#face razor women | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lacethighs · 20 days ago

Text

undercover dancer

dean winchester x reader

synopsis while working a case with the winchester, you go undercover at a strip club to track down a siren, but things don’t go as planned.

warnings mdni, porn with plot? (pwp), oral sex (m rec.), missionary, pet names (sweetheart, baby), fem reader, breeding kink (if you squint), light d/s dynamic, no use of y/n.

word count 6.5k

working a case with the winchesters meant long nights, bad coffee, and sifting through endless lore. the three of you were holed up in a rundown motel, buried in research about sirens. three men had murdered their wives, all while insisting they were in happy, loving relationships. something wasn’t adding up.

sam had bobby on speakerphone as the older hunter explained an old piece of folklore—sirens could be killed with a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of one of their victims.

“alright, thanks, bobby. we’ll call if we need anything else,” sam said, snapping his phone shut.

you sighed, leaning back in your chair across from him. “okay, but how exactly are we supposed to get the blood of an infected victim?”

sam thought for a moment before suggesting that the doctor who performed the autopsies might still have blood samples from the victims.

as the boys geared up, putting on their usual fbi disguises, you made no move to change. noticing this, dean shot you a look. “what? you’re just gonna sit this one out?”

“no,” you replied smoothly, standing up and grabbing a duffel bag from under the bed. “while you two are handling that, i’m going to see if i can get a lead on who the siren might be.”

sam and dean exchanged confused glances but didn’t question it. they had learned to trust your methods—even if they didn’t always understand them.

as soon as they left, you dug through your bag, pulling out a dark red costume. undercover work had its perks, but being a woman in the hunting business often meant playing into certain expectations. and right now, that meant infiltrating the strip club where you suspected the siren was hiding.

after a quick shower, you grabbed a fresh razor and got to work. if you were going to sell this, you had to look the part. you remembered the club owner’s strict policy—pretty faces and smooth bodies only.

once you were done, you pulled out your small cosmetic kit and carefully applied your makeup, matching it to the deep red of your outfit. a final swipe of lip gloss and a touch of glitter later, you gave yourself a once-over in the motel’s long mirror.

damn. you looked like an expensive stripper.

the two-piece outfit was a dark red sequined swimsuit, just a size too small, leaving very little to the imagination. perfect.

packing a change of clothes and slipping a pair of heels into your duffel, you hopped into your camaro and drove to the club.

pulling into the back lot, you wrapped yourself in a long trench coat and slipped inside through the rear entrance. in the changing room, you stashed your bag, swapped your boots for heels, and took a moment to observe the other women.

they moved in and out, chatting and adjusting their outfits, but none of them immediately screamed “siren.” the only clue you had was that sirens tended to work alone.

you adjusted your stance, getting used to the ridiculous height of your heels. with one last check in the dingy mirror, you stepped out onto the club floor.

the heavy bass of electronic house music pounded in your chest, the flashing led lights momentarily disorienting. you focused, forcing yourself to move with the rhythm, blending in as you made your way toward the bar.

“well, aren’t you something,” a voice drawled behind you.

you turned, slipping effortlessly into character, flashing a sultry smile as you took in the man eyeing you. mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard, expensive watch—if you weren’t here on a case, you might have been a little more interested.

smirking, you sauntered closer, batting your eyelashes. “what can i do for you tonight, handsome?”

“how about something special?” his voice dipped, gaze never leaving your body. “one of those private rooms in the back?”

shit.

if you left the main floor, you’d risk losing sight of your real target. you needed a way out of this—fast.

glancing around, you spotted the upstairs balcony overlooking the club. if you could get him up there, at least you’d still have a vantage point.

“i don’t have all night, sweetheart,” the man said impatiently, waving a wad of cash. “you want this or not?”

plastering on a flirtatious smile, you grabbed his hand and led him toward the stairs. he chuckled behind you. “aren’t you an eager thing?”

this was probably a bad idea.

as you reached the top, your attention flicked to a nearby table where two men in suits sat across from each other. the back of one of their heads looked disturbingly familiar. short hair, slightly spiked—no way.

then you heard it. that familiar gravelly voice, thick with a kansas drawl.

dean.

what the hell was he doing here?

panic kicked in. you needed to get past him before he saw you in this very compromising outfit. you picked up the pace, walking past as quickly as you could.

just when you thought you were in the clear—

a low whistle pierced the air.

fuck.

the whistle came from dean.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

you could’ve kept walking. you should’ve kept walking. just pretend you didn’t hear it. play dumb, keep moving, disappear into the back rooms before this whole thing spiraled into something worse.

but, of course, the man you were leading had to open his damn mouth.

“hell of a body, huh?” he slurred, clearly buzzed and feeling bold. “bet she’s worth every damn penny.”

your stomach dropped, then it got so much worse.

“hey, buddy,” the man continued, elbowing dean like they were old friends. “why don’t you come with me? we can both get a little taste.”

you clenched your jaw. this fucking guy. not only was he disgusting, but now he was trying to bring dean into this?

“hey, sweetheart!” he called, motioning for you to come back. “c’mon, don’t be shy now.”

you stayed still, facing away from the table, hoping—praying—that dean would just ignore him. maybe he hadn’t recognized you. maybe he was just reacting to the fact that you looked wildly out of place in a club like this.

maybe pigs could fly.

because you felt dean’s eyes burning into your back, and you knew—this was about to happen.

your breath hitched as you forced yourself to turn around.

and the second your gaze met dean’s, his jaw literally dropped.

eyes wide, mouth hanging open, pure shock written all over his face. like he’d just been smacked in the head with a crowbar.

you saw the exact moment realization hit. the way his gaze flickered down—taking in the too-small, blood-red sequined outfit, the heels, the sheer ridiculousness of what you were wearing—before snapping back up to your face.

his lips parted, but no words came out. just a stunned, incredulous stare, like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn’t even begin to process what he was seeing.

you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

dean winchester—your hunting partner, your friend, the guy you spent way too much time with—was seeing you like this.

and he wasn’t looking away. dean blinked. once. twice. then his jaw clenched

in dean’s mind, this was not what he expected when you said you were going to get a lead on the siren.

a lead? sure. maybe some surveillance, some questioning—hell, even some light flirting to get information if needed. but this?

his brain had completely short-circuited.

for a few crucial seconds, he forgot where he was. forgot the case, the siren, the fact that there was a real fbi agent sitting across from him. forgot that he was supposed to be an fbi agent, too.

because fbi agent dean winchester wasn’t supposed to know a stripper.

you weren’t supposed to know him.

you were just two strangers existing in the same space—passing glances, exchanging pleasantries, nothing more. that’s what this cover was supposed to be.

but instead, you were standing there, looking like that, and dean was sitting here, looking at you.

the noise of the club, the flashing lights, the pulsing music—it all blurred in the background. the only thing in sharp focus was you.

and then, of course, the drunk asshole had to make it worse.

“so, what do ya say, man?” he gestured sloppily between you and dean, slurring his words. “you in or what?”

dean blinked, jaw tightening.

this guy had no idea. no idea that the woman he was treating like an object was actually a badass hunter who could take him down in a heartbeat. no idea that dean wasn’t some random customer, but someone who knew exactly what you looked like covered in blood and sweat, tearing through monsters like it was second nature.

but more than anything, he had no idea how much dean didn’t want to share you with him.

dean finally closed his mouth, schooling his face into something more neutral. his grip tightened around the glass in his hand, but he forced out a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

“tempting,” he said, voice low, edged with something dangerous. “but i think i’ll pass.”

he saw the way your shoulders subtly relaxed, the way your fingers twitched like you were seconds from reaching for a weapon you weren’t carrying.

the guy huffed, shaking his head. “your loss.” then he turned back to you, giving you a sleazy grin. “guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

dean barely restrained himself from breaking the guy’s nose.

this was a case. you were undercover. you had a job to do.

but damn if dean didn’t want to burn this whole place down just to get you out of here.

after that incredibly unfortunate turn of events, you decided to call it a night.

you led your drunk, handsy gentleman away from prying eyes, coaxing him into a quieter, less crowded hallway. the second you were sure no one was watching, you turned on your heel and decked him—one solid punch right to the jaw.

he crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

rolling your shoulders, you exhaled sharply and stepped over his unconscious body. he’d wake up with a hell of a headache and probably no memory of what happened. good. you didn’t have the patience for anything else.

when you walked back onto the main floor, you instinctively glanced toward where dean had been sitting—only to find his chair empty.

of course.

you didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.

navigating through the club, you made your way back to the dressing room, grabbed your trench coat, and threw it over yourself. no time to change. you just wanted to get out of here and back to the motel.

enough undercover work for one night.

but as soon as you stepped outside into the cool night air and headed toward your car, you stopped dead in your tracks.

because parked right in front of your camaro, like a goddamn roadblock, was the impala.

and leaning against it, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was dean. there he stood—still in that goddamn suit, still looking good as ever.

the neon lights from the club flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows across his jaw. he was staring straight at you, and even from a distance, you could feel the weight of it.

yeah. you definitely weren’t getting out of this conversation.

you wished you could just ignore him, pretend you didn’t see him, slip into your camaro, and drive the hell away from this whole mess.

but dean obviously had different plans.

his arms were still crossed, his stance casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he was watching you. his sharp green eyes followed every step you took, unreadable yet intense.

you swallowed hard and kept walking, forcing yourself to act like you weren’t dying inside from sheer embarrassment. maybe if you just made it to your car door without saying anything—

“hey, sweetheart,” dean called, voice smooth but edged with something else.

you closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

slowly, you turned to face him, plastering on your best unimpressed look. “you waiting for someone, winchester?”

dean huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “yeah. you.”

of course.

you shifted your weight, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. “well, you found me. so what do you want?”

dean pushed off the impala, stepping closer—just enough to make your pulse spike. he tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to piece together.

“what the hell was that back there?” his voice was low, curious, but definitely not amused.

you lifted a brow. “i was working the case.”

dean’s jaw ticked. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you crossed your arms. “got a problem with it?”

he scoffed, looking away for a second before his eyes flicked back to yours. “yeah, i got a problem with it. watching you prance around in that getup, having some drunk asshole treat you like—” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “what the hell were you thinking?”

you rolled your eyes. “i was thinking that someone had to actually get close enough to find the siren. and considering i didn’t see you shaking your ass in sequins, it had to be me.”

dean made a face, clearly not a fan of that mental image. “damn it, you know that’s not what i mean.”

you shrugged, pretending like your stomach wasn’t twisting at how tense he was. “relax, dean. i had it under control.”

dean let out a humorless laugh. “oh yeah? looked real under control when that guy was trying to buy a damn two-for-one special.”

you bristled but kept your face neutral. “i handled it.”

dean stared at you for a long moment, jaw still tight. then, finally, he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

your lips twitched. “that sounds like a you problem.”

dean exhaled, then gave you that look—the one that always made your chest tighten. a mix of exasperation, concern, and something else. something you didn’t have the guts to name.

“get in the car,” he muttered, nodding toward the impala.

you frowned. “i have my own car—”

“yeah, and it’s staying here.” dean’s voice left no room for argument. “you’re riding with me.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but the glare he shot you made you shut it just as quickly.

fine. whatever. if it got you out of this conversation faster, you’d deal with it.

sighing, you walked past him, letting him open the passenger door for you. you didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over you again, how his fingers twitched like he wanted to do something but held himself back.

you slid into the seat, crossing your arms as dean shut the door behind you.

as he walked around to the driver’s side, one thought ran through your mind—

this was not how you expected tonight to go.

the car ride was quiet.

the tension, while still there, had stopped being suffocating, allowing you to relax a little. you leaned into the familiar comfort of the impala, the soft hum of the engine settling something in your chest.

which meant, unfortunately, you forgot what you were wearing underneath your trench coat.

as you shifted in your seat, adjusting yourself for a more comfortable position, the movement caused the coat to gape open slightly, revealing slivers of bare skin and dark red sequins.

dean only glanced over at first, probably just checking why you were moving—

but then he saw.

his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

a quick flash of your thighs, the curve of your waist, and the unmistakable shimmer of the too-small, too-revealing getup you still had on underneath.

dean immediately snapped his gaze back to the road, jaw clenching so tight it could crack a molar.

but it was too late.

because now the image was burned into his mind.

you, in that tiny outfit, all legs and soft skin, sitting right there next to him like it was no big deal. like it wasn’t driving him insane.

he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like it would somehow shake the thought loose.

you didn’t seem to notice his sudden shift in posture, too caught up in getting comfortable. you adjusted again, crossing one leg over the other, which caused the coat to part just a little more—

dean did not look.

he was not looking.

he was absolutely not going to look.

but then the impala hit a small bump in the road, jostling you slightly—and out of sheer reflex, his eyes flicked over.

fucking hell.

he gritted his teeth, forcing his focus forward. “jesus, could you—?” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “do you wanna maybe, i don’t know, close that thing?” he flicked a pointed glance at your coat, then back at the road like his life depended on it.

you blinked, glancing down—and finally realized what he was talking about.

oh.

a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “my bad,” you said innocently, making zero effort to fix it.

dean shot you a look. “not funny.”

you bit your lip, suppressing a laugh. “kinda funny.”

“not funny,” he repeated, gripping the wheel tighter. “you’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

you chuckled, finally tugging the coat closed—not out of modesty, but because you were pretty sure dean was about three seconds away from swerving off the road.

“relax, winchester,” you teased. “it’s not like you haven’t seen a woman in less before.”

dean made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a strangled groan. “yeah, well, i don’t usually have to drive them back to a motel after watching them hustle some drunk asshole in a damn strip club.”

you snorted. “please. like you weren’t enjoying the view.”

dean didn’t say anything.

didn’t even look at you.

and that was interesting.

your smirk widened. “oh my god,” you drawled. “you were enjoying the view.”

dean clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the road. “you done?”

you hummed, pretending to think. “not really.”

“too bad.”

you laughed, finally letting it go—for now.

dean just exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

and for the rest of the ride, he did not look over again.

finally.

for dean, the ride was over. they made it to the motel.

he could get away from you and that damn outfit without feeling like he was losing his goddamn mind.

but you? oh, you were not letting it go.

stepping inside, you took a quick scan of the room. no sam. he was still off doing whatever research he had gotten sucked into, which meant it was just you and dean.

perfect.

you kicked off those ridiculous heels with a sigh of relief, shrinking down several inches in the process, and tossed your duffle bag onto the bed. dean did the same, loosening the tie on his suit with a grumble, ready to just shower this night off and forget it ever happened.

but then he looked up—

and oh, god.

you were shrugging off your trench coat.

right in front of him.

and you weren’t doing it quickly, like someone exhausted after a long night.

no.

you were doing it slowly.

tantalizingly.

dean didn’t know if that was just his brain making it seem like slow motion, or if you were actually torturing him on purpose.

but oh, god.

the way the coat slipped from your shoulders, revealing the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the deep red sequins shimmered against the cheap motel lighting.

dean felt like he’d been hit with something.

his mouth went dry. his brain stopped working.

all he could do was stare.

and you knew.

he could see it in the tiny smirk playing at your lips, the way you tossed your coat onto the bed like this was all totally normal. like you weren’t standing there, still in that tiny little outfit, acting like you didn’t just completely wreck him.

dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to snap out of it. he turned away quickly, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to gather whatever frayed pieces of self-control he had left.

“you are killing me,” he muttered under his breath.

you laughed, low and amused. “something wrong, winchester?”

dean let out a humorless scoff, not daring to look at you again. “yeah. you.”

you just grinned. “aw, poor baby.”

dean clenched his jaw, staring very intently at the wall.

this was not how he expected his night to go.

especially when you were right there, looking at him like that—like you knew exactly what you were doing to him?

when his eyes couldn’t help but drink you in, no matter how hard he tried to not look?

that stupid, stupid red sequined outfit stretched over the swell of your breasts, hugging every curve, glinting under the dim motel lights like it was taunting him.

the bottoms—if they could even be considered bottoms—barely hid anything. just thin strips of fabric teasingly covering your most intimate parts, leaving long lines of bare skin on display.

dean was screwed.

his jaw was locked so tight it ached. his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something—grab you, touch you, tear that damn outfit off just to put an end to this torture.

but he didn’t move.

didn’t say a word.

because if he did, if he let himself react at all, there was no coming back from it.

you tilted your head slightly, watching him with amusement, curiosity, and something dangerous.

“you keep looking at me like that, dean,” you mused, voice dripping with mischief, “people might start to think you actually want me.”

dean exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze to the floor, the wall—anywhere but you.

“you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” his voice came out rougher than he intended.

you stepped closer—too close. close enough that he could feel your body heat, smell the faint traces of perfume and sweat lingering on your skin.

“not when i’m having this much fun,” you admitted with a smirk.

dean clenched his fists.

he had two choices.

get the hell out of this room right now—

or finally give in.

of course he gave in. one second, he was standing there, fists clenched, trying so damn hard to hold himself back.

the next, his lips crashed against yours, hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for this and just now realized how badly he needed it.

you gasped softly against his mouth, but you weren’t surprised. not really. you knew exactly what you were doing, how to push him just far enough until he snapped—and now, here he was, grabbing onto you like he’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

his hands found your waist, rough fingers gripping tight as he pulled you against him. the thin sequined fabric did little to separate the heat of his body from yours, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

you barely had a second to breathe before he was kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he was trying to devour you.

and god, you loved it.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging slightly just to hear that low, frustrated growl rumble from his chest. his hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and before you could even process what was happening, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“fucking tease,” he muttered against your lips, walking you toward the bed with no hesitation.

you smirked, breathless. “took you long enough.”

dean let out a low, dark chuckle.

“oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with want as he dropped you onto the mattress, climbing over you with a dangerous glint in his eyes—

“you have no idea what you just started.”

your hands roamed over dean’s suit-clad body, feeling the heat beneath the fabric, the tension coiled tight in his muscles.

you pulled him closer by his tie, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips. his weight pressed into you, his body solid and strong, like he was trying to get as close as physically possible—like even that wouldn’t be enough.

his big, calloused hands slid down your sides, rough fingers trailing fire along your bare skin until they found the thin ties of your bottoms.

with practiced ease, he tugged at the delicate knots, the flimsy fabric loosening instantly. his lips never left yours, too caught up in the way you felt, the way you gasped softly when the last knot came undone.

meanwhile, you worked fast to undo your top, the sequined fabric falling away as your fingers fumbled at the clasp.

dean pulled back just enough to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, his expression dark and unreadable.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice rough, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

you smirked, reaching up to tug at his tie again. “took you long enough, winchester.”

dean’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

“you’re gonna regret saying that,” he warned, voice dripping with promise.

and then he kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he was determined to make up for every second he’d spent holding back.

separating to catch your breath, your chest heaved as you watched dean make quick work of his clothes.

and god, was he a sight.

his toned stomach, the ridges of muscle shifting with every movement, the broad expanse of his chest—every inch of him was built for this. his strong arms flexed as he tossed his shirt aside, and for a second, you were too distracted to do anything but stare.

dean smirked, catching the way your lips parted, your eyes dark with something between hunger and awe.

“like what ya see, sweetheart?” he teased, his voice dripping with cocky amusement.

you swallowed hard, dragging your gaze up to meet his, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering you—even if you were absolutely drooling inside.

with a smirk of your own, you tilted your head and let your fingers trail slowly down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath.

“i don’t know,” you mused, lips curling as you leaned up, voice dropping into something sultry, “guess i’ll have to touch to be sure.”

dean let out a low chuckle, but the way his breath hitched when your hands slid lower?

he wasn’t laughing anymore.

your hand trailed lower, teasing, until your palm pressed against the hard length straining through his unbuttoned trousers.

dean sucked in a breath, his body tensing under your touch. his head tilted back slightly, jaw clenched, as if he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart right then and there.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, gravelly, like the word had been dragged out of him.

you smirked, feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the heat of him even through the fabric.

god, you had to feel him inside your mouth.

with slow, deliberate movements, you slid off the bed, sinking to your knees before him. your fingers made quick work of his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him, and fuck.

dean winchester was big.

your mouth practically watered at the sight, your fingers wrapping around his thick length, giving him an experimental stroke.

dean let out a low, wrecked groan, his hands automatically flying to your hair, his fingers curling at the roots as if he needed something to hold onto.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, looking down at you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

you just smirked up at him, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up his length, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time.

“fuck,” he cursed again, his grip in your hair tightening slightly. “you’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

you only hummed in response, lips parting as you finally took him into your mouth and dean completely lost it.

his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he held on—not forcing, just holding, like he needed the anchor while you worked him over with that sinful mouth of yours.

dean’s head fell back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, looking back down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the way your head bobbed up and down at a steady rhythm.

the slick, filthy sounds of you gagging on his cock filled the room, mixing with his grunts and sharp exhales.

“jesus—look at you,” he muttered, breathless, his grip tightening just a little when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him even deeper. “taking me so fuckin’ good.”

your eyes flickered up to meet his, glossy and dazed, and that—that look on your face, the way you were so eager, so desperate to take all of him—had him teetering on the edge.

“shit,” he groaned, one of his hands trailing down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in contrast to how filthy this all was. “goddamn mouth of yours—feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

you hummed at the praise, sending vibrations through his length, and that—that nearly broke him.

“oh, fuck,” he growled, hips jerking slightly despite himself. “keep that up, and i’m not gonna last, sweetheart.”

but that only made you want it more.

so you sucked harder, hollowed your cheeks even more, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, every bit of heat and wetness—

and dean absolutely wrecked.

before he could finish, dean suddenly jerked you off his cock, a slick pop sounding as he pulled free from your mouth. his chest heaved, pupils blown wide, lips parted in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“shit,” he muttered, breathing heavy as he cupped your jaw, wiping away a bit of spit from your swollen lips with his thumb. “as much as i wanna come down that pretty throat of yours, i need to feel you first.”

his words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

dean didn’t give you time to process before he hauled you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he practically tossed you onto the bed.

you barely had time to gasp before he was on you—pressing you down into the mattress, kissing you deep, his tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour you.

his hands roamed your body, squeezing, exploring, before settling between your thighs. his fingers teased at your slick folds, making you whimper against his lips.

“fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned, dragging his fingers through your wetness before pressing one thick digit inside. “was sucking me off that good for you, sweetheart?”

you whined, hips bucking into his touch, gripping at his shoulders. “dean, please—”

he chuckled darkly, adding another finger, stretching you slightly as he watched you, drinking in the way you squirmed. “oh, i got you, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. “gonna give you exactly what you need.”

and with that, he lined himself up, teasing the tip against your entrance—

then thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, deep stroke.

dean was relentless.

his hips snapped against yours, the sheer force of each thrust making the bed creak beneath you. his grip on your hips was tight, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted—like he needed to keep you in place while he fucked you deep.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto where your bodies met. “so goddamn tight—taking me so fuckin’ good.”

the stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way, and all you could do was moan, gripping onto his arms, his back, anything to ground yourself.

then—he shifted.

one of his hands dragged down your leg, rough fingers tracing your skin before he hooked it over his shoulder, pressing in even deeper.

“oh, fuck—” you cried out, back arching as he hit that new angle, that devastatingly perfect spot that had your vision going white.

dean felt the way you clenched around him, heard the way his name spilled from your lips in a wrecked, breathless moan—and he lost it.

“that’s it,” he growled, his pace somehow getting rougher, each thrust harder, deeper, sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. “this what you wanted, huh? needed me to fuck you like this?”

you could barely form words, too lost in the blinding pleasure.

“dean—please—!”

he grunted, leaning down, pressing his forehead against yours even as he kept up his punishing rhythm.

“i got you, baby,” he panted, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. “not stopping ‘til you come all over my cock.”

one of dean’s calloused fingers dragged down your body, rough and deliberate, until it found your achingly sensitive clit.

a sharp cry tore from your throat as he pressed down, rubbing slow, teasing circles that contrasted the relentless snap of his hips. the combination had your entire body trembling, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“that’s it,” dean groaned, watching your every reaction like a man possessed, his finger working you over with precision. “so fuckin’ perfect—gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

you were already there, so close you could taste it, every thrust, every roll of his fingers sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“dean— oh my god—” you gasped, gripping onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

he growled at that, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he doubled down—hips slamming into you, fingers rubbing tighter, faster, overwhelming you with everything.

“come on, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “let me feel it—let go for me.”

and then—you snapped.

your orgasm ripped through you, body arching, legs shaking, a desperate, wrecked moan of his name spilling from your lips as waves of white-hot pleasure crashed over you.

dean groaned at the feeling, the way you clenched down so tight around him, the way your body trembled beneath him, and it sent him tumbling right after you.

“fuck— fuck,” he choked out, burying himself deep as he came, his own release spilling inside you as he gasped your name like a prayer.

dean slowly pulled out, a low groan leaving his lips as he watched the way your body trembled beneath him. his eyes darkened when he saw the mess he made—his release spilling out of your wrecked little hole, glistening against your flushed skin.

his smirk was downright wicked as he dragged two fingers through the slick mess, gathering up every drop before pressing them right back inside you, pushing deep, so slow.

“don’t want it going to waste, do we, sweetheart?” his voice was gravelly, teasing, full of satisfaction as he watched you squirm, still sensitive and wrecked from your orgasm.

a whimper slipped from your lips, your overstimulated walls fluttering around his fingers as he gently fucked them into you, as if he owned you—like he could still feel every aftershock running through your body.

“fuck, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “look so damn pretty like this. completely fucked out.”

he finally pulled his fingers free, but not before bringing them up to his lips, smirking as he licked them clean, groaning low in his throat.

“taste so fucking sweet.”

dean’s smirk softened as he took in the sight of you—your body still trembling slightly, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. your skin was flushed, glowing in the dim motel light, and fuck, if you weren’t the prettiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

but as much as he loved seeing you like this, spent and wrecked from him, he also knew you needed him now just as much as before—just in a different way.

with a deep breath, he leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before slipping off the bed.

“be right back, sweetheart,” he murmured.

you barely had the energy to respond, only humming in acknowledgment as you stretched across the sheets, already feeling the exhaustion settle in.

dean moved around the room quietly, grabbing one of his clean shirts and a warm, damp washcloth before returning to your side.

“hey, baby,” he said softly, brushing your hair back before running the cloth between your thighs, being so careful, so gentle as he cleaned you up. “still with me?”

“mhm,” you mumbled, sighing at the warmth of his touch.

once he was sure you were all cleaned up, he tossed the cloth aside and helped you into his shirt, the fabric drowning you, but he couldn’t help but grin at the way you looked in it.

“there we go,” he murmured, pulling the blankets over you before sliding in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart was soothing, his body warm and solid against you.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now, rough edges smoothed over with something gentler.

you nodded, nuzzling into his neck. “yeah… ‘m good.”

dean pressed a kiss to your temple, rubbing slow circles into your back.

“get some sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “i got you.”

just as you were getting comfortable, wrapped up in dean’s warmth, the motel door slammed open, making both of you jolt.

“what the hell—” dean started, reaching for the gun under his pillow, but then—

“where the hell have the two of you been?!”

it was sam.

standing in the doorway, pissed, arms crossed, eyes darting between the both of you—dean half-naked under the blankets, you drowning in one of his shirts, curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your face burned.

“uh…” you started, scrambling for some kind of excuse, but what could you even say?

dean, ever the smooth talker, just cleared his throat and smirked, stretching an arm behind his head. “y’know, sammy… you could’ve knocked.”

sam’s expression darkened. “are you—? oh, come on!” he rubbed a hand down his face, looking genuinely distressed. “i’ve been out chasing a damn siren while you two were—” he gestured wildly. “—doing this?!”

you bit your lip, shrinking under his glare, but dean?

dean just grinned. “hey, don’t get all worked up, man. we got plenty done tonight.”

“yeah, i bet you did,” sam deadpanned.

the silence was painfully awkward.

finally, sam just let out a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “i don’t even wanna know.” he turned on his heel, grumbling something under his breath as he walked to his bed, clearly done with both of you.

you and dean exchanged glances before cracking up, muffling your laughter into the blankets as sam shot you both a glare.

“idiots,” he muttered, flopping down onto his bed. “absolute idiots.”

still grinning, dean pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “totally worth it,” he whispered.

and honestly?

yeah. it was.

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester smut #x reader #fanfic #fan fiction

823 notes · View notes

purplereina11 · 30 days ago

Text

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

🏀

The lights inside Palau Blaugrana burst in brilliant hues as you step onto the gleaming hardwood court for the very first time wearing the iconic Barcelona jersey. The atmosphere vibrates with energy—an almost tangible electricity that courses through the air, mixing with the bright hues of blaugrana garlands worn by passionate fans. The rhythmic beating of drums resonates like a heartbeat echoing off every wall, while the mingled aromas of polished wood, mingled with perspiration and adrenaline, transport you to a realm where dreams and determination meet. Your new teammates clap you on the back with murmurs of encouragement that mesh with the pulsing rhythm, yet your focus remains crystal clear.

Number 11.

Boldly stitched across your jersey like a silent manifesto, this number has been inseparable from you for as long as you have danced with the game. It signifies much more than a mere digit—it carries the weight of countless hours of practice, of triumphs and stumbles alike. That steady emblem grounds you as you glance into the sea of faces, absorbing every moment. And then, amidst the roaring crowd, you see her.

Alexia Putellas.

Seated courtside with an air of relaxed authority, she crosses her legs gracefully and rests her arms lightly across her lap. A mischievous half-smirk tugs at her lips, hinting at stories untold. Even if you weren’t a devout follower of the sport, her presence is legendary—a symbol of Barcelona, of dominance, and, by extension, of the emblematic number 11 itself. In a fleeting, electrifying moment, your eyes lock with hers, and though she swiftly turns away, the impression is indelible. In that subtle flicker of amusement on her face, it seems as if she already understands the impact of your presence.

Focus. It’s just a game.

Yet, it isn’t simply a game. It is your grand debut, your moment to prove that you belong in this exclusive circle, to earn your place in this storied club and in this vibrant city. Moments earlier, you had been all smiles, trading jokes with teammates as your image flickered onto the giant screen—your arrival marked by every eye in the arena. Rumor had it that Barcelona had splurged to make you the highest-paid woman’s basketball player in the world, enticing you from your hometown team all the way from England. There was an undeniable buzz surrounding you—a magnetic force drawing every gaze. The weight of their expectations did not weigh you down; rather, if pressure was present, you welcomed it and transformed it into fuel.

Though many whispered about your stature—standing a mere five foot nine inches—it only served to make your exploits on the court all the more remarkable, as every move defied the conventional limits.

And then, the whistle slices through the symphony of excitement, and in that instant, everything else blurs into insignificance. The opening minutes become a whirlwind of fast breaks and razor-sharp passes; the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor punctuates the relentless pursuit of victory. When the ball lands in your hands, a calm, instinctual resolve takes over. You surge toward the hoop, a graceful blur as you spin past a defender, and then release an almost effortless jumper—a testament to your honed skill.

The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Alexia leaning forward, her gaze intently tracking every nuance of your movement. Her lips part just slightly, as if momentarily captivated by the poetry of the game.

The contest intensifies into a ballet of tight defenses, aggressive maneuvers, and a relentless battle for every point. You are utterly absorbed, dropping three-pointers with surgical precision, orchestrating assists that shimmer with brilliance, and proving over and again why Barcelona had so ardently sought you out. Yet, amid the flurry of action, your gaze repeatedly drifts toward the sidelines, drawn by the unmistakable presence of Alexia. In those rare glimpses, a subtle tilt of her head, a perfectly raised brow, or an approving nod after a particularly elegant play speaks volumes.

Then arrives the defining moment—a high-tension climax. The score hung in a delicate balance as the final seconds tick away. The ball, as if by fate, finds its way to you at the top of the key. You draw a slow, steady breath, feeling every heartbeat echoing in your ears. Rising as if suspended in time, you release the ball and watch in silent awe as it arches gracefully through the air, spinning in a perfect trajectory before whispering cleanly through the net.

Game.

In that instant, the arena becomes an ocean of sound; cheers cascade over you, and your teammates swarm in a jubilant embrace, their hands slapping your back in a celebratory symphony. Yet, in the midst of the euphoria, your eyes search relentlessly for one singular figure. There, standing amid the explosion of festivity, is Alexia, clapping with measured enthusiasm and that tantalizing smirk still etched on her face. Her expression is enigmatic—a canvas of emotions too intricate to decode, yet charged with intensity.

As the crowd’s roaring applause continues to swell, Barcelona officials step confidently onto the court to honor your debut. A microphone is passed to the team captain, whose brief but rousing speech extols your arrival, your skills, and warmly welcomes you into the heart of the club. Your teammates whirl you into a jubilant huddle, and the atmosphere ascends to a fever pitch. Cameras flash in rapid succession, capturing every triumphant detail as your jersey, emblazoned with the proud number 11, is hoisted high for all to see.

Then she appears.

Alexia Putellas, standing just off to the side with her jacket’s pockets casually imbued with confidence, steps forward as if drawn by inevitability. The distance between you dissolves in the wake of her quiet assurance, mirroring the ease with which the official introductions had been made. In that charged moment, the game itself—with its adrenaline, its roaring crowd, and the embrace of your teammates celebrating your first monumental performance in a Barça jersey—fades into a vivid, unforgettable memory.

Throughout the night, you had caught glimpses of her presence: the way her eyes followed your every move, the subtle lean forward whenever you readied your shot. And then, with calm clarity, she spoke.

“Felicidades,” she intoned smoothly, her voice low yet piercing through the clamor of the arena. “Buen debut.”

Though not every word in Spanish was crystal clear, the tone of her greeting sent a shimmering thrill straight through your chest. “Gracias,” you responded, locking eyes with hers in silent conversation. There was an ineffable quality in her gaze—a mix of challenge and admiration—that left you momentarily breathless. Then, with a playful lilt, she added, “El 11 te queda bien... por ahora.” (11 suits you... for now.)

Without a moment’s hesitation, you quipped back, “I make it look better, though.” Her knowing smirk lingered as she turned to walk away, leaving a trail of mystery and promise in her wake. A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head, forever etched with the memory of that final look, a spark that hinted at many more encounters yet to come.

The locker room buzzes with the euphoric aftermath of victory—a symphony of congratulatory shouts and laughter that ricochets off the walls. Your teammates surround you, their faces illuminated with genuine admiration, yet you find yourself replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her words echoing in your mind like a melody that refuses to fade.

"Champagne for the game-winner!" someone calls out, and suddenly a bottle appears, its cork popping with a satisfying thunk that sends foamy bubbles cascading over eager hands. The cold liquid kisses your fingertips as a plastic cup is pressed into your palm.

"To our new número once," your captain toasts in a thick Catalan accent, raising her cup high. "Who plays like she's been wearing blaugrana her whole life!"

Your phone already overflowed with notifications—family, friends, and former teammates all witnessing your Barcelona baptism from afar. But their words blurred together as your mind kept replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her enigmatic smile lingering in your thoughts like a melody that refuses to fade.

