slightly, her eyes wide, haunted. “I’m... I’m so scared, Dean. I’m always looking over my shoulder. Always hearing them... hearing the growls, the whispers. It’s like I can’t escape it. I’m still there, and I can’t stop hearing the screams.” Her voice cracked, the terror unmistakable.

Dean’s throat tightened, the words sticking there. He had fought and clawed his way out, but the truth was—he hadn’t really left either. He could still feel it. The suffocating grip of purgatory on his chest, the constant need to fight, the adrenaline that had coursed through him for so long that now it felt like a damn near permanent part of him. Even the sunlight, which should have felt like salvation, felt like it was too bright. Too real. Too normal.

He wanted to say something, anything that would make this better. But the reality was, he knew what she was feeling. He had felt it too. Every single moment since they had made it out of that hellhole, his body had been reacting like it was still there.

"Hey, I know," he said quietly, his voice suddenly thick. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself at this point. “I know what it’s like. You’re not alone, okay? I’m right here.”

But even as he spoke, her sobs intensified. She broke down completely, her whole body shaking, and Dean held her tighter, his own breath shaky as he pressed his forehead against her hair. "I’m so scared, Dean…. I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be scared all the time... to hear things that aren’t real. It’s... it’s not over, Dean. It’s not over for me."

A raw sob ripped through her, and Dean felt it deep in his chest, the weight of it pressing down on him in ways he couldn’t explain. He wanted to say something to help. He wanted to tell her that it would get better, that time would heal them. But deep down, Dean knew it wouldn’t. Not completely. Purgatory didn’t just break you; it remade you in its own image.

“I understand,” he whispered, surprising himself with the confession. “I can’t... I can’t shake it either, Y/N.” His voice cracked, and he hated it. He hated how raw it sounded. How human it made him.

Y/N looked up at him, her tear-streaked face a mirror of his own pain. And for a moment, the two of them just stood there, holding each other—sharing the weight of their suffering in silence.

The world might have looked the same, but nothing felt the same anymore. They weren’t the same anymore.

“I’m here,” he repeated, a little more firmly this time, even though he wasn’t sure how much comfort it really offered. “You’re not alone. We’ll get through this together.”

And they would. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not quickly. But they would figure out how to survive in a world that felt so much bigger than the one they’d left behind in purgatory. For now, it was enough that they had each other. For now, they had the silent understanding of two people who had seen the worst of it and somehow, somehow, were still standing.

Though, they still had to face one more thing: the looming question of where Sam had been during all this. “We gotta find Sam.” Dean muttered under his breath and with determination you would both stop at nothing to find him.

When they had finally reached Sam, the reunion was nothing short of overwhelming. Y/N felt the warmth of Sam's embrace seep into her bones as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her in tight as if he were afraid that if he let go, she might vanish. For a moment, everything else faded. The horrors of purgatory, the constant fight for survival, the fear and isolation—it all slipped away in the comfort of Sam’s arms. She clung to him harder than she thought she ever could, her body shaking violently as the sobs wracked through her chest.

She had thought she would never feel safe again. But here she was, in Sam’s arms, and it was everything she’d longed for. Before she knew it, Dean had wrapped his arms around the both of them and Sam patted his back.

“I can’t believe you’re both here,” Sam said as Dean pulled away. His voice was thick with emotion as continued to hold his sister who wasn’t letting go, tightly. His hand moved over her hair in a soothing gesture, and Y/N let herself melt into it. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anything but this moment, this relief.

Dean watched them from the side, a small smile on his face, though his eyes were weary. Something wasn’t right. Something in Sam’s demeanor felt... off. There was a subtle distance in his expression, an awkwardness to the way he spoke. It was like he was relieved to see them, sure, but not the way he should’ve been. There was something missing.

Sam pulled back slightly, his large hands still resting on Y/N’s shoulders as he looked down at her. He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you both again. I was starting to lose hope. I... I thought I’d lost you both.” His voice faltered, but then, almost offhandedly, he added, “I mean, I tried looking for you but there was no trace of anything. There was nothing else I could do. I’ve... I’ve kind of stepped back from all that now.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered in her chest, and the air between them instantly grew cold. She stared up at Sam, eyes wide with disbelief, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you mean, you stepped back?” She asked, her voice barely a whisper, but already tinged with confusion and hurt. “Sam... what are you talking about?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flickering toward the ground for a moment, his hands dropping from her shoulders. “I mean... I’m not hunting anymore, Y/N. I... I don’t do that anymore.”

The words hit Y/N like a slap in the face. Her breath left her entirely, her legs weakening as she stepped back from him, blinking rapidly as the confusion and hurt in her chest twisted into something far more primal. "What?" she croaked, the words tasting like bile on her tongue. “You... you don’t hunt anymore? What does that mean? You just gave up?”

Dean, who had been standing off to the side, felt his stomach drop at the tone in her voice. He stepped forward, his gaze flickering between Sam and Y/N, a frown pulling at his features. But before he could say anything, Y/N spoke again, her voice rising in disbelief.

“You... you just stopped hunting? For real?” Her chest was heaving now, her breath shallow, and Dean could see the wave of emotion crash over her. Her eyes were wide, her face pale. “Sam, we were trapped in purgatory. We were fighting every single day to survive—dying out there, and you—”

Her voice cracked, and she stumbled back a few steps, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You... you left us to suffer... for what?” Her voice was trembling with anger now, with disbelief, the hurt evident in every word. “You just stopped looking for us, Sam. You gave up on us.”

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. His eyes flickered with guilt, but they couldn’t meet hers. “Y/N, I’m sorry... I just... I didn’t know how—”

“No,” Y/N snapped, her voice escalating to a scream now, the floodgates opening. “Don’t give me that! How dare you say you didn’t know how?!” She surged toward him in a wild rush, shoving him with all the force she could muster. Sam staggered back, eyes wide with shock, but Y/N was unstoppable now. “We were fighting for our lives out there, Sam. I was terrified every second. I needed you. We both did!”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his own anger flaring at the scene, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes shot between his sister and Sam, disbelief twisting his features as the weight of what Sam was saying hit him. His throat tightened, and his voice came out sharp, raw.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean barked, his tone hard. “After everything we’ve been through, after all we’ve fought through together, you just quit?” He took a step forward, his voice rising as he let the rage build. “We were fighting for our lives every damn second in that place, Sam. You didn’t even look for us.”

Sam flinched, taking a step back, his eyes flickering with guilt, but his words were weak. “I didn’t know what else to do, Dean. I tried to find a way. I thought—I thought you two were lost. You don’t understand—”

Y/N was shaking now, her fists clenching at her sides as tears welled up in her eyes. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and it felt like the world had dropped out from under her. “You left us behind,” she whispered brokenly, but the words cut through the silence like a scream. “You didn’t even look for us, Sam. You left us to suffer... for what?”

Sam’s eyes flickered with something—guilt, shame, confusion. He stood there, frozen, his hands held up in an attempt to placate her, but the words were already spilling out before he could stop them. “I... I met someone.”

The words didn’t register immediately. Y/N stared at him, her mind trying to piece together the nonsense she’d just heard. It couldn’t be—“What?”

“I met a girl,” Sam repeated, his voice softer, almost apologetic, but it hit Y/N like a punch to the gut.

“A girl?” Her voice cracked as she took a staggering step back, her body swaying with the weight of what Sam had just revealed.

Dean's eyes widened in complete disbelief. He took a sharp step forward, his anger boiling over now. He had been furious, but now? Now he was fucking seething.

“You gotta be kidding me. Are you out of your goddamn mind, Sam?” Dean growled, his voice low but venomous.

“A girl? That’s what you’ve been doing, Sam?”

Y/N’s voice rose, trembling with hurt and outrage. “You left us to suffer. For a girl?” Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest burned with the sting of betrayal. “A fucking girl?” She whispered, the words barely coming out, but they were enough to make the air between them feel like acid.

