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angelic--kitty · 4 months ago

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𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖙��𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖐𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖒𝖎 𝖉𝖊𝖍𝖞𝖆

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, kemonomimi!dehya (kitty features), transfem!dehya x sub!fem reader, breeding, reader dressed up as a kitty for halloween, biting, claws, size kink, oral (both receiving), penetration, car sex

special mention to @edgeray as this doubles as part of their collaborative halloween event ♡

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗

those damn, fluffy white ears that matched the fluffy white tail attached to your bodysuit. the bodysuit designed to look like a playboy bunny.

"i'll be your playboy kitty," you had told her with such a wicked little grin on your face. like you knew you would be tormenting her for the duration of the party.

now she stood in her stuffy suit, an arm around your waist, her large, calloused hand splayed over your hip. you could feel her rough thumb brushing against your thigh through the holes in your fishnets.

archons, you were torturing her. purposefully chatting up everyone you knew at the party, delighting in making her wait her fucking turn to get you alone.

she opened the top few buttons of her collared shirt, tugging at her tie in a way she knew would entice you. she saw the way your greedy little gaze flitted over to her, watching eagerly over the rim of your cheap plastic cup.

her ears twitched from the thumping bass that reverbated throughout the house, her claws digging into your skin, not caring if she tore your tights.

this whole outfit would be getting practically ripped off you sooner or later anyway.

yet, even when you try to be bratty, you are ever the angel. your hand grazes up to her cheek, urging her to place her attention onto you solely. you lean in, lips brushing against her cheek as you kneel up to reach her twitchy ear. "are you okay? is the music too loud?" you ask.

she pulls you closer, shaking her head. "i'm fine. are you having fun?" it's a biting question. you know that. you know if she had it her way, she'd be dragging you back home right now and fucking you into your shared mattress.

alas, despite quite literally being a predatory animal, she bowed to your whims. damn you and the way you kept her wrapped around your finger.

she was a far cry from when you first started dating. as if you had domesticated her. it was almost laughable, really.

if not for the fact that she was in awe of how you alone managed that.

"i'm starting to get a little... exhausted." you mumbled, your lips touching her ear as it flicks against your cheek.

"oh, are you now?" she grunts, enjoying the gasp that leaves your lips when her claws poke into your thigh. "want me to escort you out, sweetheart?"

"let me go say bye to a few people first, okay?" you smile, kissing her cheek, leaving a print of your lipstick that she didn't bother to wipe away. she let you slide off her lap, her thighs staying spread as she waited for you impatiently.

you returned shortly after, feeling her tug you away, keeping a firm grip on your hand. "someone's eager-" you snort, watching her scoff.

"you've purposefully been torturing me, so excuse me, princess." dehya's voice is clipped yet sultry as she gazes down at you. "you didn't tell me it came with a collar." she flicks the bell.

it was soft, thankfully not obnoxiously loud when you had bought it online. the collar itself was a pretty pink color. one she adored on you.

"i thought it'd be a nice surprise." with every step, the bell softly rings, announcing your presence like you really were a housecat. "do you like it?" you give her a cheeky smirk, looking up at her for her approval.

she notices you shivering, and she takes her suit jacket off, draping it across your shoulders. you lean against her appreciatively. she stays relatively quiet, focused on getting you back to the car.

she can feel her own hormones getting to her, making it damn near impossible to concentrate on the road. the heater only made it more unbearable, and her left hand leaves the window to rake through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead.

you seem to notice her distress, pulling your hands away from the warm vents. "you okay?" you ask, a hand pressing to her thigh.

and that's when she decides she just can't take it anymore.

she pulls off to the side of the road, startling you until you realize what's going on.

your eyes immediately slide down to her bulge, begging to be freed from its confinement and you giggle, reaching for her only for her to grab your wrist.

"dehya-"

her eyes are hooded, looking at you less like a girlfriend and more like you're dinner. "backseat. now."

you jump to it, so eager to please her, archons, it drives her mad.

you climb back, kneeling for her as she turns the car off, bathing you both in darkness except for the dim streetlights around you.

your breathing is heavy, excited as she crawls over you. she's big. sometimes you forget just how big until she's looming over you. she grabs your jaw, pulling you in for a searing kiss.

it's messy, filthy, her rough tongue sliding over yours as you moan into her mouth, letting her drink your noises straight from the source.

she settles you into her lap, grinding you against her cock as she grunts, enjoying your soft little whimpers and whines. she drags your body like you're little more than a toy for her, hips jumping up to tease you through that damn bodysuit of yours.

your lips disconnect, a string of saliva connecting you still before it snaps, your head leaning into the crook of her next. "please...please-" you beg, your hips messily grinding against her lap.