You take a slow sip, savoring the bubbles that dance across your tongue, watching your teammates' animated faces as they relive the game's highlights. The locker room's fluorescent lights cast everyone in a warm glow that matches the heat of victory still pulsing through your veins.

"That last shot," Claudia says, your point guard with hands like magic, "I knew it was going in before it left your fingers." She mimics your shooting form with exaggerated flourish.

"Pure instinct," you reply with a shrug that belies the thousands of hours spent perfecting that very motion.

As the celebration continues, your phone buzzes again in your locker. This notification is different—an Instagram follow request that makes your heart skip Alexia Putellas. Your finger hovers over the screen for a moment before you reciprocate, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

Later that night, the team drags you to a celebration at a dimly lit restaurant tucked away in the Gothic Quarter. Ancient stone walls curve around intimate tables, while flickering candles cast dancing shadows across plates of steaming paella and bottles of rich Rioja. Your teammates switch effortlessly between Catalan, Spanish, and English, their laughter a universal language that wraps around you like a warm embrace.

"To think we stole you from London," Claudia teases, refilling your wine glass. "Their loss, our treasure."

"The English never know what they have until it's wearing Barcelona colors," adds Marta, the team's veteran center, her eyes crinkling with mischief.

You're about to respond when your phone illuminates with a notification. Alexia Putellas commented on your post of you mid air the ball flying through the air on its way to score the winning basket

Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥

Three simple words that send a current through your body. You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of your heartbeat in your ears. The restaurant's ambient noise fades to a distant hum.

"Earth to superstar," Claudia waves her hand in front of your face. "Who's got you smiling like that? Your English boyfriend missing you already?"

You lock your phone quickly. "No boyfriend," you reply, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "Just congratulations."

"From someone special?" Marta raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You shrug noncommittally, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you. You set the phone down, trying to focus on the conversation flowing around you.

The flirting starts subtly.

You reply, Didn’t know you were a basketball fan.

Alexia’s response comes quickly. I wasn’t. Until now.

A smirk tugs at your lips. She’s smooth, you’ll give her that. The conversation flows easily after that—teasing comments about your shooting percentage, her claiming she could school you in a game of one-on-one, you laughing at her confidence. It escalates when she sends a picture of her boots, captioned: Think I could pull off sneakers instead?

You reply with a simple: Doubtful.

A minute later, she sends a selfie, clad in a Barcelona basketball hoodie that’s clearly not hers, lips pursed in mock offense. Better?

Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.

The back-and-forth continues over the next few days. Playful jabs, inside jokes, the occasional late-night message that lingers on read for a little too long before one of you responds. There’s something unspoken beneath it all, an undeniable tension that neither of you address outright, but it’s there, simmering between every message.

As you scroll through your phone the next day, it’s obvious she’s not done playing. That moment? It hasn’t left your head since. Barcelona as a city, as a community has welcomed you with open arms, and your name is already making the rounds in sports headlines. But nothing compares to the moment Alexia Putellas personally congratulated you after the match, her voice low and smooth as she spoke in her native tongue. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood her the way her eyes lingered, the slight smirk pulling at her lips.

And now, the communication continues.

Alexia comments under a post from FC Barcelona’s official account, featuring a photo of you mid-game.

@alexiaputellas: El 11 te queda bien… por ahora. (The 11 looks good on you… for now.)

A challenge. A tease. You don’t hesitate to respond this time.

@yourusername: I make it look better, though. 😏

Your notifications explode after your writing exchange mimicking the private one face to face the night previous. Fans flood the replies with speculation, excitement, and over-the-top theories. Some are just here for the banter; others are fully convinced something is brewing between you two. Fans speculating, debating, and fuelling the growing tension between you both. The chemistry isn’t just a private moment on the court anymore, it’s playing out in front of thousands.

You post a photo from the gym drenched in sweat, muscles tense, mid-shot, pure focus in your eyes. The caption reads:

Working on my shot, but some things just come naturally.

Minutes later, Alexia replies

@alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭

You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.

@yourusername: Like winning. Maybe I should teach you how.

More likes, more replies, more eyes on you two. It’s not just fans noticing. Your teammates tease you in the locker room, nudging you with knowing looks. Even club officials seem amused.

Then, later that night, Alexia ups the ante. You’re scrolling when you see a notification; she’s tagged you in her Instagram story. It’s a clip from your first game shared from an official Barcelona page, you nailing a three-pointer, followed by a close-up of her reaction court side, lips parted, brows slightly raised. The caption?

Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔

Your chest tightens, heat rushing to your face. She’s playing with fire. And you’re more than ready to match her. You reply in her DMs.

You: Careful, Alexia. Keep watching me like that, and people will start talking.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly like she was expecting you to respond.

Alexia: Let them.

And just like that, the game changes. You don’t respond to Alexia’s last message.

Let them.

Two words, yet they sit in your mind long after you put your phone down. She’s pushing now, playing with the line between teasing and something else. And you? You’re more than willing to push back.

The next morning, training is business as usual, but your teammates are already buzzing about your little social media exchange. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged before anyone even says a word to you.

"You and La Reina getting close?" one of them finally asks, nudging you with an elbow as you stretch. Their tone is teasing, but there's genuine curiosity behind it.

Another teammate chimes in before you can respond, grinning. "That little back-and-forth last night.. looked pretty flirty to me."

You roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you switch positions. "You lot need a hobby," you mutter, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrays you.

They laugh, clearly not convinced. "C'mon, you’re not even denying it!" someone calls out, and a few others chuckle in agreement.

You shake your head and focus on your warm-up, refusing to give them anything more. Let them speculate. Like the rest of the world. It harmless. Playful. It would fizzle. You were sure of it.

Still, when you check your phone post-practice, you see a DM from Alexia waiting for you.

Alexia: No comeback? I was expecting more from you.

You grin before typing back.

You: Didn’t think you needed me to spell it out. You’re already watching me closely enough it seems.

You send it and lock your phone, refusing to check for a response right away. Let her sit with it for a while. Later that evening, you’re at home, scrolling through Instagram when another notification appears.

@alexiaputellas liked your post.

The post in question? A new picture from training today focused, intense, a caption that reads:

One of us has to be the best female 11 in Barcelona. Might as well be me.

Something you know would bait Alexia in, you knew she couldn’t resist to comment. Not only has Alexia liked it, but she’s also commented.

@alexiaputellas: Bold statement. Hope you can back it up.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

@yourusername: I can and have, yet to see you do so

@alexiaputellas: You’ll see soon enough. Might have to invite you to a game personally.

You huffed a quiet laugh, staring at your screen. She’s bold today. It didn’t take long for your mentions to explode. Fans caught on immediately, flooding the comments with theories, reactions, and over-the-top ship names.

After a moment of thought, you tapped out a reply.

@yourusername: Got a ticket for me La Reina? 👀

@alexiaputellas: Front row or nothing. See you there. 😏

The internet lost it.

Your teammates lost it.

And you?

You just grinned, because for the first time, you felt in control. Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far she’d go. The comments explode. Fans are already losing their minds over the not-so-subtle invitation.

@yourusername: I’ll be there. Front row.

Your stomach does a slow, lazy flip. It’s a challenge. A promise. And for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, you’re not just thinking about basketball anymore. You're thinking about her. Your phone is practically vibrating from the attention. Your last comment—"I’ll be there. Front row."—has sent fans into a frenzy. The replies are a mix of shock, speculation, and sheer amusement.

-Did she just confirm she’s into Alexia?! -This is some next-level flirting. -Forget football, forget basketball, I’m here for this storyline.

"You are such a menace.” You heard soon as your bag dropped in your spot and your back sit felt the cool wood beneath it as you took a seat.

You glanced up from your phone to see your teammate, Jordan, shaking her head at you from across the locker room.

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Camila snorted. "Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing." She held up her phone, showing your exchange with Alexia on her screen. "This? This is elite-level flirting.”

A couple of your other teammates leaned in. "I give it two weeks before you two are spotted together."

"Two weeks? Please. By next week, she’ll be showing up to our games."

You just smirked. "That’s assuming she can handle the heat.” Another said

Jordan rolled her eyes. "You realise this means you have to go now, right? You can’t just flirt with the most famous footballer in Spain and then not show up."

You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll see how I feel."

Jordan shook her head. "You’re enjoying this way too much.” You didn’t even try to deny it.

"Let me get this straight," your coach said announcing her presence in the corner, arms crossed, a barely-contained smirk on her face. "You’re flirting with the most famous footballer in Spain… publicly?"

You rolled your eyes. "I wouldn’t say flirting—"

"Really?" The whole team cut in, in unison, Marta holding up their phone as evidence. "Because to me, ‘Front row or nothing. See you there.’ sounds a lot like flirting."

You had nothing to say to that.

Your coach just shook her head. "I’ve seen players distracted by a lot of things, but this might be my favourite."

Your teammates snickered from across the gym.

"She’s already in her head," Claudia teased. "We might as well start planning a double sports wedding."

"Oh, shut up," you muttered.

Your coach laughed. "Look, as long as you don’t start missing shots because of her, I don’t care what you do. But…" She paused, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just know that if she shows up to one of our games, I’m putting her in a jersey and making her run drills."

You grinned. "I’ll let her know."

🏀

Before I explore this idea more, would anyone actually want to read it?

Part 2

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

417 notes · View notes

mybombae · 7 months ago

Text

The Bombay Face Razor offers precision shaving for smooth, flawless skin. Ideal for removing facial hair with ease, it’s the go-to tool for a clean, polished look. #FaceRazor #SmoothSkin

#face razor bombay shaving company #bombay shaving company women #bombay face razor #bombay shaving company face razor #eyebrow trimmer

0 notes

ukrfeminism · 2 months ago

Text

Women in prison are resorting to self-harm because of “astonishing gaps” in basic services including strict time limits when contacting their children and bans from using washing machines for dirty underwear, according to a watchdog’s report.

A survey of women in prisons in England found that “the frustrations of day-to-day life” and a “lack of basic care” were driving many to hurt themselves.

Women offenders were struggling to keep in touch with loved ones with a third receiving no face to face visits at all, a report released by HM Inspector of Prisons said.

A “basic lack of decency” compounded these challenges, inspectors found. Women were given ill-fitting prison-issue men’s clothes, while “a bizarre rule” prevented them from laundering underwear in a washing machine.

Charlie Taylor, the chief inspector, said: “Disappointingly, this report highlights a lack of basic care to help women cope day by day which, for some, is then a cause of self-harm.”

There are more than 3,600 female prisoners in England, held in 12 prisons. More than half have children under the age of 18.

In three of the four prisons surveyed, about a third of the women were more than 50 miles from home and at one of the sites it was over half of women.

None of the prisons provided transport to and from nearby train or bus stations. Inspectors said that the prisoners’ families were often unable to afford expensive taxi fares to get to the prisons and often attended “short, inflexible” visit sessions.

Secure video calls were available at all four sites, but the women were often frustrated by a limit of one call a month.

“The calls were not being used creatively to support women, for example in enabling them to read a bedtime story to their child, or to facilitate attendance at parents’ evenings,” the report said.

It found 84% of women felt unable to cope at some point in prison, and that the needs of women in prison exceeded the capabilities of prison staff and their environment.

None of the prisons allowed women to wash their underwear in a washing machine and instead they had to wash it by hand in a small bowl in their cell, a policy not found in men’s prisons.

One offender told the inspectors: “I wash all my socks and underwear in the same bowl, but you only get one bowl and on a weekend, you get your razor. So, you got to do everything [referring to shaving, washing up and cleaning underwear] in that same bowl … its unhygienic.”

Another woman described arriving with only one pair of knickers. She was forced to hand wash them every night for months as no spare pairs were available, the report said.

Women, in particular those remanded into custody, often arrived with few belongings and relied on what the prison could provide.

In one prison there was no footwear available in sizes four to six, the most common sizes for women, the report continued.

“It was astonishing to find that most sites were not issuing prison clothing designed for women,” inspectors said.

Across women’s prisons, the self-harm rate is 5,785 incidents per 1,000 prisoners, which was more than eight times higher than in men’s prisons – 664 incidents per 1,000 prisoners.

In an interview with the Guardian last month, the prisons minister, Lord Timpson, said the government planned to reverse the increase in the number of women being sent to jail. Instead, hundreds of female offenders could be tagged and sent to addiction and rehabilitation centres, he said.

Shabana Mahmood, the justice secretary, said the report was “shocking” and “a wake-up call” for her department.

“We must do things differently which is why – as part of our Plan for Change to make our streets safer – we have launched a new women’s justice board to reduce the number of women in prison, and better support those who must still be imprisoned.”

268 notes · View notes

citrustan · 6 months ago

Text

dating girl (jjk)

pairing: jungkook x reader

summary: you try to convince yourself that you're really okay with 'casually dating' your crush.

genre: college au, fwb kinda thing but more than friends ygm? angst!

"Are they allowed to cancel an entire day at college? That can't be good for anyone..." Your mother ponders out loud as you walk around the city hand-in-hand.

"There's not much you can do if someone decides to paint over every projector lens on campus." You nod.

"Lucky for me, I get to spend time with my little baby," she nuzzles her nose into your hair, squeezing you in a side-hug, "Still can't believe we have to schedule our hangouts now."

"Yeah, there's that..." You smile half-heartedly.

You stop near a flower stall, taking in the hustle and bustle of the city. It's especially crowded because of your university abruptly cancelling a bunch of classes.

After your day had freed up unexpectedly, you had invited your sorta but not really boyfriend, Jungkook, to go cafe hopping to find where all the good teas are because you knew he'd be available. But he never responded.

So your mood has been a bit damp all day.

You had just stepped out of this store that sold handmade sweaters and yarn balls. Not even a good shopping spree could lift your spirits.

What certainly doesn't help is randomly seeing said sorta but not really boyfriend who didn't respond to your texts out and about with some leggy blonde girl.

You've never seen her around.

Not that you know every single person on campus, but if they've crossed Jungkook's path, you know them.

They're dining together al fresco, at one of the cafes you had literally listed in your text to Jungkook.

Talk about a slap in your face.

For a second, you think she might just be his sister or something.

But that thought bubble is quickly shot at with a razor-sharp arrow when you see him kiss her knuckles.

Your eyes involuntary darken, and your mouth forms a pout. The kind one has when they're trying to hold back a cry or a sob.

All the while, your mother had talked about your grandparents' separation, the local diner having caught fire, and matching mother and daughter shoes she had bought for your birthday.

You were listening passively so you didn't quite catch everything.

When your mother notices the look on your face, she frowns, following the line of your vision.

Upon spotting Jungkook and mystery girl, she gasps angrily, "Oh, no, he sucks." She turns back to you, "Honey, I'm so sorry."

"No, mom, this is normal," you smile weakly, "And it's okay."

"You're still seeing him, aren't you?" She tilted her head in confusion.

"Yes." You nod, "I am."

"But then he's there," she points at the pair with her chin, "seeing her. How's that okay?"

"It just is, mom! Really," you attempt to convince your mother (and yourself) that you were 100% fine with witnessing Jungkook out with other women. "We're keeping things casual. Very... casual."

"And that's a mutual decision?" She confirms.

"We both agreed." You concur.

Your mother's still unsure about your choices. "Well. Okay then."

You glance at Jungkook and mystery girl one last time.

The picture isn't pretty. He's leaning into her ear and has his large hand placed over her bare thigh as she caressed his arm with her much smaller hand, thoroughly enjoying his attention.

Your mother watches your expression go stiff, "So, how does this work again?"

Snapping you out of your daze, she pushes a few strands of hair away from your eyes.

"Oh. Um..." You exhale, "Well, we see each other and we see other people, and that's that. We're cas-" - "Yeah, casual, I heard." Your mother interrupts your blabber.

When you frown at her she sighs, "Sorry..."

"It's ok." You look down at your feet, kicking a few stray pebbles out of the way.

"I just--- I thought you guys were sleeping together." She blurts.

"Mom!" You exclaim, looking around to see if anyone had heard her, "It's not that big of a deal. I want this too. And I need to learn to date too."

Again, you try to ease your mind about your decision.

"So who else are you dating?" She asks pointedly.

This is suddenly getting very exhausting.

You lightly cringe and look around, "Uh... Nobody yet. But this guy from one of my extras--- his name's Hoseok but we call him Hobi, or Hoba, depending on how close you are to him--- anyway, he asked me out to a halloween theme party next week."

Your mother gives you a knowing look, deciding to play along anyway, "Oh! You've never mentioned him before."

"Mhm. Because it's new." You hunch your shoulders nervously.

The party was hosted by the student body to raise funds for, you don't know, collegiate stuff.

You had imagined going with Jungkook, with matching Dentist and Tooth Fairy couple costumes. But he hadn't asked you yet and you definitely weren't going to bring it up first.

It's less than a week away, so you're not expecting anything from him either. He probably already has another date lined up.

You wonder if it's the blonde he's with now.

Maybe you can do the look with Hoseok instead.

"So, are you gonna do it?"

"Do what?" Was she in your head?

"Go with Hobi or Hoba." She makes air quotations for 'Hobi or Hoba.'

"Oh, yeah. Yep. Definitely." Suddenly remembering, you add, "Oh and can you make me my costume? I want to be the Tooth Fairy?" You softly ask her, knowing it's a little last minute, but also knowing she wouldn't deny you.

"Why of course! Does... Hobi need a costume too?" She asks carefully.

"Oh, no. Probably not." Well, you don't know. You don't know if his offer even stands now and you might end up not going at all.