Her breath catching as she stared at Sam, the disbelief on her face growing darker with every passing second. “That’s what you’ve been doing? You met a girl?” She stumbled back again, this time with a look of pure betrayal, her hand flying to her mouth as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Please, it’s not—” Sam started, his hands reaching out to her in an attempt to calm her down, but the damage was done.

She lashed out, her fist connecting with his chest with a force that made him stumble back, the shock of the hit barely registering before she attacked again. “We were suffering, Sam! Every damn day!” Her voice was ragged with pain. “You didn’t even look for us. For a girl?! You abandoned your family for that?” Her chest heaved as the words came spilling out in desperate, frenzied bursts. “I was terrified, Sam! I thought we were going to die out there. You don’t get it. You don’t get it, do you?!”

Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing Y/N’s arms before she could strike Sam again, but her anger made her stronger than him in that moment.

“How could you do that to us?” Y/N screamed, her voice shaking. “We were alone. Alone in that place, surrounded by things that wanted to kill us every second. And you just... you just let us go, Sam. How dare you?”

Before Dean could step in again, Y/N's fists flying toward Sam’s chest with a force that had no place in the fragile, exhausted body she’d come back with. It was a frantic, desperate kind of attack—one fueled by pain, by betrayal. She slammed into him again, the punch landing square in his gut.

Sam stumbled back, wide-eyed, hands raised in defense. "Y/N, wait—"

"Shut up!" Y/N screamed, her voice breaking with the weight of everything she couldn’t keep inside. She swung again, but this time Dean was there, grabbing her around the waist before she could make contact. She struggled against him, kicking her legs, her breath hitching in sobs that she couldn’t control. “You left us! You left us for a random fucking girl! How dare you!”

Dean gritted his teeth, trying to keep her calm, his grip firm but not hurting her. He pulled her back against him, holding her against his chest as she kicked and screamed, the words coming out like raw, guttural cries. "Y/N, stop," he murmured in her ear, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Sam stood there, frozen, his mouth moving like he wanted to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. His eyes were haunted, like he could barely stand to meet her gaze, but Y/N wasn’t giving him an inch. She pushed against Dean’s arms, writhing in his grip, her body still trembling with pent-up energy, the frustration pouring out of her.

"You—" Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking into the words that had been festering inside her since they’d realized they were trapped. “We needed you. We needed you to save us, Sam. You could’ve saved us.” Her words shook with pain, every syllable like a slap in the face. Dean pulled her into his chest, more forcefully this time. His own chest was tight, his eyes burning, but he couldn’t lose it like she had. He couldn’t let her spiral completely. He knew she was about to cross realities from purgatory and where she was in the moment now.

“Y/N, please,” Dean murmured into her ear, his voice gentle but firm as you whimpered against him. “I know. I know. I need you to breathe, okay?”

He said calmly, holding her tightly against him, even as she writhed in his arms, her body shaking with the full force of her emotional breakdown. Her breath came in quick, gasping sobs as she tried to break free from his hold.

“Stop, Y/N,” Dean said softly but firmly, his own voice raw with the same anger and hurt she was feeling. “You’re scaring yourself. Calm down for me, please.”

But Y/N couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop the tears that were now flooding her face, the hot rush of betrayal, the crushing weight of realizing that, in the end, she had been nothing compared to the life Sam had chosen for himself. “You didn’t even care enough to try to get us back.” She sobbed, her voice breaking.

Sam stood there, completely still, his face hollow with regret, guilt eating at him as he watched his sister unravel before him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t speak. How could he?

Dean glared at him, his eyes burning with anger, but it was a look that spoke volumes—this was Sam’s mistake, and now it was time to fix it.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he held her tight, feeling the heat of her rage and grief, her entire body vibrating with the tension that she couldn’t let go. His own chest tightened as he felt the overwhelming sense of betrayal rising in him too. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, not really—but now it was clear.

Y/N’s breath was ragged, her sobs coming in gasps as she buried her face against Dean’s chest. She couldn’t look at Sam anymore. She didn’t want to. “How could he leave us there?” She whispered brokenly, as if the question could somehow make sense of it all.

Dean’s gaze shot to Sam, who looked utterly devastated, his eyes full of regret, his posture stiff.

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice dangerous in a way that only came out when he was pissed beyond belief. “What the hell, man? We’re standing here, barely alive, and you didn’t even try to get us back?” His voice cracked in frustration, his eyes never leaving his brother. “She’s right. We were fighting for our lives every damn day, and you—”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Sam snapped, his voice sharp, cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I didn’t know what to do! I—I couldn’t find you, Dean. I swear, I was—I was trying to figure out how to bring you back. But I didn’t even know where you were!” His hands fumbled in front of him, as if looking for something to grab onto. “I didn’t leave you. I just... I didn’t know how to get you back.”

But Y/N wasn’t listening anymore. She pulled herself from Dean’s arms, her face red with anger, tears still streaking down her cheeks as she stepped right up to Sam. “You didn’t try hard enough,” she spat, every word coated with venom. She couldn't look at him anymore.

Without a word, she turned and walked out the door, her footsteps uneven as she left the house behind. She needed air. She needed to be alone.

The cold hit her immediately, biting at her skin, but she didn't care. She sank down onto the front steps, her hands moving to her face as her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t control. Her body trembled, and she could barely keep her breath steady. Tears flowed freely now, a flood of emotion that she had been holding back since the moment they’d returned—since she’d realized that Sam, one of the last people she had always counted on, had left her behind.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the sting of her tears would block out the storm inside her chest, but it didn’t help. Her body heaved with sobs, her head buried in her hands as the weight of everything crashed down on her.

Inside the house, the argument was escalating. Sam’s voice was muffled through the thin walls, but Y/N could still hear the frustration in his tone. Dean’s was louder, sharper, each word cutting deeper. It didn’t matter to her anymore. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to hear their voices arguing over her, over the past.

Her mind was reeling, spinning with thoughts she couldn’t quiet. She tried to take deep breaths, to pull herself together, but it was impossible. She thought she was past this—thought the terror of purgatory was a memory she could lock away. But it never worked that way, did it? The fear always came back.

It was too much. The memories, the sounds, the feeling of being trapped in purgatory, the constant fight for survival, for breath. The way the ground had never felt solid beneath her feet. The way everything was dark and endless, every corner hiding something dangerous, something that could kill her. The way she had felt like nothing, just a pawn in a game of survival, fighting against an unstoppable tide.

The panic gripped her, suffocating her, and suddenly, she was back there.

She couldn’t breathe. The air felt thick, oppressive, like she was drowning. Her hands clutched at her sides, and she rocked back and forth on the cold steps, trying to ground herself, but she couldn’t. Her vision blurred with fresh tears, and her body shook uncontrollably. The memories were too vivid, too real.

Stay down. Keep quiet. They’re coming. Don’t let them hear you...

Please, please don’t let them find me. Please.

She was shaking, her whole body quaking with terror, her knees pulled up to her chest as she rocked on the steps, trying to hold onto something—anything—that would remind her she was safe now. But it wasn’t working. The fear, the panic, the terror—it was all too fresh. Too close.

Dean’s voice broke through the fog of her mind. “Y/N!”

It was sharp, desperate. His voice seemed to reach her from miles away, but it pulled her back, just a little. She could hear footsteps, loud and frantic now, coming closer, but she couldn’t stop herself from rocking. She couldn’t stop the tears that kept falling, couldn’t stop the fear from consuming her, from taking over every part of her.

“Y/N, hey, hey,” Dean’s voice was right next to her now. His hands were warm on her shoulders, his grip firm as he gently pulled her back from the edge, but she was too far gone.

Her breath came in short, frantic gasps, and she could feel her chest tightening, the air around her getting thinner and thinner. She wasn’t here, in this moment, with Dean and Sam. She was still stuck in purgatory, fighting for air, desperate, terrified.

Dean kneeled in front of her, his voice low, soothing as he tried to reach her. “Y/N.” His hands moved to her arms, trying to ground her, but she snapped her head up at the sound of his voice, her heart racing even faster than before. Without thinking, she jumped up from the steps, her chest heaving as panic exploded in her chest.