"use your words." her hand slides up, rubbing your back almost tenderly for how worked up she is. "go on."

"please...i- i need...i want-" your head already feels fuzzy, the soft ringing of the bell on your collar making your mind go blank as you mindlessly chase pleasure. "dehya!"

you sound so desperate, much like a sweet little kitty in heat. you whine and mewl for her, your back arched. she's almost starting to believe that costume is just part of you.

she tugs the top down, baring your breasts as her hands slide up, cupping your chest. you arch up, shoving them towards her as you grind your cunt against her bulge.

she swipes her thumbs over your nipples, eyeing the way they perk up, her rough tongue teasing them both before she rips the bodysuit right off, tossing you onto the seat beside her.

despite her size, she manages to slink down to the floor, kneeling, forcing your thighs open to accommodate her. she runs her clawed fingers up your thighs, feeling them catch on your fishnets before she merely rips a hole over your panties.

you gasp, sitting upright before she simply splays a hand over your abdomen, pushing you back down. "sit still." she growls, hooking her fingers in your panties, ripping them next.

she's hit with the scent of your cunt, the slick aroma permeating her air, her nostrils flaring. "fuck... princess..." she leans in, her breath ghosting over your flesh, looking up at you expectantly.

your hand shakily takes purchase on her head, nodding desperately. "please, please, please-"

she dives in, careful with her pointed canines as she kisses your clit, teasing you with the softened tip of her tongue, switching to dragging the rough side against you to get you to scream for her.

"oh-!" you squeal, thighs straining under her iron grip as she eats you out like a woman starved.

your back arches up, hands grabbing her hair, slightly too close to her ears as she grunts lowly, snaking her tongue inside of you.

she drags you over the edge, leaving you a panting, shaky mess on her carseat, cleaning you up dutifully. you can see she's lost in her own haze of rut, only thinking of pleasing you; her pretty mate.

her brain has convinced her you really are a kitty... just begging for her to fill you up, to breed you. she can see it now, how perfect you'd look raising her kits together. and from the way you arch up into her mouth, all desperate and whiny, any other thoughts are tossed out the window.

she sits up next to you, palming her cock as you crawl over to her lap. "wanna suck me off, huh, pretty girl?" she grins, teeth glinting in the light as she tugs her suit-slacks down, the hardness bobbing up against her shirt.

she drags her hand right down the fabric, the buttons flying off as her toned abdomen was exposed. her cock leaned towards her skin, causing her to hiss as pre-cum dripped down her abs. she wrapped a firm hand around her base as you eagerly leaned in.

you pressed sweet little kisses to her tip, letting her see the pre-cum sticking to your lips like gloss. you slide your lips and tongue down the prominent vein in her cock, the slick coating your cheeks.

such a messy little thing...

your lips slowly slide down onto her, struggling to take the thickness down your throat as you look up with wide eyes. "you can take it." she assures you, a heavy hand on your head pushing you down until your nose touches her pelvis and the patch of hair there.

tears fill your eyes as you try to breathe through your nose, desperate to please her like the good mate you are.

her hips fuck your throat shallowly, using you like the toy you are. she's filthy with her words, holding your head steady as she praises and degrades you repeatedly, your head spinning.

she pulls out before she can cum, much to your surprise and confusion. "i need to fuck you." she asserts, lifting you up and onto her lap, facing her with your cute expression.

"dehya-" you whimper, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm. she merely shushes you, nipping your neck.

she slides you down onto her, the both of you moaning from the feeling. it was filthy, noisy, and absolutely perfect. she can feel you dripping onto her lap as she picks you up and drops you right back down.

she can see a creamy ring forming around her base and she groans, hips slamming up into yours, drawing out sweet cries and mewls of her name. "dehya- dehya!" you claw at her shoulders, desperately grinding down on her lap.

"you're mine. my mate. mine." she mumbles to herself, delighting in how you rush to confirm it for her, even in your brainless state.

"yours! yours!" you wail for her, squeezing around her as her hips stutter.