Your mother rubs your shoulder, "Ask him and let me know, 'kay?"

You force out an uncomfortable smile and nod, "Thanks."

Although your mother's not convinced, she decides to drop the topic all together.

"Well, that's good," she smiles down at you warmly, "Do you want to get that sweater exchanged?"

It was vague, but you appreciated her attempt either way.

"Mhm. Back to the store we go." You narrate with an airy laugh.

Your mother was in the lead, already making her way to the store you had just walked out of.

Once again, your gaze falls on Jungkook and his date, and to your surprise he was staring right back at you.

You want to give him a little smile. To show him you're unbothered. But you couldn't seem to force one out this time.

So you settle with giving him a small wave, which he returns, mirroring your expression.

His date follows his line of sight and spots you too, giving you a tight smile. It's not passive aggressive, just... decent. Not polite either. But why should she be?

Jungkook blinks at you as you hurriedly leave trying to keep up with your mother.

Maybe you should focus on Hoseok for now.

here's the next installment: dating girl (jjk) #2.1

note: nobody asked for this but i was feeling a little silly :p needed some angsty ouchie with the possibility of a favourable conclusion so i indulged!

hey bonus points if you can tell what inspired this! and if you read all this lmk what you think regardless :D

542 notes · View notes

fierceawakening · 9 months ago

Text

Please yell and scream about this transmisogyny with me because I’m about ready to punch my boss in the face.

So I work at a homeless shelter and there are various things people are not allowed to have with them as they might be used as weapons or for self harm. Razors are on this list.

So far so good, yeah?

One of my coworker’s clients is a trans woman, and thus grows more facial hair than most women. She came to my coworker saying, “I’m trans and I really need to shave or I don’t pass, may I have a razor?”

My colleague came up with the following compromise:

She brought a razor into the case management office, invited the client in, handed her the razor, supervised her as she shaved, then asked for the razor back, and kept it in a locked drawer for next time.

My colleague got in trouble for this, because not allowed means not allowed.

…I am incandescent with fury.

Even if that wasn’t safe enough, they should have worked with my coworker and her client to come up with something.

That was bullshit and I’m furious.

923 notes · View notes

w1w2 · 1 month ago

Text

A Game of Almosts

Part 2 - Three Words, Eight Letters

Karina x Fem!Reader feat. Winter

Word Count: ca. 8k

Synopsis: Amid the elite halls of Yonsei University, Y/N and Karina navigate a friendship laced with unspoken tension, lingering glances, and the weight of everything left unsaid. As their world of luxury and power shifts around them, Y/N begins to question whether waiting for Karina will ever be enough.

Req by 🐻 anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The sun hung high over the sprawling campus of Yonsei University, casting long shadows across its historic, ivy-clad buildings. This wasn’t just Korea’s top university, it was a symbol of power, a place where the children of billionaires, politicians, and entertainment moguls walked the same halls, each one groomed for greatness. Every corner of Yonsei whispered of old money, of dynasties built over decades, of futures already mapped out before students even set foot on campus.

To study here was an honor. To rule its social scene? That was a privilege granted to only a select few.

At the very top stood as everyone called them The Power Group.

Six women.

Y/N, Karina, Giselle, Ningning, Yeji, and Ryujin, who embodied wealth, influence, and an effortless magnetism that made them the undisputed elite. Their last names were printed on the glass towers of Gangnam, their families' businesses controlled entire industries, and their mere presence could elevate a casual gathering into an event worth talking about.

People watched them from a distance, careful not to stare too long, yet unable to look away. They were untouchable, unattainable, yet endlessly fascinating, a world of their own, one that everyone wanted to be a part of, but no one could reach.

At the center of it all was Y/N.

A girl whose smile had the power to melt even the coldest hearts. She was the embodiment of sunshine, effortlessly charming, perpetually warm, and with an energy so infectious that people found themselves drawn to her before they even realized it. With a heart-shaped face and expressive eyes that sparkled with mischief, she had a beauty that felt both delicate and undeniable. Though she exuded an air of playful confidence, there was a sincerity in her laughter, a softness in the way she carried herself that made her impossible to resist.

Where Y/N was light, Karina was ice.

Karina was the epitome of poise and control, a woman who carried herself with an effortless grace that made her seem almost untouchable. With a strikingly symmetrical face, sharp eyes, and a tall, elegant frame, she had the kind of beauty that felt almost unreal, like something sculpted rather than born. She was intelligent, meticulous, and always composed, a perfectionist raised in the world of corporate dynasties where power was a game of patience and precision.

On the surface, Karina was cool and calculating, her emotions kept under tight lock and key. But those who truly knew her, an exclusive, almost nonexistent list, understood that beneath the icy exterior was something far more complex. There was a quiet protectiveness in the way she handled the people she cared about, a depth to her loyalty that she would never admit aloud.

Yet, even among their circle, Karina remained an enigma, a woman who could command attention with a single glance yet remained just out of reach, her true feelings buried beneath carefully crafted indifference.

The rest of the Power Group played their roles seamlessly, each one an essential piece of the empire they had built. They weren’t just a group of wealthy, beautiful women. They were a force, a dynasty in their own right, each member carrying a presence so distinct yet perfectly in sync with the others.

Giselle, the sharp-tongued genius, was the strategist of the group. With a razor-sharp wit and an uncanny ability to read people, she knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Her words could be a weapon or a lifeline, depending on how she chose to wield them. Effortlessly cool and disarmingly intelligent, Giselle never had to try too hard, she was the kind of person who naturally drew people in, even as she kept them at arm’s length. Her family’s influence in global finance had given her a mind trained for power, and though she often wore a laid-back smirk, everyone knew better than to underestimate her.

Ningning was the wildcard, the unpredictable one, the kind of girl who could go from laughing over expensive champagne to stirring up trouble in the blink of an eye. She was as bold as she was stunning, her confidence carrying an almost reckless charm that made her impossible to ignore. She thrived on chaos, on pushing boundaries, on keeping things exciting. With a devil-may-care attitude and a mischievous glint in her eye, Ningning kept even the most composed members of the group on their toes, never letting anything get too serious for too long. But behind that playful exterior was a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, she was no fool, and she never played a game she couldn’t win.

Yeji and Ryujin were a force of their own, a duo that balanced sharp wit with sheer intimidation. Yeji, the composed and calculating one, had an air of quiet authority that demanded respect without ever needing to ask for it. She was the group’s silent observer, the one who saw everything, always three steps ahead in any situation. Where Yeji was refined and strategic, Ryujin was bold and commanding, carrying herself with an effortless confidence that made people hesitate before daring to cross her. Together, they were an unshakable presence, whether through influence, intelligence, or sheer dominance, they knew how to make people fall in line without needing to lift a finger.

Together, the six of them weren’t just a friend group, they were an empire, an unspoken hierarchy that the rest of Yonsei University unconsciously bowed to. They didn’t need to declare their power. It was simply understood.

Though the Power Group was impenetrable, an undeniable shift occurred when it came to Y/N and Karina.

Their connection ran deeper than the others’, woven into the very foundation of their lives. They had grown up together, their names tied to each other since childhood, their families intertwined through business and legacy. To the outside world, they were simply best friends, a natural pairing, two daughters of conglomerates who had known each other longer than they had known themselves.

But there was something more.

Something lingering in the way Karina’s gaze would hold onto Y/N just a second too long, her normally unreadable expression softening, as if caught in a moment she didn’t want to admit to. Something in the way Y/N’s teasing carried an edge, her playful words laced with a challenge, as if daring Karina to acknowledge what they both pretended wasn’t there.

Their interactions were effortless yet loaded, a shoulder brush that sent shivers, a shared look across a crowded room that spoke volumes, a casual touch that lasted a second too long. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a connection so deep it blurred the lines between what was friendship and what was something else entirely.

And yet, they denied it.

To the public, Y/N and Karina were just two childhood friends, inseparable but strictly platonic. Their names were often thrown together in whispered gossip, speculation running wild about whether they were more than what they claimed to be. But Karina dismissed the rumors with a flick of her wrist, a smirk tugging at her lips as if the idea itself was ridiculous. She was practiced in avoidance, in brushing things off, in controlling every narrative that threatened to slip out of her grasp.

Y/N, on the other hand, never confirmed nor denied anything. She simply laughed. A knowing, teasing kind of laugh, the kind that gave people nothing yet made them wonder even more. If someone asked, she’d raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips, as if amused by the question itself.

But their friends saw the truth, hidden in the stolen moments, in the tension thick enough to suffocate.

They saw it in the way Karina’s fingers would tighten around Y/N’s wrist whenever she tried to walk away, her grip just firm enough to hold her there, just gentle enough to pretend it wasn’t out of desperation.

They saw it in the way Y/N’s mood would shift depending on Karina’s presence, how she could be laughing one second, but the moment Karina entered the room, everything else faded into the background. Her eyes would instinctively find her, drawn to her like gravity.

They saw it in the way Karina’s face would soften, how the ice that usually shielded her from the world would melt away whenever she looked at Y/N, when she thought no one else was watching.

It was a game they had played for years, balancing on the line between too much and not enough, pretending that the tension wasn’t suffocating.

A push and pull, a cycle of longing and denial. A storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Long before they were Karina and Y/N, before their names became the subject of whispered gossip and admiration, they were simply Jimin and Y/N, two children born into privilege, yet seeking something only the other could provide.

Their friendship had been written in stone before they were even old enough to understand it. Their parents, both titans of industry, had long moved in the same circles, their empires intertwined through business, influence, and unspoken alliances. From the moment they were born, their lives had been parallel, two heirs growing up in the same opulent spaces, expected to walk the same gilded path.

Their earliest memories were of summer afternoons spent running through the vast estate of the Yu family, their laughter bouncing off the grand marble walls of Karina’s childhood home. The estate itself was something out of a dream, endless gardens stretching toward the horizon, a private lake reflecting the golden hues of the sky, corridors so vast that their younger selves could get lost in them for hours.

Y/N remembered the feeling of Karina’s small hand gripping hers, leading her down secret hallways, through hidden doors, into spaces only they knew. She remembered midnight escapades, the two of them sneaking out of bed, tiptoeing past their parents’ grand dinner parties, muffling their giggles as they stole sweets from the lavish dessert trays before making their escape into the gardens.

And then there were the quiet moments, the ones that stayed with Y/N the most.

Late nights spent whispering beneath silk sheets, Karina’s voice hushed but full of curiosity as they spoke about the future, about what they would become, about whether they would always be together like this. The warmth of Karina’s head resting against her shoulder, the steady rhythm of her breath as sleep slowly took her away. The way Karina’s eyes, so guarded in front of others, would soften in the dim glow of their shared childhood, revealing something fragile, something real.

Jimin.

That was what Y/N called her back then. The name only Y/N was allowed to use, a privilege she had never taken lightly. No one else, not their parents, not their friends, not the world that worshiped Karina, would ever be allowed to utter that name the way Y/N did, like a secret, like a promise.

Even as children, Y/N knew.

She knew that what she felt for Karina was different. It wasn’t just friendship, wasn’t just the deep-rooted bond of two girls who had grown up as sisters in all but blood. It was something bigger, something unspoken, something that made her chest feel too tight whenever Karina pulled away, something that made her crave the moments when Karina’s walls would crack just enough for Y/N to slip through.

But Karina? Karina had always been careful.

Even as a child, she was cautious, measured, never allowing herself to feel too much, never letting anything slip beyond what she could control. She cared for Y/N, that much was obvious, but even back then, Y/N could sense Karina’s hesitance. The way she would let herself get close, but never too close. The way she would reach for Y/N, but never hold on for too long.

It had been that way ever since.

And no matter how much Y/N wanted to believe otherwise, some things never changed.

The shift came on a night that should have been just like any other.

They were alone in Y/N’s dorm, the warmth of the room wrapping around them like a fragile cocoon. The city lights outside flickered through the tall windows, casting soft, golden shadows along the walls, making the space feel more intimate than it was. The faint hum of traffic from the streets below filled the silence between them, a distant reminder that the world outside still existed, even if, in this moment, it felt like it had faded away.

They had been drinking champagne stolen from an exclusive event earlier that evening, its expensive bubbles still fizzing in the half-empty glasses on the coffee table. Neither of them had really been trying to get drunk, but there was something about the stolen luxury, the quiet rebellion of it, that had made it taste sweeter. Y/N sat with her legs folded beneath her, her head resting against the back of the couch, while Karina lounged beside her, legs stretched out, fingers absentmindedly twirling the stem of her glass.

There was a stillness to the moment, a rare kind of quiet comfort that neither of them ever spoke about but always cherished. Karina looked different like this, softer, more open, the usual tension in her shoulders gone. The dim lighting smoothed out the sharp edges of her face, made her seem almost fragile, almost reachable.

It was in moments like this that Y/N let herself wonder.

Wonder what it would be like if Karina let herself want this, want her. If she would ever stop hiding behind carefully measured glances and playful denials. If there would ever be a day when Y/N didn’t have to guess, didn’t have to settle for almost.

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the exhaustion of pretending.

But this time, she reached for her.

Her fingers brushed against Karina’s wrist, a slow, deliberate touch that trailed upward until she could feel the warmth of Karina’s pulse beneath her fingertips. A quiet inhale, barely audible over the space between them. Karina didn’t move, she didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either. Her stillness spoke louder than words.

Y/N exhaled softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You know,” she murmured, her fingers still resting against Karina’s skin, “sometimes I think about what it would be like if we didn’t have to pretend.”

She felt it then, the slightest tremor in Karina’s wrist, the way her pulse jumped under Y/N’s touch. For a second, just a second, it felt like the whole world had stopped breathing.

Karina’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.

She just stared.

And then, as if snapping back into herself, she laughed.

A quiet, airy sound that should have been lighthearted, but felt like a wall being rebuilt in real time. It was carefully crafted, forced in a way that made Y/N’s stomach twist.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Karina said, shaking her head as if Y/N had suggested something as absurd as moving to Mars. Her tone was easy, playful, the same way it always was when she was dismissing something that mattered. “We’re just… us.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

The air between them, once charged with something fragile and electric, turned cold.

Y/N let her hand fall away, curling her fingers into her lap as if trying to erase the touch entirely. She forced a grin, mirroring Karina’s effortless amusement, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending it didn’t feel like she had just been made a fool of.

But something inside her cracked, something small, but significant.

Because in that instant, she realized that as long as Karina refused to acknowledge what was between them, as long as she kept pretending it wasn’t real, Y/N would always be the one left feeling foolish.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure if being "just us" was enough anymore.

Y/N didn’t bring up that night again.

She didn’t reach for Karina’s hand, didn’t press for answers, didn’t let herself fall into that same cycle of almosts and what ifs. Instead, she let Karina’s laugh echo in the back of her mind, let it settle like a dull ache in her chest, and convinced herself that this, whatever this was, would never change.

Maybe Karina thought Y/N had accepted it. Maybe she thought Y/N would always be there, waiting, willing to play along with the silent, unspoken push and pull they had fallen into over the years.

But if Karina thought Y/N would stay in this emotional limbo forever, she was wrong.

Because it wasn’t just that one moment in the dorm. It was every moment after it.

The way Karina still acted like she always did, possessive, territorial, constantly hovering, but never in a way that meant something real. She was always there, standing too close, fingers ghosting over Y/N’s wrist, whispering things that made Y/N’s heart stutter, but the moment anyone else acknowledged it? The moment Y/N wanted more?

Karina erased it.

She would lean in but never stay, touch but never hold, watch but never claim. Always there, but never enough.

And Y/N was tired of it.

She was tired of being treated like something Karina couldn’t let go of, but couldn’t keep, either. Tired of the stolen moments, the fleeting touches, the way Karina’s eyes would soften when no one was looking, only for her to turn cold the moment anyone else noticed.

And then came the final push.

It was an extravagant evening, one of those dinners that only the richest, most powerful students at Yonsei could attend. The restaurant was luxurious, private, their usual crowd filling the most exclusive table in the room. The air hummed with quiet conversations, laughter spilling over the rim of expensive wine glasses, servers moving like shadows between tables, ensuring that every need was met before it was even voiced.

As always, the Power Group sat in their usual formation, Giselle effortlessly charming the room, Ningning and Ryujin caught up in some playful argument, Yeji sitting back with that knowing smirk of hers. And, of course, Karina beside Y/N, like always.

The conversation had drifted to them.

To Y/N and Karina. To the way people always seemed to watch them a little too closely, to the way they moved around each other, to the rumors that never seemed to die no matter how many times they denied them.

Y/N wasn’t paying attention at first.

She was too distracted by Karina’s fingers, idly toying with the stem of her wine glass, her nails tapping lightly against the delicate crystal. Too caught up in the way Karina’s knee brushed against hers under the table, just the faintest touch, one that she could have pulled away from but didn’t.

But then she heard it.

“You and Y/N are basically a couple, right?”

It was said so casually, so teasingly, that it shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Because for the briefest second, Y/N let herself hope.

She let herself believe, just this once, that maybe, just maybe, Karina wouldn’t dismiss it this time. That maybe, this time, Karina would acknowledge it. That maybe, for once, Karina would meet her halfway.

Instead, Karina barely reacted.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, her lips curving into an amused smirk as if the mere thought of it was laughable.

“Don’t be stupid.” Her voice was light, dismissive, so easy. “She’s just my best friend.”

Best friend.

Y/N felt the words like a physical thing. A cold, sharp knife to the gut.

The room didn’t change. People kept talking, the music still played softly in the background, waiters continued pouring wine. Everything remained exactly the same, except for the way Y/N’s world tilted slightly, just enough to make her feel like she was falling.