“No! No, Dean, we have to go!” She screamed, her eyes wide with terror. “We have to run! They’re coming! They’re going to get us!” Her voice broke on the words, each syllable filled with pure, unrelenting fear. She didn’t even realize she was trembling so violently. Her hands flew out in front of her as if to push him away, like somehow she could give him a running start ahead.

The frantic look in her eyes, the wildness in her movements—Dean froze for a split second, caught off guard by the intensity of her reaction. His body instinctively moved forward to close the distance, but his hands held up, trying to keep her from spiraling further.

“Hey, hey, wait,” Dean’s voice was calm, but his expression was one of disbelief, trying to understand what was happening. “Y/N, it’s okay. We’re safe.” He took another step toward her, his voice more urgent now. “You’re out. You’re with me. Nothing’s going to get us.”

But Y/N was beyond listening. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps, and her eyes were darting around as though she could see something that wasn’t there, her chest heaving with the intensity of her panic.

“No, no, no,” she repeated over and over, her voice growing higher, more desperate. “We have to go. We have to leave! They’re coming!” She took a stumbling step backward, her body jerking as she tried to run, to flee from something that wasn’t there.

Dean’s eyes widened, his heart aching at the sight of her. He could see the fear consuming her—he had seen it in purgatory, had watched her fight for control, but this... this was different. It was like she had been torn open, exposed to something she couldn’t escape. Something she couldn’t outrun.

“Y/N, hey, look at me!” Dean’s voice was firm now, the edge of panic creeping in, but he was trying to hold it together for her. “Look at me. You’re safe. We’re not in there anymore. We’re out, okay?”

But Y/N wasn’t hearing him. She wasn’t with him. She was still stuck, lost in purgatory in her mind, the same place she had been for so long. The place where the monsters were always coming.

She started to turn away from him, her whole body tensing as if preparing to run. She was shaking, every part of her rigid with fear. “No, Dean! They’re coming! We have to run!”

Dean moved in quickly, stepping forward and gently grabbing her arms, keeping her from retreating any further. “Y/N!” His voice was softer now, more insistent. “Y/N, listen to me.” He locked eyes with her, his hands tightening just enough to ground her without hurting her. “Look at me. You’re not in purgatory anymore. You’re safe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

But she was still shaking, her mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. The echo of purgatory still felt real to her, the constant threat of death and danger clawing at her.

Her hands were shaking violently, and she finally collapsed into him, pressing her face into his chest, her breath ragged and broken.

"Dean," she whispered, voice hoarse with terror, "I can't... I can’t breathe. I can’t... I’m still there. I’m still... I can’t...” She gasped. “I’m still stuck there. I can’t get out.”

Dean’s heart broke at the sight of her. His voice was steady, despite the panic rising in his own chest. “I’m right here, Y/N. You’re out. You’re here. You’re with me. We’re okay.”

But Y/N couldn’t stop shaking. The memories were still fresh, the terror still suffocating. She felt like she was drowning all over again.

Dean’s voice grew firmer, pulling her focus back to him. “Look at me, Y/N. Focus. Breathe. In... out. Come on, just breathe with me. You’re not in there. You’re here with me. You’re safe.” He took a slow, deep breath, matching her frantic gasps with his calm, steady rhythm.

She tried to follow, her breath ragged, her chest tight. She couldn’t get it right, but Dean didn’t let up. He stayed there, holding her, guiding her, forcing her body to slow down.

“Just breathe, okay? You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice soft, but insistent.

Y/N’s body jerked, the fear still clawing at her, but slowly—so slowly—her breathing started to match his, each inhale and exhale a little steadier than the last. Her hands trembled in his grip, but she was listening now. She was trying.

The sound of Sam’s footsteps getting closer made Y/N flinch, her body tensing, but Dean’s grip tightened on her arms, grounding her back to him. “It’s Sam, it’s just Sam. Relax.” He reassured her. Sam hovered at the edge of the porch, his face pale, his eyes filled with guilt and regret as he watched his sister struggle. He didn’t say a word, but his presence was there, heavy, inescapable.

Dean shot him a look over his shoulder, his voice low but harsh. “This is your fault, Sam,” he growled, before turning his full attention back to Y/N.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut as she clung to Dean, her body trembling less now, though the fear still lurked in the back of her mind. She was still shaking, but Dean’s steady presence was the only thing that made sense anymore. He was here, and that was all that mattered. Slowly, but surely, she felt herself coming back to the present, the overwhelming panic ebbing away.

“Come on,” Dean whispered, pulling her into his chest as she continued to shake. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re out of there.”

Sam stood quietly, watching them. He could barely look at her, barely look at Dean. The weight of his failure—the fact that he hadn’t been there, hadn’t even tried to find them—was too much to bear. His heart sank as he watched Dean take care of Y/N, the realization that he had caused this all too real.

But there was nothing Sam could say. Nothing that would fix this. He had lost his chance.

Dean kept his arms wrapped around Y/N, whispering soothing words as she finally began to calm, her sobs dying down into quiet sniffles. Her body still shook, but it wasn’t from panic anymore. It was from the aftermath of everything she had been through. Everything they had both been through. Everything that Sam could have helped them out of, but didn’t.

The Impala’s engine hummed as it rolled down the empty road, the familiar sound a small comfort in the midst of everything that had just happened. The air inside the car was thick with tension, with so much unsaid between the three of them. Sam had been quiet since they left the house, his guilt weighing him down like an anchor, and Dean—Dean was focused on driving, his jaw set, his eyes straight ahead, trying to keep his mind from spiraling back to the mess they were all still tangled in.

Y/N had fallen asleep in the back seat, her head against the window, the weight of the past few hours—hell, the past few years—finally pulling her into a deep, much-needed sleep. The tension in her body had finally subsided, but her breathing was still uneven, a subtle reminder of how much she was still struggling.

Dean’s gaze flickered in the rearview mirror every few moments, checking on her, but he didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if she’d wake up crying, or if she’d wake up terrified again, caught between two worlds—between purgatory and the life she used to know.

Sam was quiet beside him, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes trained on the passing road but clearly lost in thought. The silence stretched on until it was almost unbearable.

Dean knew Sam was probably wrestling with guilt, but he wasn’t sure if Sam even knew how to begin the conversation. Dean didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about purgatory, or the things they had seen, or the horrors they had lived through. But Sam needed answers. He needed to understand what had happened to their sister while they had been trapped there.

Finally, Sam broke the silence, his voice low but filled with regret. “Dean... I—I don’t even know where to start. But... I need to know what happened to her. What you guys went through.”

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white as his jaw clenched. He didn’t look at Sam—he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to focus on the road, on anything but the memories that were clawing at him, threatening to pull him back into the nightmare.

But Sam needed to hear it. And as much as Dean wanted to protect her, as much as he didn’t want to relive the horrors of purgatory, he knew Sam needed to understand.

“Sam...” Dean’s voice was rough, the words caught in his throat. “You have no idea what it was like in there.”

Sam sat up straighter, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “I... I know I can’t understand. But I need to know what she went through. I need to know how bad it was for her. For both of you.”

Dean swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror again, looking at Y/N’s sleeping form, her face so peaceful for the first time in what felt like forever. He wasn’t sure how to explain it—how to put into words what he had witnessed, what he had felt during the hellish time they had spent in purgatory.

Dean exhaled slowly, his voice thick with emotion. “It was... it was brutal, man. Every damn day, it was a fight. Not just for us—for her.” He swallowed again, trying to get the words out without cracking. “She wasn’t... she wasn’t the same when we first got there. She was strong. She’s always been strong. But being there, being hunted by monsters and being trapped like that... it changed her.”

Sam shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, but he couldn’t look away. He needed to know.