"fuck, i have to- need to breed you- mate..." she latches onto your shoulder, biting down when you cum around her, shoving her hips up into yours as she fills you up.

your own body twitches, cunt convulsing around her cock as she laps up the blood she's drawn. "good... so good for me... good girl." she purrs, keeping you plugged up on her lap, licking at your skin to soothe you from your overwhelmed noises.

she pets you like a little cat, keeping you close to her. yet, unlike usual, she's still hard inside of you. she sees your head lift up, giving her a curious look as she laughs. "you didn't think we were done, did you?" she wraps a hand around your throat. "you'll have the time it takes us to get home to recover. i need more room to fuck you properly."

she laughs, wrapping her discarded jacket back around you, buttoning it up. "a damn shame you planned your little rouse during my rut, yeah?" she watches you look up with a fucked out expression already, clearly not having expected this. "well... a shame for you, huh?"

it seemed that such a silly little idea really could transpire into your cunt being sore for days... and the potential for kits on the way.

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pedrospatch · 2 years ago

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fall into temptation | one

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 8.4k

Jackson, Wyoming

Fall 2024

Joel had seen him around the community before.

He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.

Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?

Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.

Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.

Joseph? Was that it?

He couldn’t be certain.

Not that Joel really even cared to know his name.

It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face.

Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.

In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.

But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?

They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.

Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them.

The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that.

Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened.

All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?

“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”

She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah.

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”

His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing.

“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”

His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.

“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”

He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”

“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him.

“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”

Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”

“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”

“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”

“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol.

Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.

Shit.

He’d been caught gawking.

He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late.

Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head.

Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse.

Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.

“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”

Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”

Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”

“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”

You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.

“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”

Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.

“She really as innocent as she seems?”

“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig.

Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly.

“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”

Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?”

Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”

“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”

He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”

Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”

Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”

“And the old man doesn’t know?”

“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”

He smirked. “Which part?”

“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”

“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”

“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”

He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”

“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”

“How’s she been holdin’ up?”

“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”

Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door.

As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.

You were leaving. Alone.

In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?

She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself.

Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.

Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet.

Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening.

Kent was going after you.

Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.

Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.

Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around.

You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent.

That couldn’t fucking be good.

“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

That’s when he heard it.

The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh.

“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”

Red.

It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs.

“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”

Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”

The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two.

Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist.

“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”

You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.

A single tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”

“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.

But he’d heard it loud and clear.

“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”

Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.

If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard.

Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face.

“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”

He nodded. “Un—Understood.”

“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”

Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley.

Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more.

Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.

You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.

Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you.

You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet.

“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it.

“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”

Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”

Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”

“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.

Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”

Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest.

Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you.

You really were too good.

“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”

“Please?”

That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.

Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face.

“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”

“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.

“That really ain’t necessary.”

“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”

There it was again.

Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours.

Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”

Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”

When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards.

Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.”

You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”

“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”

Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”

“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”

“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”

You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you.

“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”

“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”

You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?

Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”

“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?”

“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.”

“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.

Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”

Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin.

Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side.

“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted.

You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”

Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship.

You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring.

“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls.

There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk.

“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”

“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered.

Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”

You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.

There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar.

It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else.

Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.

He averted his eyes, turning away from it.

Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world.

A fucking slab of carved wood.

Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13

“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.

“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder.

“No offense taken, Joel.”

Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”

“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”

He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”

Smiling politely, you told him your name.

Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.

“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”

His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt.

Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers.

“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church.

You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.

“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.

Your answer took him by complete surprise.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.

“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”

“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”

“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”

“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”

“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”

“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”

You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.

“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”

“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly.

“Joel—”

“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”

Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words.

You had never thought about it like that before.

Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him.

He was right, after all.

Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”

You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”

“What is it?”

Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”

He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”

You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”

“The wrong path?”

You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”

“By controllin’ you.”

It had been a statement, not a question.

Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”

There was another short bout of silence.

Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone.

He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.

Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.

His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.

Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse.

“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”

“S’right.”

You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”

Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee.

“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”

“Why not?”

His answer was honest. “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.

Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.

Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables?

“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone.

Want, sure.

He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther.

But Joel didn’t just want you.

He fucking needed you.

And he didn’t know why.

“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain.

Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?”

You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you.

You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”

Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek.

Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body.

Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”

“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”

“I—I want you to kiss me.”

Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours.

You heard him chuckle softly.

“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”

“Please.”