She should have been used to this by now, Karina’s refusal, Karina’s indifference when it mattered, Karina’s ability to shut down every possibility of them with a single sentence.

But tonight, it felt different.

Tonight, it felt like a slap in the face.

Because tonight, Y/N was done pretending that it didn’t hurt.

She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe through the sting, to hold herself together, to smile like it didn’t matter.

And then, without a word, she pushed her chair back, excused herself, and stepped outside.

The cool night air hit her instantly, sharp against the heat still clinging to her skin. She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands against the railing of the balcony, staring out at the cityscape below. Seoul stretched out before her, bright, endless, indifferent.

She waited. Some foolish part of her still believed Karina would come after her.

But Karina didn’t. She never did.

The next morning, Y/N made a decision.

She wasn’t ready to cut Karina out of her life completely. Maybe she never would be. There was something about Karina, something in the way her presence felt like home and destruction all at once, that made the idea of walking away seem impossible.

How could she sever something that had been a part of her for so long? How could she erase years of intertwined memories, of laughter shared under childhood blankets, of whispered secrets, of lingering touches that never quite meant enough?

No, she wasn’t ready for that, but she was ready for something else.

She was ready to stop waiting.

Waiting for Karina to change, to wake up one day and finally realize that Y/N had been there all along, standing at the edge of her world, waiting to be let in. Waiting for Karina to want her back, to stop treating her like a secret too fragile to acknowledge in the light of day. Waiting for Karina to choose her, to finally say the words Y/N had spent years aching to hear.

But Karina wouldn’t. She never had and deep down, Y/N was starting to wonder if she ever would.

So when she walked into her economics lecture next morning, shoulders still heavy with the weight of last night’s rejection, she didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary, just another dull class, another assignment that barely held her interest, another hour spent trying to convince herself that she wasn’t thinking about Karina.

She barely paid attention as the professor droned on about their upcoming group project, listing off student pairings with the kind of monotonous tone that made the words blur together. Y/N let her eyes drift, staring absently out the window, watching the way the early morning light cast golden reflections over the rooftops of Seoul, painting the city in soft, muted hues.

And then she heard it.

Her name.

Snapping back to attention, she sat up a little straighter, blinking as her professor continued.

And then he said another name.

Kim Minjeong, known as Winter.

The name rang out through the lecture hall, crisp and clear, cutting through the haze in Y/N’s mind. She blinked again, tilting her head slightly, as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

She knew the name. Everyone at Yonsei University knew the name and for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N felt something other than heartbreak. It wasn’t a grand revelation, it wasn’t an immediate, earth-shattering moment of clarity. It was something smaller, something quieter, but something real.

Maybe relief. Maybe curiosity. Maybe fate nudging her in the right direction.

Whatever it was, she took it as a sign. Winter was different.

Where Karina was sharp edges and suffocating tension, an endless cycle of push and pull that left Y/N feeling strung along, dizzy, and uncertain, Winter was easy, like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.

She didn’t smother. She didn’t confuse. She didn’t make Y/N feel like she was standing on unsteady ground, teetering between hope and heartbreak, waiting for something that would never come.

Winter was steady, a quiet presence that carried weight without ever demanding it. She wasn’t cold, not exactly, but there was a kind of measured detachment to the way she moved through the world, as if nothing could rattle her, as if she had long ago learned how to exist without needing the validation of anyone else. People noticed her, but not because she sought their attention, she simply had a presence that made it impossible to look away.

Y/N had seen her before, of course. Everyone in Yonsei knew Winter.

She was a music major, but she didn’t fit the stereotype of an eccentric artist, the kind who wore their emotions on their sleeve, who poured every thought and feeling into the world without restraint. No, Winter was the opposite of that. She was contained, unreadable, effortlessly charismatic yet somehow distant, like she existed on an entirely different wavelength from the rest of them.

People whispered about her.

Rumors surrounded her like an aura of mystery, but Winter never entertained them.

They said her family was old money, deeply entrenched in Korea’s entertainment industry, controlling the very foundations of pop culture itself. They said her parents had already mapped out her future for her, had crafted a carefully constructed path for her to follow, one that led straight to the boardrooms of an empire she didn’t want to inherit.

Winter was supposed to be next in line.

She was supposed to be sitting in business meetings instead of lecture halls, supposed to be preparing to take over one of the country’s largest entertainment conglomerates. But instead, she spent her time in soundproofed studios, fingers dancing over piano keys, lost in the kind of passion that had nothing to do with profit margins or market trends.

And yet, here she was.

Forced to take economics, forced to sit through courses that held no meaning to her, forced to solve equations for a future she didn’t want. Y/N could relate to that.

Maybe that was why, when they sat next to each other for the first time, when Y/N turned to her, hesitated for a split second before offering a small, uncertain smile, Winter simply raised an eyebrow, smirked, and said, “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

There was something so effortless about it, something light, something freeing in a way that Y/N hadn’t felt in a long time.

And just like that, Y/N felt the first piece of herself begin to realign.

Their first meeting outside of class took place at a quiet coffee shop nestled between the bustling streets of Sinchon, a small, tucked away place that smelled of freshly ground espresso and warm vanilla. It was the kind of café that only locals knew about, a haven away from the crowded student-packed chains near Yonsei’s campus, somewhere discreet, somewhere safe from wandering eyes and unnecessary attention.

When Y/N stepped inside, the soft hum of music playing through the speakers mixed with the occasional clinking of porcelain cups, the atmosphere calm, intimate, undisturbed. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind of emotions she had been drowning in for the past few days, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to exhale.

Her eyes instinctively scanned the room, and there she was.

She was already seated in a corner booth by the window, bathed in soft afternoon light, her fingers idly twirling a pen between them. In front of her lay an open notebook, pages slightly curled at the edges, an untouched latte sitting beside it, the foam still perfectly intact. She looked effortless, like she had been there for hours, like she belonged in a painting, a quiet scene frozen in time, detached from the world rushing outside.

Y/N approached the table, sliding into the seat across from her.

Winter barely glanced up before speaking, her voice smooth, laced with the slightest hint of amusement. “You’re late.”

Y/N blinked, glancing at her phone. “I’m five minutes early.”

Winter smirked, finally looking at her fully, dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Exactly. I’ve been here for ten.”

For a moment, Y/N just stared at her.

And then, before she could stop herself, she laughed.

It was a small thing, nothing extravagant, nothing loud, but it felt like the first real breath she had taken in days. Some of the tension in her shoulders, the weight pressing against her ribs since that disastrous dinner, began to ease. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

They started with economics, diving into topics that Y/N had expected to be mind-numbingly dull, supply and demand, market failures, the intricacies of elasticity. But Winter made it bearable.

She had a way of twisting even the most boring concepts into something absurdly funny, throwing in sarcastic remarks and offhanded analogies that made Y/N laugh more than she actually took notes. At one point, Winter compared monopolistic competition to a high school popularity contest “You think you’re special, but at the end of the day, you’re still competing with five other people for the same spot” and Y/N had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from laughing too loudly.

For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t overanalyzing every interaction, wasn’t waiting for something to shift beneath her feet. It was easy.

Then, somewhere between discussing oligopolies and price discrimination, Y/N noticed something.

Winter wasn’t paying attention. Not entirely, at least.

Because while Y/N had been scribbling notes in her textbook, Winter had been doodling in the margins of her own notebook, her neat handwriting fading into tiny musical notes, unfinished lyrics scattered between economic formulas.

Y/N tilted her head, watching the way Winter’s pen tapped absently against the paper, as if she were lost in another world entirely.

“You really don’t want to be here, huh?” Y/N mused, a teasing edge to her voice.

Winter let out a slow sigh, leaning back in her chair. “What gave it away?”

Y/N grinned. “The fact that you just spent the last ten minutes composing a song about opportunity cost.”

At that, Winter let out a quiet chuckle, tapping her pen rhythmically against the table. “It’s not a bad song, actually.”

Y/N raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it, then.”

Winter didn’t hesitate.

She merely smirked, her eyes meeting Y/N’s, holding her gaze for just a moment too long.

And then, she hummed.

It was soft at first, almost absentminded, a simple melody that rolled off her lips effortlessly, like it had been waiting to be sung. It was unpolished, wordless, but there was something about it, something delicate yet captivating, something that made the air between them feel just a little heavier.

Y/N froze.

Because for a second, just a second, she forgot.

Forgot about Karina, forgot about the ache in her chest, the lingering sting of being dismissed, forgot about every moment she had spent waiting for something that would never come.

In that instant, there was only this.

Only the girl in front of her, singing about opportunity cost like it was poetry.

Maybe this was what she needed. Not romance, not another emotional gamble that left her questioning her worth, not someone who would make her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.

Just someone steady, someone safe, someone who didn’t leave her drowning in uncertainty.

It wasn’t romantic. Not yet, but for now, it was enough.

Karina noticed immediately. She didn’t say anything, not at first. Not with words, anyway.

But Y/N felt it.

She felt it in the shift of the air whenever Karina entered a room, the way her presence became sharper, heavier, like a storm pressing against the edges of something fragile. She felt it in the way Karina’s eyes lingered too long, her stares colder, more calculating, filled with something unspoken, something dangerously close to unraveling.

Karina had always been collected, untouchable, unreadable, moving through life with an effortless grace that made it seem as though nothing could shake her. But now? Now, she was fraying at the edges.

It started small.

An irritated sigh when Y/N excused herself from their usual lunch table a little too quickly, claiming she had to finish up work on her project. A tension in Karina’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before, the way she tapped her fingers against her thigh in agitation whenever Y/N laughed at her phone a little too much. The sharp, clipped tone in her voice when she asked, almost too casually, "Who are you texting?"

At first, the others chalked it up to stress.

Midterms were approaching. Business meetings with her family’s company had been piling up, leaving Karina with even more weight on her already burdened shoulders. It was easy to assume she was simply dealing with pressure, after all, she was Karina Yu, the girl who carried expectations like armor.

But then it became clear.

Because the moment Winter’s name came up? Karina tensed, she would grip her pen too hard, look away too quickly, straighten her posture like she was bracing for impact.

The moment Y/N laughed a little too much at her phone, answered a text too eagerly, made an excuse to leave a conversation early? Karina would go silent.

Her expression wouldn’t change, not noticeably, at least, but there was a shift, a quiet yet undeniable pull in the air around her. Her jaw would tighten ever so slightly, her fingers curling against the table as if she were trying to suppress something before it could escape. She would press her lips together and pretend she didn’t care.

But everyone knew, because Karina was unraveling.

And one night, she broke.

They were at Karina’s apartment, the usual post-dinner hangout spot for their group. The others had already left, retreating back to their own lives, their own worlds, leaving behind only half-empty wine glasses and the distant hum of city lights filtering through the floor to ceiling windows.

Giselle had stayed behind.

She stood in the kitchen, casually leaning against the cool marble counter, watching as Karina sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the untouched drink in front of her. She wasn’t drinking, she wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there, still as a statue, her thoughts tangled in something Giselle could already guess.

It had been a week of this. A week of Karina shifting between moods, of her icy exterior cracking, of her usual composure faltering just enough for those closest to her to see the storm underneath.

And Giselle, ever the observer, had finally had enough.

"You’re jealous."

Karina’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing instantly. "What?"

Giselle sighed, setting her glass down with an exasperated clink. She tilted her head, studying Karina like she was a puzzle missing just one crucial piece.

"You’re jealous of Winter."

For a split second, Karina didn’t react.

And then, a scoff. A small, humorless laugh, low and empty, as if the very idea was so ridiculous it wasn’t even worth entertaining.

"That’s ridiculous."

But Giselle wasn’t buying it.

She pushed off the counter, stepping forward, voice lowering slightly. "No, what’s ridiculous is how you’re acting."

Karina’s fingers curled into her palm, knuckles white against her skin.

"You’re shutting down," Giselle continued, crossing her arms. "You’re lashing out at people who don’t deserve it. You’re sitting here sulking instead of actually doing something about it." She arched an eyebrow. "It’s pathetic."

Karina scoffed again, shaking her head. "Y/N can be friends with whoever she wants."

"Friends?" Giselle let out a dry laugh, sharp and knowing. She took another step forward, pressing just enough to make Karina flinch ever so slightly.

"Yeah, sure. Because that’s all you two have ever been, right?"

Silence.

A silence so heavy it felt like it crushed the space between them.

Giselle leaned in, voice dropping to something almost gentle, though the weight of it was anything but. "She’s slipping away from you."

Karina’s jaw clenched. Her nails dug into her palm, pressing deep enough to sting.

She knew. She knew Y/N was pulling away, knew she was tired of waiting, tired of being led in circles, tired of holding onto something that Karina refused to define.

She knew, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to stop her, because if she admitted it, if she said the words out loud, then there would be no more hiding. No more pretending that Y/N wasn’t the only person who had ever made her feel like this, no more pretending that she didn’t want her, no more pretending that she hadn’t already fallen, long before she ever realized it.

And that terrified her.

Giselle exhaled, shaking her head, her voice turning softer, not out of pity, but something else. Something almost sad.

"If you’re not going to do anything about it, then let her go."

Another silence, another wound left open.

Karina didn’t answer, because the truth was, she wasn’t ready to let Y/N go. She just didn’t know if she was ready to fight for her, either.

Karina had spent years perfecting the art of control.

She had been raised to master it, to curate her image with precision, to hold her emotions under lock and key, to never let the world glimpse anything that could be used against her. She was composed, poised, untouchable. She dictated her own narrative, never allowing anyone to see her falter.

Her emotions did not rule her, she ruled them. At least, that had always been the case.

Until now, until Y/N and Winter.

She wasn’t sure when it started, when the cracks first appeared, when the tight grip she had on herself began to slip. She wasn’t sure when watching Y/N with someone else became unbearable, when the sight of Winter standing too close, speaking too softly, looking at Y/N like she was something to be treasured, started making her stomach twist in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. She wasn’t sure when she started feeling like this.

All she knew was that the first time she saw them together, really saw them, outside of class, it hit her like a slap to the face.

It was in the campus café, a place where she and the rest of the Power Group often lingered between lectures, occupying the best seats by the windows, their presence effortlessly commanding the space. They owned it in ways no one questioned, moving through it like it was simply another extension of their world.

Karina hadn’t meant to notice them.

She hadn’t been looking for Y/N, hadn’t been seeking her out, hadn’t been scanning the room like she always did or so she told herself.

But then she heard it.

Y/N’s laughter.

Not the polite kind, not the forced chuckle she used in social settings when she wanted to appear engaged, not the half-hearted giggle she offered in conversations she wasn’t actually interested in. But the real kind.

The kind that started soft before bubbling over, filling the air with something light, effortless, genuine. The kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, made dimples appear on her cheeks, made everyone around her feel like they were in on some private joke. The kind of laughter that Karina used to think belonged only to her.

Her fingers froze around her coffee cup, grip tightening just slightly as she turned her head, too quickly, too sharply, as if drawn by something involuntary, instinctual.

And there they were. Y/N and Winter.

Sitting together in a booth by the far window, away from the usual noise of the café, caught in a moment that shouldn’t have felt as intimate as it did.

Karina’s gaze locked onto them, drinking in the details before she could stop herself. Y/N, leaning forward slightly, her fingers brushing against Winter’s wrist as she grinned, Winter, smirking, eyes steady on Y/N, gaze unwavering, as if she were studying her, memorizing her.

Something hot, sharp, unfamiliar coiled deep in Karina’s chest.

Winter was looking at Y/N like she wanted her. Like she knew something no one else did, like she had already figured out what Karina had spent years running from.

Karina’s stomach twisted violently.

It was too much.

Before she even registered the movement, her body was already reacting, a sharp exhale, her hands gripping the table as she pushed back her chair a little too hard.

The sudden scrape of wood against tile was loud, cutting through the comfortable hum of conversation.

Too loud.

People turned. Her friends turned. Y/N turned and Karina didn’t meet her gaze.

She didn’t look at anyone, didn’t bother to smooth over the moment with an easy smile or an excuse, didn’t try to mask the fact that something was very, very wrong.

She just grabbed her bag, turned sharply on her heel, and walked out.

Not waiting, not explaining, not acknowledging the fact that she had never run from anything in her life.

Until now.

“Karina?” Ningning called after her, blinking in confusion. “Where are you going?”

Karina didn’t answer.

She didn’t stop, she didn’t even know where she was going. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay here. Because if she stayed, if she kept watching, if she let herself sit there for even a second longer, she would have to admit… She would have to admit what this really was.

The next time they saw each other was at Giselle’s apartment, an informal gathering meant to finalize the details of an upcoming event, something routine, something familiar, the kind of thing they had done so many times before that it should have felt effortless. It should have been just another evening spent in the comfortable presence of their closest friends, a seamless continuation of the rhythm they had all fallen into over the years, where conversations flowed easily, laughter came naturally, and unspoken tensions were carefully avoided.

But tonight, nothing felt easy.

Karina sat stiffly in her seat, her posture rigid, her fingers curled against the fabric of her pants as if she were physically restraining herself from reacting, from speaking, from looking at Y/N for too long. There was a restless energy simmering beneath her skin, an irritability she couldn’t shake, an ache she didn’t want to name.

She had spent the entire day trying to push down the lingering unease that had taken root in her chest, trying to convince herself that the image of Y/N and Winter laughing together at the café wasn’t burned into her mind, replaying itself over and over like a cruel reminder of everything she refused to acknowledge.

And yet, despite her best efforts, it followed her here.