Dean’s eyes stayed focused on the road as he spoke, his voice growing quieter as the weight of his words began to settle in his chest. “I had to take care of her, Sam. I had to watch her fall apart. Every day. It wasn’t just the monsters. It wasn’t just fighting for survival. It was what that place did to her.” He paused, his voice cracking just a little as he relived the memory. “She was scared, Sam. Absolutely terrified. I could see it in her eyes. I could feel it, like a constant pressure. It was like... like she was losing herself every damn day.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, the guilt eating at him with every word. “I had no idea... I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“No,” Dean said sharply, his voice almost a growl. “You didn’t. Because you weren’t there. We were. We fought our asses off every damn day just to stay alive, and I had to hold her together, Sam. I had to keep her from falling apart, from losing herself completely. And some days...” Dean’s voice faltered for a second, the weight of the memories pressing down on him. “Some days, I wasn’t sure if I could do it. If I could keep her with me.”

Sam stayed silent, his hands gripping the edge of the seat, his chest tightening with the brutal reality of what Dean was saying. He knew it hadn’t been easy for them—he had felt that when he first reunited with them. The distance between them, the look in Y/N’s eyes, the way Dean had kept his focus on her, protective and unyielding.

Dean took a shaky breath, glancing back at Y/N again. “There were days when... when she just couldn’t. When she couldn’t fight anymore. She’d... she’d just sit there, curled up, shaking like she was about to break in half. I don’t know if you can even imagine that, Sam. Watching her go through that. Watching her become some terrorized with no hope.”

Sam’s throat tightened, guilt flooding him as he tried to picture it. He couldn’t. It was too much. He had been so consumed by his own guilt, his own demons, that he hadn’t even considered how badly purgatory had affected his siblings. He hadn’t realized how much she had been suffering.

Dean shook his head, his voice softening as he continued. “It was the silence that did it. The constant, crushing silence. The emptiness of the place. And the monsters, the ones that never stopped hunting us. We didn’t have a moment’s peace. I don’t even know how we made it through.”

“You keep saying she was scared, but... what else? What did it do to her? How much of her did it take?” Sam’s voice cracked, his eyes searching his brother’s face for some kind of answer.

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror again, where Y/N’s pale face was pressed against the window, her body still trembling slightly in her sleep. “It took everything, Sam. Every part of her. Every day was like living in a nightmare that never ended. She started to shut down after a while, like... like she didn’t think she could survive anymore. I had to pull her out of it. But it was never enough. Nothing was ever enough. And that place—that place... it never let up. It broke her, Sam. It broke me too.”

Dean’s voice caught in his throat again, and for a moment, the car was silent except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the Impala as it rolled down the road.

“Purgatory’s not just a place, Sam. It’s a damn mindfuck. It gets into your head. It turns you into something you don’t even recognize anymore. You don’t know what it’s like to be constantly hunted. To never feel safe, to always wonder if you’re going to die that day.” Dean’s eyes were haunted now, his voice distant as he spoke, remembering those long, dark months. “I had to keep her close. I protected her with everything in me and it wasn’t even enough.”

Sam could hear the strain in Dean’s voice, the exhaustion that had never really left him. The weight of the responsibility. The fear.

“And now...” Dean’s voice softened again, almost to a whisper, “now she’s back, but she’s not the same. The things we went through, the things she went through... they’re with her. She’s not gonna be able to shake it off. You can’t just forget something like that. Her PTSD—it’s gonna be bad, Sam. She’s gonna be jumpy. She’s gonna be scared. She’s gonna feel like she’s still there. And I... I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know how to make her feel safe again because I know I barely feel safe.”

Sam’s heart broke as he absorbed the weight of his brother’s words. He had left them in purgatory. He had abandoned them, and now he was faced with the consequences of his failure. His siblings trauma was something they couldn’t fix alone, and Sam was going to have to help them. He had to make up for the time he had lost.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Sam said softly, his voice filled with regret. “I should’ve searched harder.”

Dean didn’t respond right away, his eyes focused on the road ahead. But after a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice tight, but filled with an unspoken promise. “Yeah you should have…” Dean trailed off, clenching his jaw. “We’ll figure it out, Sam. But it’s gonna take time. For all of us.”

And in the backseat, Y/N stirred slightly in her sleep, her breath still shaky but a little more even now, her body curled up tightly as if she was still trying to protect herself from the memories that haunted her. Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened and he focused his attention back to the road.

The hours passed, the road stretching out in front of them as they made their way towards the nearest motel. The car was quiet, save for the occasional sound of tires humming on the asphalt and the soft breath of Y/N as she slept in the back seat. Dean kept glancing in the rearview mirror, checking on her every few minutes, but for the most part, his focus was on the road. His mind was still racing, replaying everything that had happened in the past few days, in the past few months, hell, the last few years. Every part of him was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. But it was the ache in his chest, the fear for his sister, that was the hardest to shake.

Sam had fallen quiet next to him, his eyes lost somewhere in the dark night outside the window, probably replaying their conversation from earlier. There was guilt in his posture—his slumped shoulders, the way his hands were tense on his knees, like he was trying to keep himself together. Dean didn’t know what to say to him anymore, not with the weight of their shared history, the things that had gone unsaid for so long.

The Impala’s engine purred on, the miles slipping away, but the tension in the car was almost suffocating. Dean didn’t want to think about purgatory anymore. He didn’t want to think about how it had broken Y/N. He just wanted to move on. But there was no moving on. Not yet. Not when the scars were still so fresh, when they were all so damn broken.

Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small motel on the outskirts of town. It was a place he had passed by countless times, a quiet spot that they had used more than once in the past. The neon sign flickered in the dark, casting an eerie glow over the place, but it was far enough away from the main road that they wouldn’t be disturbed. Dean turned to look at Sam, who was still sitting there, staring out the window.

“You good?” Dean asked, his voice flat but laced with an edge of concern.

Sam nodded slowly but didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

Dean didn’t press him. Instead, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and turned to the back seat, checking on Y/N. She hadn’t stirred since the car had stopped, but her breathing was still unsteady, a telltale sign that the trauma was still haunting her even in her sleep.Her head rested against the window, her face pale, her body curled into the seat like she was trying to protect herself from something that wasn’t there anymore.

Dean didn’t want to wake her. Not yet. He knew the toll purgatory had taken on her, and he didn’t want to rush her back into reality too quickly. He wanted her to rest, to feel safe, but part of him—part of him that was always on alert—was worried about what would happen if she woke up in the wrong moment.

Sam, however, didn’t see the concern in his brother’s eyes as he pulled himself from the car and moved toward the back of the Impala. Dean’s gaze flickered to him, his voice low and filled with warning.

“Sam, wait. Let her sleep. She—”

But Sam was already leaning into the backseat, his hand gently tapping Y/N’s shoulder. “Y/N, hey, we’re here.”

Dean’s eyes widened in alarm. He knew it was too soon. Too soon for Sam to try and wake her up like this. Her instincts, sharpened to a razor’s edge during their time in purgatory, would kick in. She wasn’t going to wake up slowly, not after everything she’d been through. But it was already too late.

Y/N's body jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her eyes snapping open in a split second, wide with terror. She immediately went rigid, every muscle in her body locking as her eyes darted around, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, confusion flooding her mind. The fleeting fragments of reality and nightmare twisted in her head. Purgatory had taught her to fight first, think later. The moment her gaze landed on Sam, it was like everything she had suffered, every monster she had fought, every split second of terror, came crashing back all at once.

“No!” Y/N screamed, her voice raw with panic and desperation. She didn’t recognize him, didn’t see Sam as her brother—only a threat, an enemy, someone to fight against. Her arm shot out before Sam could react, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him back with an unexpected force. She swung with wild, panicked energy, not knowing where she was or who she was fighting.

“Sam! Get back!” Dean shouted, but it was already too late. Y/N’s instincts had already kicked in, and her body was moving like a well-trained soldier, every movement a flashback to purgatory’s brutal reality.

Sam stumbled back, narrowly avoiding her fist as she lunged again, her face twisted in fear and anger. “Get off me! Get away!” she shouted, her words incoherent, her mind still trapped in the hellish cycle of survival. She wasn’t seeing Sam—she was seeing the monsters, the endless nightmarish beasts from purgatory that had hounded her every single day. The creatures that never stopped hunting her.