“S’much better.”

Your heart pounded with anticipation.

It was almost too much for you to handle.

Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.

It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss.

The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

And what about you?

Where the fuck had your common sense gone?

Probably ran off together with Joel’s.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”

You were having none of it.

None.

Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench.

“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”

Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss.

Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours.

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”

Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you?

He couldn’t. Simple as that.

“You sure ‘bout this?”

Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”

Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself?

Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit.

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further.

Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance.

You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat.

Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt.

“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline.

Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”

Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.

“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”

You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise.

“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”

“You, Joel. I need you.”

His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt.

Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else.

You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.

“Darlin’ are you—?”

You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.

Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t.

Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”

“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud.

“You’re a what?”

Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.

“Turn around, sweet girl.”

Joel’s command was firm but still gentle.

Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest.

“Look at me.”

You tried, but couldn’t.

“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”

He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.

Close, but somehow not close enough.

Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.

You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson.

The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God.

You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.

“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”

“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”

“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”

Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”

Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?”

You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.

“Yes, please.”

“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”

You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?

He almost laughed at your expression.

“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”

“But Joel—”

“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”

Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.

“Of course,” you breathed.

You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller self insert #the last of us fic #pedro pascal characters #fic: fall into temptation

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lay-z · 2 months ago

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✨️ Day 4 ‒ Mama's boy

Synopsis: Captain Price knows he can count on his team; no matter what and no matter when. He knows it and his soldiers know it, too. 1–4–1. Still, to say you were shocked when he’d asked you to play his darling girlfriend at his annual family Christmas gathering, is an understatement.

Pairing: John Price x fem!Reader Warnings/Info: No smut. | military!Reader; humour; fake dating (or is it???); awkward flirting; sexual tension; cussing; fluff; happy ending; teammates to lovers

Word count: 2.4k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

This is for the lovely @staytrueblue ! You've become the absolute Captain John Price expert to me. Hope you'll like it! 🩵

You pick at the hem of your dress; deep red velvet with elegant long sleeves, a tight top with a Carmen neckline which allows a peek of the soft curve of your shoulders, and a bottom that flows seamlessly into a skirt that reaches just above your knees.

A white pearl choker adorns your neck, along with the matching earrings. You’ve done your hair and make-up, and added a spritz of your most expensive perfume – and you don’t question yourself why you’re even doing this much, but perhaps it’s simply the all-consuming urge to please and impress your Captain, like an eager pup with its owner.

You’ve cleaned up nicely for tonight and you’d be more focused on that if it wasn’t for that tight ball of anxiety manifesting deep down in your gut since this whole ruse had taken root a few days ago. It didn’t help when Price gave you a genuine compliment after picking you up from your apartment on base, either.

Trying to relax back into the soft leather of the passenger seat, you decide to glance out of the window and distract yourself by watching the steady storm of snowflakes flutter furiously outside, covering the scenery in fresh powdery snow while the engine of the car purrs steadily.

Aston Martin Vantage. V8. British racing green. Jet-black rims. Sleek interior. Holy shit.

You’ve never sat in a car like this before, nor did you expect Price to own something fancy and flashy like this. Then again, you didn’t expect him to ask for this favour, either.

“Would you stop worrying, darling? You’ll be fine.”

Your eyebrow quirks as you glance at Price, giving him a side-eye as you hear how casually he drops that pet name in that gruff voice of his. It shouldn’t feel like this, this right, shouldn’t make the hair at the back of your neck bristle this pleasantly.

Darling.

“Getting into character already, sir?” You can’t help but ask teasingly, unable not to take the piss out of this whole situation you’ve found yourself in.

Your Captain and superior asking you, one of his Sergeants of all people, to accompany him to his annual family Christmas get together, and what a shit show it is going to be. You’re sure of it.

However, Price huffs, brows furrowing as he keeps his sharp eyes focused on the snowy road.

“Might as well,” he counters curtly, “and stop calling me ‘sir’, will ya? We’re not on duty and I need this – us – to be believable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you make a dismissive gesture with your hand, pondering for a moment before turning your head to really take a good look at him this time.

John looks handsome, too handsome and too civilian, wearing a dark grey chequered pair of chino pants that accentuates his firm rear a little too well, with black dress shoes and a simple black turtleneck sweater that stretches over his broad chest, shoulders and bulging biceps.