It pressed against her ribs every time Y/N spoke, making her jaw tense involuntarily, the sound of her voice feeling too familiar, too distant all at once. It crawled up her spine whenever Y/N’s phone vibrated, whenever she glanced down at it with a small, knowing smile, fingers typing out a response that Karina knew was meant for Winter. It clawed at her patience every time Y/N reacted to something in the room that had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with them, and yet somehow still felt like a personal slight, like proof that Y/N had already begun to slip away, piece by piece, step by step.

She wasn’t sure why she thought this would be any different. She wasn’t sure why she had expected to sit across from Y/N tonight, in the same space they had always occupied, and not feel the weight of her absence in a way that felt devastatingly personal. She wasn’t sure why she thought she could handle this.

But then, Y/N said something, something lighthearted, something innocent, something that should have barely registered in Karina’s mind.

It was probably a joke. A passing comment.

Any other day, Karina would have laughed. Any other day, she would have let it slide, smirked, teased Y/N back, turned the moment into something fleeting and forgettable.

But tonight, her control snapped.

Her voice came out harsher than she intended, sharper, laced with something bitter and possessive, something she didn’t even fully understand herself.

“Well, maybe if you spent more time focusing on this instead of… other things, we’d actually get somewhere.”

Silence fell over the room in an instant, heavy and suffocating, the energy shifting so suddenly that it felt as though the walls themselves had shrunk, trapping them in the thick weight of unsaid things.

Y/N’s laughter, which had been so effortless just moments ago, vanished.

For the briefest of moments, she just stared at Karina, a flicker of surprise flashing through her eyes before something else took its place, something colder, something Karina had never been on the receiving end of before.

And then, Y/N let out a short, humorless laugh.

Slowly, she placed her phone down, fingers deliberate, controlled, as if she were holding herself back from doing something she might regret.

“Other things?” she repeated, her voice deceptively light, though the sharp edge in her tone was impossible to miss.

Karina shrugged, as if she wasn’t bothered, as if she wasn’t feeling the painful clench of something deep in her chest, something dangerously close to unraveling.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, gaze locking onto Karina’s, the space between them charged with something volatile, something that had been building for far too long.

“Say what you actually mean, Jimin.”

The air between them felt like a live wire, buzzing, waiting for one of them to ignite it.

Karina refused to look away.

She wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness or fear that kept her frozen, refusing to flinch, refusing to admit to the emotion clawing at her throat.

But then, Y/N scoffed. She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest, exhaling slowly, like she had just come to some final, quiet realization.

“That’s what I thought.”

The tension in the room grew unbearable.

From the corner of her vision, Karina could see Ningning shifting uncomfortably, glancing between them with wide eyes, sensing the shift in the air. Yeji pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose, exchanging a look with Ryujin, like they had been waiting for this to happen. Giselle, ever the silent observer, sat back against the couch, watching, waiting, as if she knew that whatever was happening between them was long overdue.

But Y/N wasn’t finished. Not yet.

She tilted her chin up slightly, her expression unreadable, though Karina could feel the underlying challenge in her gaze, the way she was silently daring her to speak, to do something, to admit something.

“You don’t get to do this.”

The words cut deeper than Karina expected, slicing through something she had spent years fortifying.

She already knew what Y/N meant.

You don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to be angry, you don’t get to act like you have a right to me when you refuse to claim me.

Karina’s expression remained carefully blank, but Y/N saw right through her.

She always did.

Then, Y/N spoke again, delivering the final blow, the one that hit Karina harder than anything else. “You want control, but you don’t want commitment.”

The words lodged themselves into Karina’s chest, burned beneath her skin, left behind something raw and unspoken.

Before she could stop herself, before she could regain her composure, before she could reinforce the walls that had been cracking all night, she flinched.

It was so quick, so slight, that no one noticed.

No one except Y/N.

For just a second, just a fleeting, painful second, her expression softened, but just as quickly, it was gone.

She inhaled deeply, as if grounding herself, as if settling into something she had already accepted long before this moment.

She stood up.There was no hesitation, no second glance, no waiting for Karina to stop her. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and turned toward the door and before anyone could react, before Karina could swallow her pride long enough to speak, before she could piece together the right words to fix what she had just shattered.

Y/N walked out.

And Karina?

She didn’t go after her. She never did.

#girl group imagines #kpop imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa karina x reader #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #aespa karina

243 notes · View notes

jazziejax · 1 month ago

Text

𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Terry Richmond x Black!OC, David Cliff x Black!OC, Jim Beckwourth x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - Things take a turn for the worst when the Nat Love hangs rolls into Sugar Cane Creek, just to discover that things ain’t as sweet as they seem.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - blood, shooting, screaming, cursing, flirting, references to weight, late 1800’s….women in pants, cowboys. Let me know if I missed anything!

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - ….I don’t have to explain myself to your, this was purely self indulgent and yall don’t like RJ Cyler enough for me anyways 🙄 UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 10,187+

Sugar Cane Creek stood out against the dark wilderness surrounding it, its colorful buildings painted in deep blues, warm yellows, and rich reds, a stark contrast to the dust that settled over everything in sight. The infamous town thrived despite its location and always has. A hub of trade, gambling, and entertainment that attracted all kinds—some good, some bad, and some that danced on the razor’s edge between the two.

As the Nat Love Gang rode in, the streets had quieted for the night, save for a few stragglers loitering outside gambling halls. The men rode in on their horses, eyed by the drunkenly swaying few under the glow of lantern lights and the rising moon. Watchful eyes followed the gang as they passed, some curious, some wary, and the seldom flirtatious wave from young girls eyeing the slick crusaders that were Jim Beckwourth and David Cliff. They weren’t the first group of dangerous men to ride through this town—and they wouldn’t be the last. But who’s to say those dangerous men ever made it out?

At first, the gang stopped at The Velvet Spur, the finest hotel in the town, its golden trim reflecting the flickering lamplights hung outside. The place was directly across from the bustling casino, a smart business move. They could practically hear as dice rolled, cards shuffled, and fortunes changed in an instant. The music was loud and thumping as the people inside cheered.

Nat led the way inside, followed closely by Jim and David while Bill and Terry kept watch outside. The old clerk behind the desk barely looked up over his specs from the newspaper he read before shaking his head.

“Ain’t got no rooms left,” He grumbled.

The three men stepped at how quickly they were turned down, causing Nat to blink and then look at the two men next to him. Jim, being the playful young man that he was, took his hat off and held his hand up at Nat, telling him to wait. He then stepped forward, coming closer to the clerks desk. He leaned against the counter, flashing one of his disarming grins. “Now, see, that’s a shame, sir. We rode in all this way—”

“No rooms.” The man repeated, unmoved.

“Well, you ain’t even check the book. How are you so sure there ain’t no more rooms if you ain’t even checked the book?” Jim asked, dropping the nice boy act as he gestured to the resident book that sat next to the man, closed. The older man sighed, finally looking up from his reading and at the young man. “I think I would know if the rooms were full or not, young buck. I work here.”

“Yeah, but you are lookin’ a lil, not so young. You could be mistaken—.” Jim continued before being cut off by Nat.

“That’s alright.” He said, cutting the boy off before he could make their situation worse, watching as the old man’s face turned sour at Jim’s words. “Thank you, sir.” He said, offering the clerk a forced polite smile.

David sighed, adjusting his hat on his head. “Guess that means we’re sleeping under the stars again.” He said with a shake of his head. Jim placed his hat back on his head, giving the old man a nasty once over with his signature cinnamon stick in his mouth, before trying around to face his people. Just as they turned to leave, a young worker was rushing from the back, shrugging on his coat. “I could help ya.” He said, catching their attention.” Overhearing their predicament. The men all turned to face him, the young man coming forward as he adjusted his coat.

“They got rooms at The Sweet Tooth.” He said, hitching his thumb toward the door. “It’s a saloon, but they keep a few beds upstairs. In the rooms. Real good insulation too can barely hear a thang downstairs.” He said with a grin.

It was silent for a moment, the three outlaws eyeing the strangely eager young man. The old clerk just looked between them, wanting nothing more than for the strangers and his off-the-clock coworker to leave so he like read in peace. Jim then looked back at Nat, who eyed him before he gave a single nod.

“Lead the way, then,” Nat said, the trio watching as he walked ahead of them to see the other two men waiting outside next to their horses. “I’m Clarance, by the way.” He told them, giving a polite nod to the men who eyed him by the horses, untrusting. None of them said anything in response to his introduction, simply following him across the dirt path to the saloon, the moon casting a pale glow over the bustling town.

Laughter and music spilled from the establishment, mixing with the occasional distant crack of a pistol—warnings, celebrations, or something in between.

The Sweet Tooth stood at the heart of it all of the town, smack in the middle on the right side. Its name glowed in golden letters above the entrance, the flickering lanterns giving it a warm, inviting haze. It was alive with music and laughter, a stark contrast to the quiet outside. The smell of whiskey, tobacco, and the faint scent of something sweet hung in the air, mixing with the heat of too many bodies packed into one space. The place was packed, as expected, the heavy scent of whiskey and perfume wafting through the open doors. It wasn’t the downright fanciest establishment in town, but it had its charm—polished wood, golden trim, and deep red curtains that framed a small stage where a woman in a fitted blue dress crooned a slow melody.

The young worker turned to face the gang, standing before the saloon doors with an eager nod. “Go on in. Cotton’s got rooms for folks like y’all.”

“Folks like us?” Terry asked, his light-colored eyes striking as he raised a brow, stepping past him.

Clearance grinned. “Roughriders. Outlaws. Gunmen. All kinds.” He shrugged. “She don't much care, long as you got the coin and ain’t too much trouble.”

Nat glanced at David and Jim before nodding for them to enter. They barely made it past the entrance before they were flanked by two burly men and a woman in between them. “Well, well, don’t reckon I’ve seen y’all ‘round here before. Stayin’ or goin’?” She asked, her southern twang filled with nothing but sugar as she looked between them with her big brown eyes. Her smile as inviting as the warm glow of the lanterns inside. Jim and David stepped forward a little, eyes set on the woman while the other men admired from behind. They almost got shoved back by the men at her side, who they eyed threateningly before looking back at the beautiful woman. “We’ll be staying’ for the night. Though I’d rather stay whenever you are.” Jim flirted, not hiding the way he checked the woman out.

“And what might your name be?” David smirked.

The woman just grinned at them, becoming even more beautiful in the men’s eyes. “The names’ Suga. Come on in.” She said, nodding at them to enter before walking away. The group of five men tried to make their way in, before being stopped by the large men again. Suga rushed back, a smile on her face as one of the men grabbed a big chest. “Sorry, forgot to say weapons go the case.” She said. “Not taking them or nothin’, they’ll be up in your room for you to grab after you pay. Just don’t want no trouble.” She explained before looking the closest one, who happened to be Jim, up and down, a certain glint in her eye. A glint Jim caught with a smirk. She then glanced at the rest of the group of handsome men. “And you gentlemen look like trouble.” She said before walking away again. “And I trust you’ll put them all away.”

The men put all of their weapons in the case, watching as the large man closed it before walking away with the case. Jim was the first in motion, following behind where he saw Suga go, the girl leading the men over to a table near the bar.

“Now I know you fine gentlemen are probably tired from your long way here but I gots to find my sister Cotton in order to get you your rooms.” She explained, standing before them as they all situated themselves into chairs. “Settle in for a bit, enjoy the atmosphere, get a few drinks and I’ll be right back, ‘alright?” She said, offering them a sweet smile before turning on her heel. Her long curls whipped behind her. She didn’t wait for a response from them before her attention was on the bar. “Honey, drinks at table 3! And where the hell is Cotton?!” The girl yelled, not even stopping to gain any form of response from the woman behind the bar. Said woman, Honey, simply stopped wiping the bar countertop and watched Suga disappear into the back before then looking over at table three, where the group of men sat.

She let out a small sigh before grabbing a small notepad and the pencil from behind her head, moving from behind the bar through the small door and over to the table only a few feet away. “What can I help you gentlemen to?” She asked them, her tone a little uninterested as she chewed on the end of a toothpick. She was a stunning woman as well, resembling Suga just a bit. Her skin was lighter, her grin was large, her eyes naturally low and her face was sort of long.

The gang took in Honey’s cool, effortless demeanor as she stood before them, pencil tapping against her notepad. She was beautiful, no doubt, but unlike Suga’s flirtatious charm, Honey carried herself with a calmer demeanor, like a woman who had the patience of a monk. Since she was a bartender, having to constantly deal with drunk men and bar fights, probably.

Jim, never one to pass up an opportunity to lay on the charm, leaned forward with a smirk, resting his forearm on the table. “Well now, Honey, I’d say we’ll take whatever you recommend.”

Honey’s expression didn’t change drastically, the woman simply bling at him. But the corner of her mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh while her eyes squinted a little as she looked down at the attractive man. “Whiskey, gin, or bourbon?” She questioned with a quirk of her brow, chewing her toothpick.

David chuckled under his breath, exchanging a glance with Jim before turning back to the woman. “Whiskey. And whatever you like.” He grinned, taking his hat off and placing it on the table.

Honey raised a brow at him, then scribbled down the order. “I like Vodka. Some you ain’t ever had.” She turned on her heel without another word, leaving the men to watch her go, amusement dancing in their eyes as she swayed away.

Terry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he glanced around the room. “Place got some charm, I’ll give it that.” He stated, his eyes alert and ears open as he took in the vibrant place. His eyes kept going back to the stage, where the live band played, women dancing seductively while getting whistled and catcalled.

Bill, who had been quietly observing, gave a slow nod. “Ain’t too often you see a place like this run by women.”

Nat hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the room. “Means they’re either real good at what they do… or real dangerous.”

The saloon fell into a hushed lull the moment they heard the sound of thumping. The men all looked around in confusion and on edge before their eyes drifted to the stage, watching as a woman flanked by two other women walked onto the stage.

A rounder woman stood at the center of the small stage, her brown skin glowing under the dim lantern lights. Her curls were pinned up with only a few strands loose, framing her face. She was dressed in a fitted, off-the-shoulder gown, the color a deep blue and she swayed as she sang, her voice filling the saloon with raw emotion.

“Break them chains and shackles,

Ain’t no man gon’ hold me down…”

The crowd was captivated, hanging onto every note. Some clapped along, others lifted their glasses in admiration, and a few swayed, lost in the song’s spell.

The rhythmic thumping continued, echoing through the saloon like a heartbeat. It wasn’t just the sound of boots against wood—it was deliberate, steady, almost ceremonial. The two women flanking the singer clapped their hands in time, their movements graceful yet firm, adding to the weight of the moment.

“Storm may come, but I won’t tremble,

Gonna walk on free somehow…”

The entire saloon seemed to be under her spell. Even the most hardened outlaws and whiskey-soaked gamblers paused their games, their attention drawn to the woman commanding the room with nothing but her voice.

“Go on, Fluffy!” Someone called from the crowd, a man tapping his boot against the wooden floor in rhythm with her voice.

The men couldn’t deny the effect of her heavenly voice, captivating their attention as well, moving spirits they each thought they lost long ago. Nat’s fingers drummed lightly against the table, his expression unreadable. While David, Jim, and even Bill and Terry leaned forward in interest, watching the curvy woman. Drawn in by both the music and the presence of the women on stage.

David watched, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Now that is a voice.” He murmured, his admiration clear as he looked the woman up and down, her size and closet making her chest pop in a whole new way.

Terry nodded in agreement, eyes locked on, as the crowd called her, Fluffy. “Yeah… and a whole lot more.” He added, ignoring the way his companions all eyed him at his out-of-character statement.

Fluffy’s voice soared into the final verse, and for a moment, the entire saloon seemed to hold its breath. Even those deep in their drinks or their poker games turned to watch her, drawn in by the depth of her voice, the weight of her song. As she finished, the room erupted into cheers and applause. Fluffy beamed, taking a small bow before stepping back from the mic. The band behind her kept playing, transitioning into a livelier tune, but all eyes were still on her as she made her way down from the stage.

Honey eyed them all as she made her way back over with their drinks on a tray, following their eyes to her sister who mingled with the band. Still chewing on her toothpick, she smirked at the obvious intrigue they all showed. “Yeah, Fluffy tends to have that effect on people.” She said, catching all of their attention. “But careful now. She might sing sweet, but she’s got more bite than bark. Girls’ mouth is foul.” She told them as she sat the drinks at the table.

“I can handle that.” Jim scoffed, causing the woman to raise a brow at the back of his head since none of the women took their eyes off Fluffy. Well, not Nat and Bill, who eyed the woman giving them drinks. “Okay, hotshot. Go for it.” She scoffed at him, amusement clear in the small grin she held. And Jim, ever the opportunist, wasted no time in standing when Fluffy made her way over to the bar. “That was real nice.” He called out, his signature smirk in place once he caught her attention. “Real nice.”

Fluffy’s eyes landed on him, slowing down her trek only slightly as she made her way to the bar, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, her smirk matched his. “That right?” She called back, tilting her head at him.

“Sure is.” Jim drawled, tipping his hat. “Got a voice that could make a man rethink all his sins.”

Fluffy let out a soft chuckle, grabbing the closest drink in sight, that she was lucky to be the water Homey sat out prior, and then backed away from the counter with effortless grace. “And you look like a man with plenty of ‘em.” She told him, placing her hands on her hips.

David nearly choked on his drink, while Terry and Billie tried to hide their amusement by holding their heads down. Even Nat cracked a small smile.

Jim placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Now that ain’t fair. That ain’t fair at all. You don’t even know me yet.” He said, a fake pout on his lips, his cinnamon stick still sticking out his plump lips.