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice cracked with urgency as he reached for her, trying to grab her arms. “It’s me! It’s Dean! You’re safe, okay? You’re safe now!” But his words barely cut through the fog of fear and confusion clouding her mind.

Y/N thrashed against his grip, her knees buckling beneath her as she dropped into a crouch, her hands clawing at the air like she was still trying to fight off something invisible. “No! No! They’re coming!” she screamed, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Her whole body trembled as she curled into herself, rocking slightly as if trying to shield herself from an attack that wasn’t there.

Dean was trying to hold onto her, but she was so damn fast, her survival instincts too well-developed. “Y/N!” Dean’s voice broke, his hands desperately grabbing her wrists as he pulled her into his chest, his voice low and soothing, though his heart was pounding in his throat. “It’s okay. We’re not in purgatory anymore. You’re safe. It’s just me, okay?”

But Y/N wasn’t listening. Her chest was heaving as if she couldn’t catch her breath, her eyes wide, darting around the room as she continued to struggle in Dean’s arms. “No! No, please!” she sobbed, the sound tearing at Dean’s heart. “They’re here. They’re going to get me. Dean, we have to run. We can’t stay here. We can’t! They’ll find us—” Her voice cracked, desperate, pleading, as her eyes darted around, scanning the parking lot like she was expecting the next threat to come barreling toward them. But it wasn’t there. It was never going to come. Not in the real world. Not anymore.

Dean tightened his grip on her, holding her still, trying to calm her. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re not in that place anymore. It’s over. It’s over, baby.”

Y/N’s body trembled against his chest as she tried to push away from him, still disoriented, still lost in the trauma of what had happened. Her mind flashing with images of all the horrors she had endured there. Dean tried again to hold her, to ground her. He was strong—too strong for her to escape—and yet it felt like she was slipping through his fingers. “Shh, I’ve got you. I’m here, okay? You’re safe, Y/N. You’re with me. We’re safe.” His voice was tight with emotion as he held her close, trying to block out the terror that had overtaken her. “You’re home. You’re not there anymore.”

But Y/N’s body continued to tremble, her mind still fighting to keep her from the monsters that lived in the dark corners of her mind. Her fists shook, her nails digging into Dean’s shirt as she struggled to get away, her mind not yet fully realizing she was safe.

Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper as he stroked her hair, his hand gently pulling her back into him, keeping her close so she couldn’t hurt herself or anyone else. “It’s over, Y/N. You’re safe. You’re home. I won’t let anything happen to you. No one’s coming. It’s just me and Sam, alright?”

Then, a flicker of recognition.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Y/N froze, her body taut with tension.

Sam.

Sam was there.

She looked around with wild eyes until they locked onto the face in front of her. Sam, standing a few feet away, his face still full of shock and guilt, his body frozen in place. She stared at him, as if trying to make sense of something that had been lost.

For a heartbeat, everything else faded away. The screaming, the terror, the fight for survival—all of it vanished in that single moment when she saw him. Sam.

Her mouth trembled as she breathed out his name, barely above a whisper. “Sammy?”

She blinked. Once, twice. The recognition was slow, but it hit her like a wave crashing over the shore. Sam. Sam was here. And if Sam was here... it could only mean one thing.

She wasn’t in purgatory anymore.

The realization hit her with such force that it almost knocked the breath out of her. She wasn’t surrounded by darkness, by monsters, by the endless fight. She wasn’t there anymore. She was... home. She was safe.

Sam wasn’t a shadow in the dark. He wasn’t one of the creatures that had hounded her every day. He wasn’t part of the nightmare. Her chest rose and fell with a jagged breath as her whole body went still.

“Sammy... you’re here.” Her voice was shaky, still wrapped in disbelief. Her eyes scanned his face, her mind still reeling, but it was there. That final piece of clarity.

Dean didn’t know if it was the fact that Sam was real, or if it was the way her body slowly began to relax against him, but the tension in Y/N’s form started to ebb. She was still trembling, still disoriented, but the fight was gone. Her mind had finally caught up to the present.

The grip of fear around her heart started to loosen.

Sam stood frozen, his body still, but his eyes softened when she called out for him and he understood. He saw that he was her pull to reality. That if he were around, it was her reminder that she was out. That she was safe.

"I’m here, Y/N." Sam said, his voice cracking, full of love and guilt. "I’m so sorry. I’m here now. You’re safe. I promise, sweetheart."

He took a step closer, hesitant, unsure if he should reach out, if he should even get too close. But he had to try. His voice trembled as he spoke again, his words coming in a rush of guilt, sorrow, and raw emotion. "I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I should’ve found you, I should’ve—"

But before he could finish, Y/N’s body moved with an almost primal urgency. Without thinking, she lunged forward, her hands reaching for him. And then, she was in his arms.

Sam barely had time to register it, his own arms wrapping around her as she buried her face in his chest. Y/N was shaking, her whole body convulsing with sobs, but she held on so tight, like if she let go, the nightmare would come crashing back. Sam held her just as fiercely, his own heart pounding as he whispered, over and over, "I’m here. I’m here. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe now."

For a long moment, there were no words. Just the sound of Y/N's breath ragged against Sam’s chest, her body shaking in his arms. Sam didn’t know what else to say. He had failed her, failed Dean and the weight of that failure hung heavy in the air between them. But for now, he could do this. He could hold her, let her know that he was there. That he was there for both of them.

"I’m so sorry.” Sam said again, his voice thick with emotion. "I wish I could’ve been there with you. I would’ve traded places with you in an instant. With both of you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there."

Y/N's hands clutched at him desperately, her voice muffled in his shirt as she finally spoke. "I—I don’t want to be angry at you. I can’t..." Her voice trailed off, as if she didn’t have the strength to hold on to that anger anymore. It was just too much. Too much fear, too much pain, too much everything.

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her, but she pushed it down. "Sam... I—" Her voice faltered, but she steadied herself. "I don’t have the strength to be angry anymore. I—I was terrified, Sam. Every second.... but I can’t hold onto this anger. I just—I can’t."

Sam’s eyes welled with tears as he pressed his forehead to hers, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry, Y/N and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right. I’ll be here for you. For both of you. I promise."

Y/N’s arms tightened around him, and Sam felt a flicker of hope stir in his chest. He wasn’t sure if things would ever be the same between them, if they could ever get back what had been lost. But he would spend every damn day trying to make it right, trying to help her heal. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

"I forgive you," Y/N whispered, her voice so quiet, so raw.

Dean watched them, his arms crossed as he stood a few feet away, letting the siblings have their moment. His heart ached for all of you. The pain, the suffering—they had all been through too much. But seeing Y/N in Sam’s arms, finally finding some semblance of peace, that was something.

He could see it now. The crack in the wall, the first real sign that they could begin to heal.

Dean nodded to himself, taking a deep breath as he walked closer to them. "You hear that, Y/N?" His voice was soft, but the weight of it was clear. "We’re all in this together. Always. We’re not alone in this."

Y/N looked up at her brothers—at Sam, still holding her, and Dean, standing behind them, his eyes full of love and protection. She felt a weight lift from her chest, not completely, but enough to know that they had her.

She finally let out a shaky breath, the kind of breath that carried a small but meaningful relief. "Yeah," she whispered, a tremor still in her voice, but something else too—something fragile, but real. "Together."

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, it felt like it might just be enough.

[delulustateofmind]

hi snail!!!

i wanted to ask how would saturu and suguru react if the reader had horrible fear of pregnacy? especially the first one?

i mean... freaking out when she founds out, crying and pleading not to make her give a birth... and during the birth giving how would they feel to see her in such pain? wouldn't it make them feel bad to hear her screams, to hear how she calls to her mom or something like that??

or the second pregnacy😭 literally even worse when you know what you are gonna go through... how would they comfort her (or more like try to lol)

Hi cutie!!

I’m assuming this is for "This is Love, Right?", but it can just be taken as general headcanons.

Oops didn't mean to ramble this much.