The cab of his car is cosy warm and filled with the scent of his tangy yet subtle cologne, a smell that makes you want to hook a finger into the hem of his turtleneck sweater, tug the fabric down to expose his neck and then bury your nose in it to take a sniff.

Yes, no, you’re absolutely normal about all of this.

Your eyelashes flutter as you blink those thoughts away at once, clearing your throat awkwardly.

“So, uh... W-What should I call you, then? Honey buns? Babe?” You quip and cringe internally at your own joke, though you’re gauging his reaction as he drives over to his parents' house.

“Baby? ... Good boy?”

His jaw clenches under his beard, you can see it in the way his temple twitches, and the leather of the steering wheel creaks softly as he grips it tighter. Interesting.

“John is fine,” he answers eventually, “Sweetheart or love if you’re feeling bold enough after a glass of wine, ya bloody lightweight.”

“Sweetheart... Love...” You repeat those pet names quietly, testing them out on your tongue regarding him, still your Captain and superior – and the man you’ve been harbouring feelings for, for the past few years, if you’ll finally start to be really honest with your damn self.

“Okay, I can do that.”

He reaches over and pats your knee; the warmth of his rough palm seeping through the thin fabric of your black tights, “I know you can, darling.”

The first few minutes were incredibly awkward, but that’s just you – being incredibly awkward in general.

Put yourself in any gunfight, jumping out of planes, fake dating Gaz or Soap for a mission, or stalking a target for days on end without a break – no problemo, – but social interactions outside of the field? One such as this?

Oh, boy.

However, you stick to the plan, to the detailed briefing John has given you prior to tonight, and it does seem to work.

His father, William, is surprisingly chatty, but you could also already smell the bourbon on his breath when he went in for a brief hug at the front door.

His mother, Margaret, though, she’s not an easy read, and you quickly realize where your Captain got his steadfastness from. A proper lady who’s obviously the head of this household. He’s got her piercing eyes and appraising look, and you know you’re being scrutinized thoroughly, but she’s friendly enough and gives you space, though you’re already anticipating the moment she’s going to herd you away from her son to put you through the wringer like a wet kitchen towel.

His older brother, Robert, wife Deborah, and two kids, Luke and Ben, are easy to fool, though it seems old Bobby gets a kick out of trying to make his younger brother and especially you flustered. It doesn’t work on John, but after a first glass of wine, you have to admit that it does work on you.

Robert is even less funny than John and that’s just because he’s trying too hard; trying too hard to make everyone like him, and you wonder why John lets him get away with it, but then again, Robert’s the firstborn son, so maybe it’s just the respect John is forced to have for his older brother that’s holding him back. Classical sibling and brother hierarchies, and all of that.

“Say, how did Johnny even manage to woe a woman like you? He’s as charming as an ice pick that one.” Robert dares to ask during dinner, and you actually get offended by that.

“Charming enough for me,” you retort, staring daggers at him and wishing you had an ice pick to throw right about now, “I prefer a straightforward man over some bootlicker.”

Deborah laughs while Robert looks bewildered, eyes flickering between you and John, who’s seated next to you. You cringe internally at yet another blunder, but then you see John’s smug smile out of the corner of your eyes, and his hand finds your knee again under the table, lingering there for the remainder of dinner.

His mother keeps watching and observing from her seat across from you at the long table, a small smile tugging at the corner of her red-painted, wrinkly lips.

John’s younger sister, Alice, shows up right after dinner, before everyone is moved back into the spacious living room to exchange presents; with the large, decorated Christmas tree looming in the corner next to the fireplace, where the birch wood is already crackling nicely.

Alice is an artist, a photographer, living in Paris. Her flight got delayed due to the weather, hence why she’s late. It’s clear by the way John pulls her into a tight hug while simultaneously calling her a muppet that he prefers her over Robert.

She’s a cold breeze of fresh air; a whirlwind full of buzzing energy, joy and kindness, and she would almost be too much for you in any other situation, but when she embraces you gleefully and welcomes you into the family, it’s too easy to get lost in that fantasy for a moment.

This whole ruse is starting to turn cruel on you, really.

Especially, when John’s large and warm hand comes to rest on the small of your back, just above the curve of your rear, once Alice demands to take a picture of you two in front of the Christmas tree. You glance up at him as he towers next to you, smiling boyishly at his little sister while he pulls you closer into his side, one arm curling around your waist and making you go somewhat rigid as you practically feel his strength and dominance radiating off his body, and there is a touch of possession in the way he’s holding you, too.