Fluffy, now standing just a few feet away, raised a brow. “Yet? How ‘bout not at all, scrub.” She said, then turning on her heel and walking away from him. David and Terry choked on their laughs while Jim gaped at the woman.

Honey, who had made her way over to the bar as they talked, was now standing behind the bar. She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “What’d I tell ya?” She said before letting out a small laugh and going back to fix more drinks.

Suga then came back from the back and looked a tad agitated with her hands on her hips. “Can’t find Cotton’s behind nowhere. That girl is never in the spot you leave her in.” She grumbled to Honey she came a stole at the bar. The bartender just cleaned cups, looking at her sister with a call face.

“What’d you need Cotton for?” She asked.

“I needed her to check these men in for a room tonight. She’s the one who always does it.” Suga stated.

“And why can’t you do it?” Honey asked, her tone annoyingly calm for the younger girl's liking, causing Suag to squint her eyes at the woman. “Cause I ain’t done it before.” She said firmly.

“Why don’t you just try?”

“Why don’t you just try, huh? Since it’s oh, so, damn easy. It ain’t that simple, Heidi.” Suga spat, slamming her hands down on the counter a tad. That caused Honey to arch a brow at her, eyes turning stern. “Watch your tone, youngin’. Before I douse you in alcohol and throw you in the fire pit.” She said, pointing a finger at the girl. Suga just groaned, bringing out her youngest sister's attitude with the second oldest. She looked at her sister, unbeknownst, or not caring, to the group of men who subtly listened in now and then to their conversation.

“Can you just come help me? Just this once?” She begged. Honey sighed, setting down the cup she had been cleaning and shaking her head as she slapped the rag onto the counter. “Lord, you’re helpless.”

Suga huffed. “I ain’t helpless, I just ain’t done it before!”

Honey just rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine. But you best pay attention, ‘cause I ain’t gon’ be doin’ this for you every time. This caused Suga to beam, grabbing Honey’s wrist and pulling her from behind the bar. The older sister shook her head but let her drag her along, her boots clicking against the worn wooden floors as they made their way toward the check-in area. Honey grabbed the book from the desk before moving back over to the group of men. “Follow me, get y'all settled in.” She said, offering them a polite smile as she nodded her head elsewhere. “Y’all got horses?” Honey asked, looking back at them.

Nat nodded.

She motioned for them to follow. “Come on, then. Stables are out back.”

The night had settled into a steady hum—distant music from the saloon, laughter from the streets, the occasional hoot of an owl. They walked the horses from across the road to the back of the saloon, the stables a good distance from the bar. The Sweet Tooth’s lanterns cast a golden glow over the dirt road as they made their way to the back, where the modest stable stood. The scent of hay and leather mixed with the lingering perfume of the saloon. The horses snorted softly as the men led them into the stables, their hooves thudding against the wooden floor.

Honey moved with practiced ease, unlatching the stable doors and gesturing for them to bring the horses in. “Y’all take that side.” She instructed, pulling her sleeves up. “Ain’t got no stable boys this late, so if you want ‘em fed and brushed, best get to it.” She stated, waiting for the men to lead their horses into the extra rooms available for them.

The men stood there for a moment, only sharing a glance before Honey crossed her arms, watching them with an amused tilt of her head. “Y’all ever put up your own horses before, or you just let the stable boys do it for ya?” She mused, a smirk playing on her lips.

Jim, always the first to have something to say, scoffed as he led his horse inside. “Course we know how to put up our own damn horses. Just ain’t used to bein’ told to do it by a lady.” He stated, shrugging as if it was some simple thought as he looked over at her, still chewing on that same stick of cinnamon. The men, one by one, eased their trusted animals into the available resting spot for the night.

Honey let out a short laugh. “Well, ain’t that a shame? Guess y’all better get used to it ‘round here.” She said, causing Suga to grin as she watched the men put the animals away. David chuckled under his breath, watching as Jim rolled his eyes but got to work. Nat, ever the quiet observer, led his own horse inside without a word, his sharp eyes noting the ease with which Honey moved.

“You run this place, then?” He spoke up and asked, his voice low and even but ever curious.

Honey glanced over at him as she softly kicked a bale of hay next to one of the stalls, mentally reminding herself to move it if Cotton didn’t. “Nah. That’s Cotton’s job. But between me and Suga, we do our best to make sure it don’t fall apart.”

Terry, brushed down his horse with steady strokes from a spare brush he picked up, looking over at her with a small smirk. “And where exactly is this Cotton?”

Honey sighed, pushing the stray curls from her halo braid from her face. “That’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it?” She grinned and then looked toward the saloon as if expecting Cotton to materialize. “Girl’s like a ghost when she wanna be.”

Before she could be questioned further, Jim spoke up, grinning loudly in the dead of night within the hollow stable. “Don’t think I ever had to work for a bed before.” Jim sighed, shaking his head as he ran a hand down his horse’s neck.

Honey grinned, catching his words as she leaned against one of the stable doors. “Ain’t too used to takin’ orders from women either. Well, welcome to Sugar Cane Creek.” She said.

They were just finishing up when the sharp clang of metal rang out, followed by the scrape of buckets rolling across the dirt. “Who’s supposed to be watchin’ the bar and servin’ drinks if you two are back here?” Instinct kicked in—the men straightened, hands twitching toward holsters that weren’t there. Suga and Honey quickly turned from where they stood, Suga opened one of the stable doors to cover her vulnerable sun was shots were fired while Honey gripped the gun hidden in the back of her dress, her tucked shirt riding up.

A figure stood at the entrance to the stable, framed by the lantern light and the shadows of the night. It was a woman, dressed in fitted brown trousers, a crisp white blouse, and a matching leather vest. A hat sat atop her head, casting a slight shadow over her striking features. Her stance was confident, hands were perched on her hips, her sharp eyes scanning the scene. She stepped further into the stables, showing how a single brow arched high as she looked between Suga and Honey expectantly. The lantern light cast a golden glow over her smooth brown skin, and though her stance was firm, there was a hint of amusement in her sharp gaze.

Suga’s slight pains turned into familiarity, a bright smile appearing on her typically bubbly face. “Well, look who finally decided to show up.

“Yeah, you know this place don’t run well without you, Cotton.” Honey teased.

The woman scoffed, crossing her arms. “Don’t play with me, Suga and Honey. You know damn well I was tendin’ to the ranch at Mama’s. Now who’s keepin’ the Sweet Tooth runnin’ while y’all out here flirtin’ and playing table hands?”Her voice was smooth yet firm, carrying over the stableyard like a whip crack. There was something different about her compared to her sisters—less sugar, more steel.

Honey sighed. “Ain’t nobody playin’.” She said.

“And ain’t nobody flirtin’,” Suga added, glancing over at the men. “We’re just settlin’ these gentlemen in.”

At the mention of gentlemen, the woman’s gaze flicked toward the group, scanning them with a quick, practiced sweep. And then let out a dry chuckle, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Oh, really? ‘Cause from what I see, you got a whole mess of men out here playin’ stable boy while the saloon runs damn near itself.”

Jim, never one to miss an opportunity, stepped forward with an easy grin. “Now, I wouldn’t say we’re playin’, miss. Just followin’ orders.” His voice was all honeyed charm, his grin even more so.

The woman arched a brow, unimpressed. “That right?” She turned her gaze to Honey, who merely shrugged. “They needed a place to sleep. No stable boys this late. Seemed only fair they work for it.”

David stepped forward, sensing this was the infamous name they’d been hearing all night. “That you, Miss Cotton?” He asked curiously, eyeing the woman up and down from the stable she stood directly next to, causing her to turn her head and look him up and down. She then met his gaze without hesitation. “Depends. Who’s askin’?” She questioned, quirking a brow at him

Jim, never one to pass up a chance to charm, took a step forward with his best smile. “Jim Beckwourth, at your service.” He gave a small bow as he took his hat off his head. “And might I just say, Miss Cotton, you wear them trousers better than any man I’ve ever seen.”

Cotton only let pout a faux amused hum as she tilted her head at him. “I’m sure you say that to every woman in pants, Mr.Beckworth.”

“I don’t,” Jim replied smoothly. “Only the ones that take my breath away.”

Suga snorted behind her hand while Honey rolled her eyes. “Good Lord.” She scoffed. Cotton, however, remained unimpressed, though there was the slightest twitch at the corner of her eyes as she sized the man up. She then stepped closer, looking Jim up and down with a slow, deliberate gaze before nodding once.

“Hm. That so?” She drawled, before reaching out and tapping the brim of his hat with a single finger. “Well, Mr. Beckwourth, I reckon you best hold onto that breath of yours. You’re gonna need it if you plan on keepin’ up ‘round here.”

Jim’s grin widened. “That a challenge?”

“It’s a fact,” Cotton stated firmly with a smirk. She then hummed a small tune, tapping a finger against her arm as she glanced around at the scene—half-groomed horses, saddles still slung over posts, and a handful of outlaws looking more amused than weary. “Hmph. Well, I’ll take it from here, dear sisters.” She said, walking over to her sinking and taking the reservation book from Honey’s hands. “Thank you, Heidi, Susanna.” She said, a fake smile on her face as she looked between them while the men’s eyes widened some at the revelation of them all being related.

Honey rolled her eyes at the use of her full name. “Don’t start, Cotton.”

Cotton, now properly named, let out a scoff as she shook her head. “Already did.” Then, with a nod toward the men, she tipped her hat. “Let’s go get you brothas settled in properly, shall we?” She said, nodding over to the saloon before she turned on her heel, leading the way back inside and expecting them to follow.

Suga let out a low whistle as the group watched the woman walk away, staying to help the men finish putting the animals up before following after Cotton. “She always knew how to make an entrance.” She said, placing her hands on her hips as her dress swayed in the nightly breeze, more so speaking to her sister next to her, but Jim chimed in from behind the pair as the group followed the woman back in.

“Can’t say I mind it all too much.” He said his grin still in place. David, who had been quietly observing the exchange, let out a small chuckle. “Think we know why she’s the one actually runnin’ things ‘round here.”

Honey scoffed at them, flashing a quick look behind her, but she didn’t deny it. “Y’all done gawkin’ or you need a few more minutes?” She asked, speaking to the main paper that seemed to be on one all night.

Jim continued to smirk, twisting the flavorful fired plant in his mouth. “Guess that depends. You got more sisters hidin’ ‘round here?” He asked, quirking a brow at her. Honey simply narrowed her eyes at him before turning away from them again. “Stable’s done for now. Y’all can come inside if you know how to behave.” She said, eyeing the younger pair of men behind her before opening the doors back into the establishment. Suga snorted, nudging her sister on her way in as they all followed her back into the saloon. “That’s a big if.”

The women led them over to the bar, where Cotton was behind the counter, second a few drinks. She looked up at the movement in her peripheral, catching the group enter. She slid a drink down the counter to a waiting man before setting the dish rag down and then grabbing the reservations book, walking from behind the counter.

She moved with an air of authority, her hat now gone to show her long white patch of hair at the front of her hair. It was divided into two sections down the middle and going down either side of her face into the two long braids she had going down her back. The unique silver color for a woman her age was setting her apart as much as the tailored vest and trousers she wore instead of a dress. She had a gun strapped to her hip, and two holstered to her back, but it wasn’t just for show—every man in that saloon could see it.

She stopped just a few steps from the table, one hand resting on her hip as she took them all in, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. “How many rooms yall need?”

“Five,” Nat answered. “Just for the night.”

Cotton clicked her tongue, glancing toward the book she held before looking back up at them. “Ain’t got five rooms, but I got three. Two of y’all will have to share.” She stated, her tone leaving no room for disagreement.

Jim and David immediately turned to look at each other, their expressions mirroring the same silent conversation—not it.

“I’ll bunk with Bill,” Terry offered softly, to which Bill simply nodded. Cotton gave a satisfied nod. “Payment’s due upfront. No exceptions. 25 cents a night. She stated. Nat pulled a small pouch from his coat, dropping it onto the table. Cotton took it without hesitation, weighing it in her hand before tucking it away. “Rooms are upstairs. Suga’ll show you to ‘em.” She said. She stared at them for a moment, her flickering over all of them before offering her first smile since she’d met them.

“Enjoy your stay in Sugar Cane Creek, boys.” She smiled. “And just watch yourself with the women in this here establishment. Don’t want to start no trouble where there don’t need to be nun’.” She stated, her smile turning tense before disappearing right before their eyes. “And I don’t quite have the patience for that.” She sneered.

Jim placed a hand over his heart, feigning innocence. “Trouble? Us? Never.” He said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. Cotton, however, wasn’t amused. She just blinked at them. “Y’all keep yourselves in line.” She murmured before turning on her heel to face the two women behind her.

“And you doves can get back to work. This ain’t no social hour.” She said.

Suga rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, ma’am.” She said as she watched her oldest sister walk away, leaving her to get the men settled in.

“Now that’s a woman,” Jim stated firmly. “I think I’m in love.” He said, watching Cotton walk away from them. David leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his eyes on the woman as well. “I like this place.”

Terry simply sighed. “You think that every time you meet a woman with a sharp tongue and a pretty face.”

Jim just chuckled, clearly unbothered. “Yeah, but this time, I really mean it.”Nat just chuckled, shaking his head. It was going to be an interesting night.

They all stood from their seats, downing the last of their drinks and following the young woman up the stairs. She led the men up across the room, the beginning of the steps near the stage. The stairs were large and sort of grand for just a saloon, but The Sweet Tooth was different to begin with, starting out with how big it was.

The wood did creak under their weight, however, Suga’s purple dress swaying with each step as she jingled the keys in her hand, drawing the attention of the group of men behind her, almost putting them in a trance.

“Alright, gentlemen, listen up.” She called over her shoulder as they reached the second floor. The hall was sort of like a balcony, with large pillars holding most of the upstairs view from the people down below, but the view from up top gave them a wide angle of the casino. She stopped in the dimly lit hallway, motioning toward the doors ahead.

“This hall here holds rooms three, four, and five.” She handed a key to Nat, another to Bill, and the last to Jim, who twirled it between his fingers with an easy grin. The small metal objects each had a plated tag hanging off of it, showcasing the room number that was also welded on the door. “Y’all are payin’ twenty-five cents a night, no exceptions. If you plan on stayin’ longer, I suggest you pay upfront, ‘cause once the room’s claimed, it’s claimed.” She began before along again, leading them closer to their abodes for the night.

She gestured toward the first door on the left, room three. “Room three’s got two beds, room four’s got two as well, and room five’s got one. If y’all want coffee and breakfast in the mornin’, you’ll either have to take a walk over to The Velvet Spur across the road, they serve food for a price. Or you can head over to Poundcake’s. That’s the diner ‘bout five doors down from here.” She folded her arms, turning around and glancing between them. “Any questions?” She asked sweetly.

David nodded toward the far end of the hall. “What about baths?”

Suga grinned. “You lookin’ to soak or just rinse off?”

David exhaled through his nose, amused. “Preferably soak.” He said, a small hitch in his brow as he looked at the woman.

“Then you’ll have to take yourself down to the bathhouse. Across the way, ‘bout a block down. They got heated water if you’re willin’ to pay extra. But if all you need is a quick rinse, we got a pump out back. Cold as hell, but it’ll do the trick.“

Jim scoffed. “Cold water don’t suit me.” He said, looking the woman up and down. Suga just fluttered her lashes at him as she blinked. “Well, lucky for you, Mr. Beckwourth, I don’t recall askin’.” Suga flashed a playful grin before nodding toward the doors. “Now, go on. Y’all smell like road dust and bad decisions.” She sighed wistfully before moving past them, her sweet scent trailing behind as she disappeared from their vicinity. Jim watched the woman walk away, a mischievous glint in his eye and a smirk on his lips.

The men chuckled as they made their way into their respective rooms. The accommodations were simple but clean—wooden bed frames with thick quilts, a small writing desk, a half bath, and a washbasin in the corner. Though room five, the one David got lucky choosing, had a bath and tub available for him to use. Looks like he landed himself in the couples' suite.

They didn’t waste much time settling in, only taking a moment to stash their bags and pull their weapons from the box those men carried in earlier. They barely had a moment to breathe before a sharp bang rang out from downstairs, the sound of something slamming, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bell being rung inside the saloon.

All five men froze, their hands instinctively going toward their guns. They all rushed out of their rooms, looking over the balcony and into the busy bottom floor, which now stopped what they were doing, looking around and waiting for the bell to stop ringing.

The music halting and the chatter dying made them able to hear the sound of rapid footsteps pounding against the floorboards outside. The door burst open, and a young boy came bursting through the saloon doors, huffing and puffing with his hat in his hands. “Crimson Hoods.”He warned. “Coming in fast.”

The air in the saloon shifted. Voices hushed even more. Everything was still for a moment, among them able to hear the distant sound of hives hitting the ground. This caused Cotton to sigh, coming from behind the bar. “You know the drill. Get to it.” She stated firmly. Her voice wasn’t raised, but it carried through the room like a command, settling into every ear and spine.

And that was all it took.

Chairs scraped against the floor as men pushed back from their tables, downing the last swigs of their drinks before moving swiftly to their places. Guests were led to the back while the workers at the gambling tables grabbed the weapons attached to their person and from under chairs and tables. Some headed for the windows, peeking through the curtains, while others took up positions near other entrances. The saloon moved like a well-oiled machine, each person knowing their role without hesitation. The gamblers armed themselves swiftly, drawing weapons from hidden holsters, under tables, and from inside waistbands.