TW: Forced Pregnancy, Manipulation, Lack of Voice, Yandere Behaviors, Excessive Coddling

First Pregnancy:

When Reader finds out she’s pregnant and is clearly overwhelmed with fear—crying, pleading not to go through with it—both Satoru and Suguru are initially caught off guard. They expected a little bit of complaining but not a full-on meltdown. So, they shift into overly coddling behaviors. <3 Fun, right?

Satoru would be all about physical comfort, perhaps even teasing. He’d pull you into his arms, holding you tightly, stroking your hair while offering teasing reassurances. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You think the strongest is going to let anything happen to you, hm?” He’d definitely try to downplay your panic/fear with lines like, “Come on, it’s not that bad! You’ll look so cute waddling around!”

While he may be teasing, he’s also reminding you that this will happen regardless of whether you want it to or not. If you start crying harder, he’d get a bit more affectionate—holding you closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and whispering things like, “Aww, don’t be a crybaby. You know I only like seeing that in bed. You’ll see—it’s not as scary as you think. Suguru and I will be there the whole time.”

Suguru, on the other hand, takes a more nurturing, manipulative approach. If the maids so much as whisper horror stories about pregnancy, he’s giving them the side-eye and, if you start hyper-fixating on it, they might disappear entirely (and he’d just tell Satoru they intended to harm you).

He’d be so, so doting—sickeningly sweet. Sitting beside you, cupping your face as he wipes away those big tears, whispering the softest words: “I know you’re scared, love. But this is a good thing—a beautiful thing. It’s what families are meant to do.” He’d speak in such a low, soothing tone, lulling you into his arms where you can bundle up beside him—right where you belong.

However, he’d gently guilt you, murmuring, “You don’t trust us to take care of you? We wouldn’t be the strongest if we couldn’t protect you. Don’t you know we’ll make sure everything is okay?” He’s reinforcing the idea that your safety and wellbeing are entirely reliant on him and Satoru. It’s all for your family, after all.

During the Pregnancy:

Satoru is more playful, teasing you constantly about your appearance or struggles. He’d laugh at you when you can’t reach your shoes and say things like, “Do you even need them? It’s not like you can leave the estate anyway.” He’d make silly comments like, “You’re glowing! Okay, maybe you’re just sweaty, but it’s cute on you,” or “You waddle too slow, baby. Guess I’ll have to carry you everywhere.”

He’s doing everything he can to distract you from your fear, though it often comes across as dismissive.

Suguru, however, is incredibly doting. He’s by your side at all times—even if it’s 2 a.m. and you need to pee, he’s carrying you. He insists on feeding you with a spoon and dismisses your cravings with comments like, “My love, that’s not good for you or the baby.” If you get upset, he finds your frustration adorable and pulls you into his lap, forcing you to eat the nutritious meal he prepared. He loves giving you massages and baths, taking daily walks with you while holding your hand tightly, whispering things like, “You’re so strong,” and “You don’t need to worry about anything—I’ll take care of it all.”

During Labor:

Satoru is torn between wanting to stay in the room and running away because seeing you in pain is not ideal for him. He desperately wishes he could take it all away but doesn’t know how. He’d hold your hand and tease in a panicked way, saying things like, “Don’t piss yourself, babe. It’s embarrassing!” He’s oddly sweet about it though, whispering, “I know it hurts, but I wouldn’t have ended up with someone who wasn’t strong.” He’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince you.

Suguru is composed—if you’ve been on your best behavior during the pregnancy. No escaping or self-harm? Then he ensures your labor is as painless as possible, probably opting for a C-section. But if you’ve been trouble? You’re giving birth the traditional way, how the elders want, and without an epidural. Best behave, okay? He holds your hand, presses sweet kisses to your forehead, and murmurs soothingly, “Breathe, my love. You’re doing so well. Just a little longer.” He does feel guilt seeing you in pain, though—it makes him think he really needs to tone down his breeding kink.

Second Pregnancy:

They’re a little more prepared for the second one until you’re in labor for 33 hours.

During the pregnancy, they tone down your worries, though they’re just as coddling as the first time.

During labor, however, Satoru is stressed. He’s ready to hollow purple Tokyo if a doctor doesn’t help you immediately. Suguru is micromanaging the nurses and refusing to leave your side. This is the time to bite, claw, or do whatever you want—they won’t stop you.

They will feel incredibly guilty afterward, becoming super overbearing. You won’t lift a finger for weeks, maybe even months.

For Fun: Reader is like dying...

Satoru panics openly, fear palpable. Seeing you pale, feverish, and struggling to stay conscious shatters his composure. He’s gripping your hand so tightly it hurts, tears streaming as he begs, “You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? You’re the one person who can’t leave me!”

Suguru remains eerily calm, but it’s suffocating. He pets your hair, presses soft kisses to your forehead, and murmurs, “You’re not leaving us. You don’t get to leave us.” But the tension in his voice betrays his fear. If you were to die, his calm facade would shatter entirely—he’d do anything to bring you back.

[tavolgisvist]

'…Paul McCartney was such a fan of Dominic Behan’s ‘Liverpool Lou’ that he recorded it with the Scaffold'

(Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002; Part (I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI), (VII), (VIII), (IX))

Q: “Liverpool Lou” was another massive hit for The Scaffold. That is linked with the recording of the McGear album. A: It was. The BBC telly wanted The Scaffold to do a sketch with the actress, Rita Tushingham and Derek Guyler. They said “Can you sing the song for us? I couldn’t come up with a song. I was working with our kid and Wings in Strawberry and said “Have you got any ideas for a Scaffold song? I’m doing this telly.” He said “Oh, you wanna do Liverpool Lou.” I said “No, it is too folky, too Spinners.” He said “No, just listen to it.” It was very old and had been around for centuries in Liverpool. I had forgotten how it went and certainly didn’t know the words. I said to BBC telly people “Could you get me a song called Liverpool Lou?” They sent me two versions. One was by Dominic Beehan and the other was by Delaney and Bonnie. Scaffold tried to trad arrange ‘Liverpool Lou’ but Dominic Beehan had got to it before us and copyrighted it. He got all the writing credits and all of the money for Liverpool Lou. The other version by Delaney and Bonnie was absolute magic. Our kid heard those two opposites and said “You want to go in the middle there.” He did it, he made that song. That is just Wings with in the middle of ‘Liverpool Lou’, a 10CC gizmo. That’s the weird sound in the middle. Q:The Godley and Creme invention. A: That’s right. It’s hard to play but I think our kid played it. Norm Yardley does the gob iron on Liverpool Lou, I was with him the other night. Nice track.

(Mike McCartney / McGear – The Strange Brew, 2016)

Scaffold’s latest single ‘Liverpool Lou’ released on May 3rd on the Warner Bros. Label. Record No. K 16400. It’s an old song, credited to Brendan Behan’s brother, Dominic. Paul produced and arranged it. In the middle there’s a gizmo solo, it’s a new instrument invented by Lol Creme and Kevin of 10CC, who partly own ‘Strawberry Studios’. There are only two gizmos in the world.