Or perhaps, you’re simply imagining it.

A sudden camera flash goes off, blindsiding you momentarily and you blink away the dots blurring your vision when Alice speaks up again.

“Alright, thanks for the mugshot, cherié,” she quips, snapping her fingers at you as if to wake you up, “Give me a good one now, aye? I need to capture proof that John actually brought a woman home for once. Look at your poor man; bloody sap’s completely infatuated with you.”

Infatuated? You blink dumbly and glance up at him instinctively as if to check for that yourself, acting as if you could tell how said infatuation would even look like.

And then, your stomach drops and the blood in your veins starts simmering, toes curling in your pumps to ground yourself as soon as your eyes lock with his slightly glazed, steel blue eyes, like a steady flow of ice melting in a rivulet.

Sometime, somehow, in this moment, your hand reaches up to rest on his chest, manicured fingers splaying over the fabric of his sweater to feel his strong heartbeat thudding against your palm–

... and then, Alice coos at you two – breaking the spell.

“Yes! That’s more like it, cherié!”

You excuse yourself after Alice gets the perfect picture to her liking, and before John can follow you, his mother urgently calls out to him, asking for his help in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, you almost feel bad that Alice’s family photo album will have a staged picture of a fake relationship in it, one that will taint it with a big, fat lie.

It shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be here tonight and yet, you are, after having agreed way too quickly and eagerly to the Captain’s request to play his girlfriend and help getting his family to back off.

Now, you find yourself wandering the hallways upstairs of his old family home, where he grew up in, you’d learned; sipping your glass of white wine absentmindedly while you study the rows upon rows of pictures littering the walls, like a walkway through time.

It feels like overstepping a boundary, but John should’ve expected you, a trained special forces soldier, to sneak off at some point to snoop around a bit; he never explicitly told you not to, after all.

You get stuck on graduation pictures of all three siblings, though your eyes linger on John, standing at attention in his dress uniform; tall, handsome, very beardless and fifteen years younger, at least, and you catch your smile before it can spread into something too fond.

Taking another slow sip, you feel a familiar presence behind you; still, you wait for him to address you first and maybe chew you out for being nosy.

“Don’t get caught up in the past, darling,” his gruff voice cuts through the peaceful silence, “I’ve long lost that youthful charm and vigour.” He chuckles gruffly.

Darling. There it is again.

“You can drop the act when we’re alone,” you mumble into the glass as you take another sip, trying to get rid of that damn flutter of nerves deep in your stomach, “I’m positive we’ve fooled them well enough tonight, sir.”

His footsteps are dulled by the carpet covering the hardwood floor as he keeps approaching you from behind, and your grip tightens around the wine glass, nearly shattering the delicate glass, when John’s powerful arms come to wrap around your midriff from behind; his buff body moulding against your back like it’s meant to be.

Admittedly, you go rigid again, holding your breath, stiff as a board.

His breath is warm, a hint of smooth bourbon catching in your nostrils as he leans in to murmur against your ear while his arms tighten around your waist, “I told you to stop calling me ‘sir’, haven’t I? Mhm, darling?”

You shudder involuntarily in his sudden embrace, this forbidden intimacy, breath hitching as your brain begins to short-circuit at once.

“Yeah… You did,” you croak out, voice coming out too breathlessly for your own liking, “But there’s no one to fool here right now, John.”

His chest rumbles and reverberates against your back with something like a pleased hum when you use his first name.

“Not trying to fool anyone, love. ’s just you and me now. ‘sides–”

He then nuzzles his nose against the exposed juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, trailing the tip of his nose along the smooth curve while his beard scratches over your skin pleasantly.

“My bloody mother knew the moment we stepped over the threshold of this house. Thought I’d trained ya better than tha’, Sergeant, or were you not faking any of this after all, hm?”

Despite your better judgement, you allow yourself to lean into his embrace, feeling his body heat seeping through the velvety fabric of your dress.

“Were you?” You counter-ask overzealously, tongue loosened by the alcohol you’ve already consumed, before biting down on your bottom lip, though you can’t take your question back to swallow the words like you probably should have.

“Faking it… I mean.” You add, clearing your throat awkwardly as you continue clutching your wine glass.