The piano player shut the lid over the keys and stepped aside, revealing a shotgun tucked neatly beneath the bench. One of the assistant bartenders slipped a pistol from under the counter, checking the chamber before setting it within reach.

Women, too, moved with purpose. A few waitresses strolled toward the back halls, guiding guests and working girls away from the main floor, while others stationed themselves behind furniture, weapons discreetly in hand, from knives to revolvers. The Sweet sisters were no exception—Honey pulled a sawed rifle from behind the bar, Fluffy nicked up her dress and unstrapped the large knife from her thigh, and Suga grabbed the two pistols from Cotton's back holsters as she passed, spinning the chamber before snapping it shut. And Cotton sat the shit fun she has by the door, another two pistols at her for a quick draw.

Upstairs, the men exchanged looks. It was clear this wasn’t the first time Sugar Cane Creek had braced itself for a fight. And it seemed that they had led trouble right to their doorstep.

“Well,” Bill muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Guess unwindin’ will have to wait. He sighed before beginning to walk off towards the stairs. Nat was already moving with him, his expression grim. “Let’s go.” He grumbled. Without hesitation, the rest of the gang followed, boots thudding against the worn wooden floors as they made their way downstairs. “This is one hell of a welcome,” Bill muttered, pressing his lips into an impressed smirk, the thrill of it all thudding in his heart.

The Sweet sisters stood at the door, Cotton giving orders to the men that lingered while Honey and Suga flanked each side of the swinging entrance. “Ajei, Dezba, I want you to upstairs in my office by the window, don’t be seen and shoot on my whistle.” She commanded the two Native dealers, dressed in crisp white shirts, black vests, and slacks, to give her a curt nod before moving. “Let Charles and Sanford know you’re there.” She said, referring to snipers stationed on her roof.

She then turned to the large men who stopped them on their way in. “Gordo, Rito, I want you two to walk out with me when they touch down.” She stated as she moved over to the door, the butt of her shotgun dragging against the ground. And then she stood there, fingers wrapped around her gun. Her sisters stood on either side of the door while Gordo and Rito stationed themselves behind her.

A thick silence then fell over the saloon, making the sound of thudding hooves loud as they got closer and closer. The new group of men all looked at one another, watching as the situation seemed to be going a bit smoothly without them. But they needed to step in. Those hoods were there for them, probably being trailed far back, and led them right into Sugar Cane Creek.

They heard the hooves approaching, the thunderous sound echoing within the quiet bar before they began to come to a halt. The silence in the saloon was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the slow, steady thudding of hooves against packed dirt. The Crimson Hoods were close now. Too close.

Nat and his gang exchanged looks, understanding passing between them without words. This situation was running smoothly without their interference—for now. But they knew damn well that those men weren’t here for the Sweet family. No, they had to have been trailed. Led those rough necks right into Sugar Cane Creek. Nat exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing at his men before giving a firm nod. Time to move.

Once their hooves finally decided to decent slowly, Cortton nodded her head at the drop that surrounded her. Honey and Suga tightened their grip on their weapons while Gordo and Rito pushed the doors open, moving to step outside before their boss did. The air was tight with tension, thick and heavy like the humidity before a storm. There was a long moment of silence before Cotton decided to make her move. She stepped out onto the creaking porch, the only sound slicing through the silence was the slow, deliberate thump of Cotton’s rifle against wooden boards as she strode forward, her boots clicking against the dusty and dried porch.

There they were. The Crimson Hoods, sat still on their horses, a dozen shadowy figures cloaked in deep red. The leader at the front made a show of dismounting once the woman walked out, his movements unhurried, almost lazy. A few of the gang members staggered, trying to follow the man. The supposed ring leader yanked the sack off his head, revealing a smirk stretched across sharp features, the silver gleam of his gills catching in the dim lantern light.

Red Benny.

His name carried weight across parts of the West, whispered in places where men feared to speak too loud. A man who lived for the thrill of conquest, for the chaos his gang carved into the land like a hot knife through butter. For the riches, he’d blow in the same hour of obtaining them.

Cotton squared her shoulders, rifle still in hand but not yet raised. She knew better than to move first.

“Evenin’, Miss Sweet.” Benny drawled, his voice a slow, smooth rasp, like whiskey rolling over jagged rocks. “Ain’t this a fine night?” He asked with a sly grin. Cotton’s expression didn’t waver, her stare locked into his while her men eyed the others next to her. “Depends on who you ask.” She deadpanned as she owned the weight of her gun.

Benny chuckled, shaking his head as he took a bold step forward. The men around him stayed still, waiting for a cue. Neither did Cotton’s men, only soaking the men under her scrutinizing gaze a glance, before focusing on the masked men behind him.

“Now, now,” Benny said, spreading his hands wide as if to show how harmless he was. “No need to be so tense. We’re just passin’ through.”

Cotton’s fingers flexed over the muzzle of her rifle, jaw flexing as she stared down at the man. “Funny thing, Benny. I’ve heard that before, right before a town wound up burned to the ground.” She sighed, moving herself to lean her weight off the large gun and stand firm on her feet, eyes unmoving from his frame. “And that won’t be happening here, boy.”

Benny clicked his tongue, just as a fire lit in his eyes, something full of rage and hatred in them. “You wound me, sweetheart.”

The woman simply let out a small scoff from her place at the center of the porch, moving the rest of her gun on her shoulder. Her movements caused some of the men behind him to reach for their weapons. But Benny quickly held up his hands, signaling them to stop. Cotton simply arched a brow at the bold men behind Benny, not an ounce of fear showing on her at the potential death that almost happened. “Ain’t nobody ever been sweet on you, Benny. And I damn sure won’t be the one to start.”

His grin widened, making his annoyance and bitterness with faux amusement. “That so?” He questioned. Cotton just stared at him, quirking a brow due to the timing since that followed, wanting to see his next movie or he could move on. He let his gaze drift, wiping his nose as his eyes caught the sight of hats moving inside. His eyes landed briefly on the shadows behind the saloon’s swinging doors, where more figures lurked. Cotton’s expression remained unreadable, but the weight of her stare was heavy, unrelenting. The way Benny spoke, all slow and measured, trying to put on that boyish charm, only made her grip her rifle a little tighter.

Then, finally, his eyes flicked toward Cotton’s rifle, still at her side.

“I think you may have something of ours in that saloon of yours, that’s all.” The man said, trying to put on this innocent act while he stalled, only building up the irritation within her. Nat stood near the entrance of the saloon, not even tensing at the man’s mention of his crew, his arms folded as he watched Cotton work. He wasn’t one to intervene in another gunslinger’s standoff unless he had to, and right now? Cotton had it handled, but this was just as much as his fight. And if Benny or his boys so much as twitched the wrong way, Nat’s hand was already hovering near his holster.

Cotton tilted her head slightly. “That so?” She asked, though the infliction in her voice never chanted, bland and dry as ever.

Benny nodded, taking another slow step forward. He was near easy up the steps, making Cotton grip the rule tighter while she discreetly signaled to her sisters at the door with a flick of her finger. “Couple of fellas we was trailing a while ago, we lost ‘em. But then for works pretty quickly that they’d turned up here. You wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?” He questioned with a quick tilt of his head and a shrug.

Cotton gave a dry chuckle, her free hand settling on her hip. “Sugar Cane Creek ain’t in the business of harborin’ rats, Benny. If somebody’s here, it’s ‘cause they paid their dues, and that means they got my protection.” She let the words hang in the air, firm and final. David watched quietly, eyes steady on the scene unfolding outside. He hadn’t been in Cane Creek long, but he had learned fast—when Cotton spoke, people listened. She’s got control over this entire town, and she don’t even have to raise her voice. He admired that. A show of force wasn’t always necessary, but Cotton could pull the trigger just as easy as she could talk a man into his grave. And if this went south? He’d be ready.

Benny let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his chin before giving her a look that was equal parts amused and frustrated. “Now, see, that’s the thing about you Sugar Creek folks. Always so hospitable.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “But sometimes, a good host knows when it’s best to hand over the unwanted guests.” He finished, his jaw clenching near the end of his tangent in agitation.

Cotton rolled her shoulders, letting her weight shift. She glanced at Gordo and Rito beside her, simply blinking at the two men as she pretended to think what she was going to say to him. She caught sight of stragglers hiding, people peeking out of their blinds while the bold, eyed them from around corners. It seemed as if the entire town was watching, waiting, breathing in sync with her.

“I don’t take kindly to folks ridin’ up in my town, throwin’ threats at my doorstep,” Cotton said, voice dropping low. “You and your boys may not be outnumbered, Benny. But what you lack in skill and all-around intelligence, well, you see, I make up for it. Ten times over, matter a fact. In this town, and the next. And, quite frankly, any damn town I step my foot into.” She hissed. “Now…” She began, taking a few steps forward and looking down at the man below the steps, the wind blowing dust on the path he stood on. “You sure you wanna see how that plays out?” She asked with a quirk of her brow.

Ans for the first time, Benny’s smirk wavered, his facade cracking under her hard gaze. She caught just a flicker of something calculating behind his eyes, catching the small twitch in his jaw, a tell to his irritation. She knew she got to him. And he knew Cotton wasn’t bluffing. The Sweet family ran Sugar Cane Creek tight, and a fight here wouldn’t be a fair one, and it wouldn’t be one that ended.

Still, the ever egotistical man that he was, he pretended. He had a reputation to uphold.

His smirk turned into something sharper.

“So,” He murmured, voice still deceptively light, “What’s it gonna be, Miss Sweet? You gonna let us on through and take what we owe, or are we gonna have ourselves a little dance?”

Cotton let the moment as she quirked a brow at his suddenly, allowing Benny to sit in his own impatience, and stupidity for the way going to regret acting tomorrow morning.

Her eyes flicked from him to the men behind him, her eyes squinting in the blowing wind as they all stood still as statues, their hands resting near their weapons. The whole town was waiting, listening. Even the wind seemed to hush, as if afraid to stir the wrong way.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Cotton exhaled through her nose and took one more step forward, standing at the very edge of the porch. Her rifle still rested against her shoulder, but the weight of her stare alone might as well have been a bullet.

“You ain’t owed a damn thing.” She annunciated slowly, voice smooth as warm honey but hard as the steel barrel of her gun, raising a bit as she reached her peak. “Not by me, not by this town.”

Benny’s smirk tightened, but his fingers twitched at his side. He wasn’t used to being told no.

Cotton just tilted her head slightly, her tone turning mocking as she continued. “You said you lost ‘em. So tell me, Benny, how’s that my problem?” She asked, blinking at him.

Benny chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Y’see, that’s the thing, Miss Sweet. I don’t like losin’ things. And when I do, I tend to get ‘em back—one way or another.”

Cotton’s lips barely twitched. “That a threat?”

“Ain’t a threat if it’s a promise.”

The town was holding its breath now. Cotton could practically feel her sisters at her back, feel the tension thickening in the air like a storm rolling in.

She clicked her tongue. “Well, then, let me make you a promise, Benny.” She lowered her rifle from her shoulder, resting the butt against her hip, one hand still wrapped around the barrel. “You take one step further, and I put your black ass in the dirt where you stand.” She spat.

Benny stilled.

The men behind him straightened.

Cotton didn’t move an inch.

Then, Benny exhaled through his nose, a slow, sharp breath, before he finally took a step back. He glanced once more at the saloon doors, catching nothing. Then at the eyes peering through windows, at the large men flanking Cotton. His jaw worked as he mulled it over.

But before he could make a decision, Cotton let out a slow, lilting whistle, the sound carrying in the wind.

Then—chaos.

It all happened in a blink. A loud shot rang out, and the man fell to the ground with a sharp pain shooting through his right arm. Benny screamed in anguish as the searing heat bobbled up his arm. He barely processed what he felt and what had happened before another shot tore into his other arm. But his loud exclamations of pure pain were unheard over the cries from the other men as the sniper's bullets howled they found their marks with the rest of the Crimson Hoods.

Benny fell to the ground at the pain, wailing at the top of his lungs at the hot bullets felt as if they boiled under his skin. Cotton slowly descended the steps, her cold eyes trained on the screaming man on the ground as he bled out, her boots slow and measured against the wooden steps until they hit the dirt road.

Controlled chaos ensued around them, Honey and Suga popping out from behind the doors and shooting at hoods that tried to run or pull out their weapons, gunfire cracking through the air. Nat and his gang followed—their fastest gunslingers, David and Jin, moving like shadows, their revolvers striking true. Terry and Bill picked their shots with lethal precision, their rifles sending men to the dust with every pull of the trigger. Nat himself moved like a man with nothing to lose, his pistol barking in his hand.

Cotton stood over Benny, who writhed in the dirt, clutching at his bloody arms, looking down at him as he cried out in anguish. It wasn’t long before gunfire quieted and pains turned back into silence. The last of the Crimson Hoods either lay dead or had fled into the night with injuries they wouldn’t survive. The town, once holding its breath, now released it in a tense, waiting silence.

Save for the lead man, who was now bleeding with the rest of his fallen soldiers. Cotton only looked up from the man when caught the sounds of pleading from next to her, looking over to see David pressing the barrel of his gun to the last man standing. She cast a sharp whistle to catch his attention. When he glanced at her, she shook her head. “Not him.” She said, and David didn’t argue, while she didn’t explain before looking back down at the infamous Red Benny.

“Now you know not to ever try me again.” She stated, not caring if the man heard her over his own screams, Her voice was calm, nearly bored.

She blinked at him. Then, without hesitation, she shot him in the leg. Benny emitted a loud cry.

Cotton barely blinked before turning her attention to the last remaining Crimson Hood. She walked up to him, yanking the burlap sack from his head before gripping his jaw, her fingers digging into his skin until he winced.

“You take him. Take that horse.” She nodded toward the wounded Benny and the tethered stallion nearby, most of the others either running away or dying in the line of fire of the man brawl. “And you get the hell up outta here. I see—or even hear either of your names—I’ll kill you slow.” She spat. The man frantically nodded, causing Cotton to push his face away from her hands. She watched as the man scrambled and gathered Benny and the horse as best as he could ride off, the woman not turning away until she couldn’t see them and could no longer hear Benny’s cries.

Cotton waited until they were gone before she turned, dusting her hands off onto her pants. She then took off her hat to smooth down the front pieces of her hair that came up, her silver money pieces giving her an odd sense of youth. Once straightened, she turned on her heels. “Somebody come clean this shit up!” She called out, stepping back into the saloon without so much as a glance at her family and newfound allies.

The town was still, silent in the aftermath. The only sounds left were the soft clinking of spent shells on the blood-streaked dirt and loud crickets from the forest near yonder.

Jin twirled his revolvers once before sliding them back into their holsters, looking at her walk away with something between respect and amusement. “Ain’t never seen a woman put a man down that quick and still have time to fix her hair after.” He said, admiration somewhat in his tone.

Cotton didn’t respond. She just stepped past them. The moment she crossed the threshold, the tension in her shoulders loosened—but only just. She wasn’t done yet. Inside, the saloon was eerily quiet. People had ducked behind tables, cowered near the walls, or simply frozen in place, waiting to see how the night would end. Her men unstationed themselves, putting their smoking guns down at the sight of no more danger.

Cotton closed her eyes as she rolled her neck, the weight of the night settling in, but she didn’t let it show. Gin still in hand, she walked straight to the bar, grabbed an empty glass, and poured herself a shot of whiskey with steady hands.

She threw it back in one smooth motion before slamming the glass on the counter. Then, without looking, she called out, “We got about ten minutes before more folks come snoopin’. Y’all best start cleanin’ up.” Knowing that her sisters and their new friends had followed her inside, all in a state of limbo at what just occurred.

Honey was the first to move, stepping in and surveying the damage with a nod. “I’ll get someone to strip the bodies for what they have, Gordo and Rito will move them.” She said, already heading for the door again.

Suga clicked her tongue, lazily wiping down the counter as if that would somehow erase the tension still lingering in the air. “Guess that means me and the girls are on blood duty.” She pouted a little, referring to the other waitresses at the bar.

This caused Fluffy to smack her lips, cutting her eyes at her sister. “So I’m on graveyard duty? Again?” She asked, holding her hands on her hips. “My digging clothes are dirty.” She added. Cotton, who had just thrown back another shot, slammed the glass down with a dull thunk. She turned to Fluffy, unimpressed. “Good, ‘cause they’re just gonna get filthy again. Now take four of them men and get to it.” She said, nodding her head over to the working men of the bar. None of the women even had to ask, they didn’t even have to speak, before four of them jumped into action, heading out to the stables to grab supplies to get to digging a mass grave out back.

Once the women left to do their duties for the night, Cotton took one last shot before looking around at the customers who still lingered. “Y’all ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell up outta here.” She stated, causing the non-staying customers to hurry and scurry out of the saloon, not even caring about the money they left behind for the establishment to take.

Outside, the scraping of boots against dirt and the hushed whispers of those still brave enough to linger filled the air.

Cotton looked over at the group of men who seemed to be nothing but trouble, but she knew tonight wasn’t entirely their fault. Her eyes were back to their dull and unimpressed glint, rhetorical hatred, and quiet anger she felt earlier not in sight. She looked between them before simply blinking. “Welcome to Sugar Cane Creek, this is the Sweet Tooth and I hope you enjoy your stay.” She said, offering the most subtle polite smile before making her way upstairs and down a hall on the opposite side of the saloon, disappearing for the night.

The group of unfamiliar men might’ve been watching before, admiring the beauties The Creek had to offer, but now they knew.

Sugar Cane Creek wasn’t just a town.

It was her town.

150 notes · View notes