(From Wings Fun Club newsletter N°1, 1974)

Oh Liverpool Lou, lovely Liverpool Lou Why don't you behave just like other girls do? Oh why must my poor heart keep following you Stay home and love me, my Liverpool Lou When love is pleasing, and love is teasing And love is a pleasure, when first it is new love And as it grows it older, and love it grows colder And that fades away, love, like the morning dew <…> When I go out walking, I hear people talking School children playing, I know what they're saying They're saying you'll grieve me, that you'll deceive me Some morning you'll leave me all packed up and gone <…> Sounds from the river Keep telling me ever That I should forget you Like I never met you Please tell me their songs of Was never more wrong, love Please say I've been gone, love To my Liverpool Lou

Another song where Paul used a Gizmo - I’m Carrying:

McCartney originally recorded the song accompanied by just his acoustic guitar during the London Town sessions aboard the stern of the yacht Fair Carol in the Virgin Islands on 5 May 1977. In December 1977, he overdubbed orchestral strings and he also overdubbed his own playing of an electric guitar using a Gizmo. The Gizmo is a device invented by 10cc members Kevin Godley and Lol Creme, which allows a guitar to be played by vibrating the strings rather than plucking them. (x)

By dawn's first light I'll come back to your room again With my carnation hidden by the packages I'm carrying, something I'm carrying something for you Ah, long time no see baby, sure has been a while And if my reappearance lacks a sense of style I'm carrying, something I'm carrying something for you I'm carrying I'm carrying, can't help it I'm carrying I'm carrying something for you

People say, ‘What does this song mean?’ and I say, ‘Well, it’s up to you.’ It can mean a million things. What am I carrying here? I kind of make it clear that it’s packages. So I’m like Dapper Dan, with my carnation hidden by the packages. I’m bringing presents for you, I’m carrying something for you, but also, when a woman is having a baby, she’s carrying. There are a couple of other meanings that rule themselves out. One is carrying a gun. Another is carrying drugs. One meaning that might have a little traction is the idea of one person ‘carrying’ a band, with the others riding on the coattails. I’m not even sure about that. I’m just playing with the word ‘carrying’. It’s a very ambiguous little song, but that was the sort of freedom of Wings, to do something a little bit ambiguous. It’s been suggested that this song sounds Lennon-esque. I’d admit to it if it were, but to me it sounds more McCartney-esque: just the little voice. I couldn’t imagine John doing quite such a little voice. But you know, if it’s seen as Lennon-esque, that’s no great problem. We did learn how to write songs together, after all.

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, 2021)

[princessofgotham777]

Nights Like These

Part One?????

Anakin Skywalker x reader

Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, I don’t write smut

Hi guys sorry this isn’t me adding onto the Jason Todd or dick Grayson fics I started. I will add to those I’ve just been going through it lately and so I just wanna write whatever’s comforting to me rn which happens to be this random anakin skywalker fic. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: You’re basically Padme I’m gonna write y/n but like you’re a senator from Naboo and stuff also you’re a princess because I say so lol. You get kidnapped by a separatist spy who’s been posing as your security detail and Anakin lovingly crashes out a bit.

Warnings: violence, kinda stalking(not Anakin), getting kidnapped (not Anakin)

Anakin had only been on Coruscant for ten minutes and he was already rushing to find you. He’d been off planet for a couple days dealing with after math of the clone wars. Three days ago Obi-Wan contacted him saying you’d been kidnapped by a separatist spy posing as security. Anakin left his mission early, going against the Jedi councils orders. He ran through the building finally finding Obi-Wan Kenobi and Mace Windu.

“Anakin,” Mace says. “Your orders were to remain on your mission were they not Padawan?”

“I haven’t been a padawan for a long time you and Master Yoda know that,” Anakin says.

“Anakin-“ Obi-Wan begins to say before Anakin interrupts him.

“Where are we on locating the princess?” Anakin asks.

“Her security is handling the matter,” Mace says.

“The same security who allowed a spy to kidnap her right under their noses in the middle of the night?” Anakin says angrily.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan says. “I need to speak with you. Mace please excuse Anakin’s…outburst. Him and I will see that the Princess’s security has the situation under control.”

“Right,” Mace says. Anakin begins to leave when Mace says to Obi-Wan, “keep an eye on him.”

“Will do,” Obi-Wan says. He then rushes after Anakin who’s practically running down the hall. “Where are you rushing to now?”

“Y/N’s chambers, there could be some clue,” he says.

In your room they found clear signs of struggle. The knife you kept in your beside drawer was discarded on the floor. Your sheet was half ripped on the floor suggesting you were dragged out of bed.

“There was clearly a struggle, do we have a hologram of the spies face?” Anakin asks.

“Listen to me I will help you find her, she’s an important girl… a Princess and a senator of Naboo, I support her politics myself I understand the need to rescue her but I must ask Anakin is there anything at all you’re not telling me?” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin opens his mouth to speak but Obi-Wan says, “this would stay between you and I, no Jedi council I just need to know so I can help.”

Anakin hesitates for a moment, “do you swear you won’t tell a soul?”

“I swear on the force,” Obi-Wan replies.

“Y/N and I are in love,” Anakin says softly. “And I don’t mean some childish or lustful attraction I mean proper true love. She’s my whole world Obi-Wan. I don’t know what I’d do without her, I don’t know who I’d be without her.”

“Right,” Obi-Wan says as he places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

Obi-Wan and Anakin met with your security detail and learned they didn’t have many ideas of where you could be.

“Coruscant is the largest city in the galaxy meaning it probably has the most cameras in the galaxy and you can’t find her in a single security tape?” Anakin says.

“They must’ve covered her face,” a security guard says.

“You don’t say,” Anakin replies sarcastically.

“Anakin…don’t get angry,” Obi-Wan says quietly.

“I’m not angry…I’m frustrated we’ve been standing here for nearly three hours and haven’t made any progress. She could be dead or being tortured,” Anakin says.

“We’ve got something,” a guard says. He pulls up a file on the screen. It’s a ransom note. 500,000 credits were being demanded for your life. Along with the ransom note was a contact to set up a time and place for the exchange.

“Ask for proof she’s alive,” Obi-Wan says quickly. The security guard does just that and within seconds gets a response. A picture of you, barely conscious, appears on the screen. Anakin looks in horror at your bruised and bloodied face.

“Set up a time and place,” Anakin says.

“First ask if we can speak to her for real proof of life that photo could be old,” Obi-Wan says.

“No, time and place we have to move quickly with minimal interaction that could risk escalation. She clearly needs medical attention the sooner we get to her the better. Set up the time and place,” Anakin says.

“Obi-Wan?” The security says.

“He’s right,” Obi-Wan says.

You had a blind fold on and all you knew was you were outside, cold, and hurting everywhere. You didn’t have any shoes on since you were dragged out of bed. Your nightgown had ripped during the struggle and now there was a huge gash in the side of the fabric. Bruises covered your arms and legs from being thrown around and you resisting being kidnapped. Small cuts and bruises decorated your face as well. Your arms were bound behind your back, fabric was tied so you couldn’t speak or scream for help, silencing devices were placed on your ears so you couldn’t hear the conversation of your captors.

“500,000 credits, as requested,” Obi-Wan says.

“To what do we owe the honor of having two Jedi come for a mere senator,” the man said sarcastically.

“We’ve gotten what you’ve asked for, now we make the exchange,” Obi-Wan says.

“The princess for the money. That’s the agreement,” Anakin says.

“Interesting you call her princess and not senator. I understand she is both but I thought when you abandon your home planet to medal in politics that don’t concern you, you are called senator from there on out,” the man says.

“Enough, we have your credits,” Anakin says.

“Not quite yet Jedi scum! Don’t you wish to know why we took your precious senator? Because we could.” He says. In one hand he holds your neck the other hand he places out for Anakin to hand him the credits. Your breathing picks up when the man grabs your neck. You have no idea what is happening around you or that Anakin and Obi-Wan have come to rescue you. Anakin walks forward holding out the credits. “Easy now,” the man says.

Slowly, Anakin grabs your arm and places the credits in the man’s hand. Suddenly shots from the loft above are fired at the Republic guards and Jedi. Anakin tackles you to the ground, using his body to shield you. Still unaware of what’s going on you panic and try to fight him off of you. Anakin tries to remove your blindfold and silencing devices but you head but him in the face. Obi-Wan races to catch the kidnapper as the republic guards shoot the separatist snipers. Anakin finally rips off your blindfold and ear devices. “It’s me, it’s me,” he says as you stop struggling. He takes out the fabric from your mouth. “I got you, you’re okay,” he says.

“Anakin,” you say with tears in your eyes.

“Y/N,” he says. He quickly breaks your arm restraints and guides you out of the snipers range. The republic guards go after the snipers giving Anakin and Obi-Wan the order to leave without them. Obi-Wan apprehends your kidnapper successfully.

“Get to the hover ship!” Obi-Wan yells to you and Anakin as he walks with the kidnapper.