There is a heavy pause, one that has your pulse thrumming violently in your neck with each passing second of his silence, until John’s low, gravelly voice murmurs, his lips brushing over that sensitive spot right below your ear.

“Thought I was already being terribly obvious, darling.”

#call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #john price #cod:mw #tf 141 #reader insert #cod advent calendar 2024

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thewritergx · 1 month ago

Text

Lake Tahoe: Rafe Cameron x Thornton F!Reader

Summary: Rafe spends Christmas with the Thornton's on their yearly trip to Lake Tahoe when his feelings for the shy girl become too much to handle. I was supposed to post this like two weeks ago, but I got extremely busy, so happy late Christmas. I hope ya'll like this because it was a total bitch to write.

Warnings: Drinking, Mention of lost loved one (Rafe’s papa), Smut Containing: Soft!Rafe x F!Reader, Topper's little sister, Kissing, Begging (by both parties but mostly Rafe), Dry Humping, Oral (F!Receiving), Unprotected P in V, Cumming in your mouth.

Word Count: 5K

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Please feel free to like and repost. Click here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @cafekitsune.

The bar is dimly lit, a warm glow from stripes of red and green Christmas lights cast shadows across the low-set tables. Conversations from couples and friends echo off the wall, blending into a quiet hum under soft piano music. Snow falls outside, covering the building in a thick pristine powder. It grows heavier, white flakes swirling in a biting wind. The ground is coated in a thick layer of pale white, covering any signs of the road or sidewalk. The wind howls a fierce and chilling gust that vibrates the bar's windows.

It wasn’t like you hated snow, but the cold never set well on your skin. You were used to sixty-degree winters with the occasional rain, a heavy contrast to the twenty-degrees and constant snow of Lake Tahoe. Your family has been visiting Nevada for the past three years. Slay rides, hot coffee, and campfires always made the trip fun, but it was growing old, and less exciting with each repeated year. Rafe joining the family breathed new life into the trip, an excitement dancing on your skin as his shoulders brushed against you on the seven-hour plane ride. You had hoped you were hiding it well, the lingering feeling of need that crept up anytime Rafe was around.

You spot Rafe from across the bar, his tall frame clad in a thick sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearms to expose his tan skin. The soft material clings to his chest, a gold chain dangling from his neck. Rafe’s eyes lock onto you, watching the way you ease across the bar and settle on the stool next to him. His eyes rake over you, taking in every detail from your boots to the way your hair falls down your back. He takes a pondering sip of his bourbon, the golden liquid settling on his lips as he swallows. His dark green eyes meet yours in silence, your cheeks and nose rosey from the cold.

“You want a drink?” Rafe blows a quiet huff of air, an intense broodiness clinging to him like a second skin. He glances over at you, a cocky half smile formed at the corner of his mouth, his voice low and smooth under the music.

“What are you drinking?” You ask, turning your body to him.

Rafe smirks at the question, a hint of amusement you rarely see. “You’re not going to like it”. His eyes flicker over you. A low gruff as he chuckles hits your ears, another rarity.

“Let me try it.” You furrow your eyebrows, examining the ice that clings against the glass.

Rafe studies your face for a moment, that cocky smile creeping up again before he pushes his glass towards you. “Sure, but don't say I didn't warn you”, he replies, watching as you wrap your mouth around the rim of the glass, lips landing right where he previously was.

Your face turns sour, lips puckering as you swallow the cold drink. “What is that?” You laugh, whipping your lips with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

Rafe grins, his green eyes dancing with amusement. “It's just an old fashioned. Nothing crazy,” he chuckles. “Told you, you wouldn't like it.” Rafe gestures to the bartender, signaling them over with a wave of his hand. Even away from the Outer Banks, he has people at his beck and call.

“Can I get a vodka cran? Put it on my tab” He instructs the bartender, waiting as the man dressed in all black brings back a glass. “Here, you look like the type.”

“Hey, what does that mean?” You laugh, placing your hand on his warm chest. You would never tell Rafe, but Vodka had always been your go-to.

Rafe studies you again, peering down as a spark of green glimmers against the Christmas lights. His gaze falls down his body, landing on the way your hand lingers against him. “Nothing. I can tell you prefer it sweet, not too strong.” He clears his throat, his tone a playful mockery as he leans closer into you.