“How badly are you hurt my love?” Anakin asks softly.

“Everything hurts,” you say as a few tears escape your eyes. You lift the ripped fabric of your night gown aside to reveal bruising on your lower abdomen. “Especially right here,” you say gasping in pain.

“You’re bleeding internally,” Anakin says. “Let me carry you,” You nod, giving him permission to pick you up bridal style and carry you to the ship.

Heyyy I hope you enjoyed this was lowkey so fun to write I love being dramatic lol. If you enjoyed please like and follow for more fics! Any and all positive feedback is much appreciated. I might write part two idk yet but I probably will. Check out my Masterlist if you wanna read some Jason Todd x reader and Dick Grayson x reader fanfics.

Masterlist

[jellieskellie]

Funky Fellas

[davonati]

They make love out there in the field, before David has to leave for good. It’s fast and messy, with both of their emotions running so high. Yonatan comes with the taste of David’s tears on his tongue.

He stays lying on his back in the grass until the sound of crunching footsteps finally fades away, and only realizes later that, in their utter desperation for each other, he’d forgotten to take any of the usual precautions. But by then, it’s far too late.

***

Four months later, he goes to see David at Horesh. Even in the dim light of the hideout, David looks at him oddly.

“Something’s different about you,” he muses, and Yonatan has to stop himself from reflexively clutching his belly. He’s not showing yet, not really, but he can feel the life growing inside him.

He expects David to approach him then, to explore the planes of his body as he’s done countless times before. He readies himself to tell David the truth, to finally feel the weight of this secret lift off his shoulders. But David comes no closer. He eyes him for another moment and then turns away, pulling out a large map of the Judean territories as he updates Yonatan on his group’s movements over the last few months.

It’s better this way, Yonatan decides. David has enough to worry about at the moment without concerning himself with Yonatan’s health, and there’s no guarantee that the baby will make it to term anyways: it’s not as if Yonatan is willing – or able – to confine himself to bedrest for nine months. When David returns to Giveah, Yonatan can reevaluate the situation. Most likely Yonatan will never need to reveal his mistake; best case scenario, David will have an heir to secure his lineage as he ascends to the throne.

***

Years later, as Yonatan lies bleeding out under the stars, his last thought is to wish he’d gotten the chance to tell David about their son.

[wigglebox]

Hey there 💫 [x]

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 31: Post Game

…for the sake of the world’s happiness.

[mintandcreme]

JAW DROPPED.

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

heyyyyyyy so in the malnourished fwhip explanation post you said you'd get back to the thing about gem and fwhip not liking that they got first pick during the famine and i fully agree with you. if it also you said you'd get back to it and you didn't and you're good at articulating things so I would like to hear you elaborate if you are willing

OH yeah. i had planned to get into that in the section where i talked about fwhip continuing to use the corrupted fertilizer because it works so well that it means his people are fed, but i didn’t elaborate much further than that. so i shall now!

(context for this can be found here, in case you missed that post!)

so as i said previously, when famine strikes the grimlands and the royal family have their food needs prioritized, this is something that fwhip and gem, despite both being very young, find awful. i think both of these kids have very strong senses of justice (cough because they’re both autistic cough), gem especially, since she’s the one being trained to be the next countess, so she’s a lot more worldly than fwhip at that point. fwhip is approaching this from a basic fairness standpoint- everyone needs to eat, it’s not fair that he and his family get priority. gem is approaching this based on her experience in other empires and her conversations with other to be emperors- this is not how a good ruler treats their people, a good ruler tries to put their people first always.

i think this manifests in a variety of different ways when they get older. for fwhip, this manifests in putting his people’s food needs above his own when it comes to the corrupted fertilizer. if the fertilizer was giving everybody else nightmares, he would’ve heard about it by now, so clearly it’s just him. that means the fertilizer is a net good, so it stays. i think fwhip is a weird and very distant ruler, one who thinks of himself as a little too equal with his people, and that can be good and bad. something like this, where he puts the people’s need for food above his own wants is (for everyone else) good, but it also means he doesn’t really register how much more important his actions are than anyone else’s. for someone else in the grimlands (or even for fwhip just a few years ago, when he was still the kid brother to the rising countess), blowing up your friend’s house might get you in trouble, but it’s not a big deal. for modern day fwhip, it’s literally an act of war. “peace is boring” is a very frightening attitude for a ruler to hold, and he holds it because he wasn’t properly trained to be count, he’s still very young, and he views himself and his people as pretty much the same when, unfortunately, they just aren’t.

for gem, i think what this does for her behavior doesn’t manifest for her a while. she ran away from the grimlands because she wanted to be a wizard, she wanted to be anything but countess, and i think she did fundamentally believe fwhip would do better than she could. so she becomes a wizard in a very insulated community, and then her instructor disappears and leaves the entire place in her care, and that freaks her out. yes, she was trained to have far greater responsibilities than this, there aren’t even any students for her to train yet, but being in charge scares her still. she so desperately wants to be a good ruler, a better one than anyone in her family line has been for a while, because she’s been up close and personal with bad ones. and i think for gem specifically that manifests in her wanting to be a just ruler. very few people are ever fully beyond redemption for gem. her pillager students just need to put their weapons down, and then they’re ready to learn! see, they weren’t really evil, just angry and armed. sausage has good left in him, even at his worst, she knows it. she just needs to draw it out of him, at any cost. scott didn’t mean to hurt her, he was just scared and she pushed him too far, that’s on her. i think the only person she sees as truly, 100% beyond redemption, who she never really changes her tune on, is xornoth. even the other emperors she isn’t a fan of i don’t think she thinks are irredeemably evil, they’re just assholes and she’s gonna be an asshole back (or she’s gonna let the other WRA members do it). (the only outlier to that is maybe joey. at some point after he gets the crown from xornoth, somebody says he’s most likely beyond saving, and that somebody might be gem but i can’t remember. if it is, i think she had simply run out of energy for second chances for him, and he’s not her responsibility anyways, so she feels less bad about doing it to him than say, a student of hers. if she isn’t the one who says that, disregard.) she is trying to extend justice, to extend second tries to everyone. arguably she even tries this with xornoth, when she tries to learn more about him when he first shows up, but he also made it very clear he had no intentions of improving, so.

TLDR: i think both roseblings are affronted at the fact that because they are nobility, they are inherently better treated in times of crisis. for fwhip, this is because he thinks it’s unfair, that he’s not inherently better than the people of the grimlands, so it’s unfair for him to be treated as such. for gem, she thinks it’s unjust. a good ruler, a just one, would put their people first. so when they get older, this manifests in a variety of ways. for fwhip, he views himself less as a count and more as just another citizen of the grimlands, a tinkerer with a penchant for explosions and not much more. this means in times of crisis he puts the needs of the many over the needs of the few, but it also means he doesn’t think about how much more weight his actions carry with the other empires than the actions of a regular person. for gem, this manifests as trying to extend justice, a helping hand, a second chance, to everyone she can. even at her detriment, there are very few people she believes are totally beyond saving, and she tries as best she can to save them.

[rosicheeks]

What would be your perfect date? 😊

First date? Probably just a classic dinner at a restaurant or homemade meal. I want to get all dolled up and they actually dress up too and we spend the time getting to know each other.

[lesbianlenas]

was looking at the dark souls 2 walkthrough i’m using (i normally never use walkthroughs but i make an exception for dark souls bc it is so hard & confusing and i’m only playing it bc i paid $20 for it or w/e) and i saw i was on chapter 6 and i was like oh nice ive gotten p far already :) scrolled down to see how many chapters were left and there is 31 total 😭 i am 1/5 of the way there 🥴

[kirnet]

I want to keep don’t wake the ancients pretty much entirely from doroteas perspective to keep the tension* but I also wanna add an Adam pov where he’s freaking out bc she keeps saying offputting shit. What to do what to do

[villainsidestep]

that “they don’t know [xyz]” guy at the party meme except it’s me saying “they don’t know that fawn would take up the heartbreak name” in the survivor!v3 au

[joelsdagger]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.