You shudder at his words, a slight shiver running through you as you grab the glass from his hands, fingers ghosting over his.

“Cold?” He asks, his expression soft.

“I’m freezing. I wish my parents would pick somewhere warmer for vacations”, you mumble, taking another quick sip.

“Here. Take my jacket.” You watch as Rafe grabs his jacket, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he places it around you. He drapes it over your shoulders, hands brushing the fabric up and down to create a warm friction on your skin.

You nodded your head, a quiet “thank you” scarcely audible over the music as you pressed your legs firmly together.

“Have you seen Topper?” You glance around the room, looking for any sign of your brother. He was supposed to be here having dinner with you and the rest of the family. It was just like him to run off, quickly leaving you and Rafe behind as he partied with some random girl. Your voice is less than thrilled, a dash of annoyance in your tone.

“I saw him leave a while around”, Rafe smiled, “had some blonde chick with him”. Topper had been a good friend, but Rafe was lying if he said he considered him a real, true friend. If Rafe was being completely honest, he only accepted the invitation to your family's vacation to spend more time with you, the girl he was reluctantly pinning over for the last year and a half.

Growing up, Rafe was constantly by Topper's side. When someone asked, he would say they were best friends or that he was like a brother to him. But in the back of his mind, Rafe knew. He knew the only thing still tying him to Topper was you. You were always lingering close by, a constant presence in his peripheral vision. Rafe didn't know when it happened but he stopped hanging out with your brother to spend time with him and switched to getting quick off-hand glances of you. You would be laid up by the pool, a tiny bikini clinging to your tanned skin, or sitting in your living room with a book, your legs spread out over the polyester. Everything about you pulled him in, a yearning he had kept quiet for far, far too long. You were a constant tease, always lurking in the background of his life. Just close enough to make you impossible to ignore but always out of his reach.

Now, he was stuck here with you, your hands lingering on him like a warm blanket. He was never a big fan of Christmas, especially not now that his father was dead and the rest of his family was refusing to speak to him. He hated to admit it, but the only choice he had for this Christmas was to third-wheel on your trip. He felt out of place, like a burden to everyone around him, even if Topper had guaranteed that he was welcome to accompany the family.

Rafe glimpses at the windows, watching the heavy snow fall silently. “Is it always like this?” Rafe stands motionless next to you, taking a big swig of his whiskey to cover the slight concern in his voice.

“No,” You laugh, watching the way his shoulders tense. “A storm is coming through. It’ll pass”.

“I don’t like it”, Rafe mumbles, his grip on the glass becoming strained. “Maybe we should get going. The hotel is just a block down. I’ll walk with you.”

“Okay,” You mutter, swallowing the remainder of your vodka. “You want your jacket back?”

“I’ll manage”. Rafe places a firm hand on your waist, his jacket loosely hanging as you stand from the stool. His grip is protective, a warm presence against the chilling air. “Besides, you look like you need it more than me. You’re shaking”.

He slips his hand in yours, fingers encasing yours as he leads you past the crowd and towards the exit door. Electricity surges through you, a hot blush covering your cheeks.

Rafe’s motions are fluid, the muscles in his back tensing under his sweater and he guides you into the cold night air. The frozen ground crunches under your feet, echoing in the silence between you. Rafe groans, the cold air hitting his face with an unexpected violence. He keeps his grip tight in your hands, a reassuring warmth in the freezing temperature.

Rafe leads you through the front door of the hotel. The lobby is a quiet ghost town, only a couple of the hotel staff linger behind the front desk. The air between you is still, almost like a storm is not raging just outside the thick walls. Rafe’s fingers finally loosen in yours, his eyes trailing over you as he gently brushes a bit of snow from your cheeks.

“I’ve got a fireplace in my room.” His fingers dance across your soft skin, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he loiters against your cheek, tracing along your jawline. “You can come warm up”. His eyes lock on yours, watching the way you shudder against his touch.

“Oh, u-um…o-okay,” you whisper, your eyes meeting Rafe’s as he towers over, his body close enough to fill yours with warmth.

The elevator ride is quiet, your breath hitching as Rafe presses the button to the fifth floor. He leads you towards the room, his strides are quick and calculated against the carpeted hallway. He stops at room 514, pulling out a key card, and quickly unlocking the bedroom door. Rafe gestures you inside the spacious room, an elegant and comfortable room dominated by a large fireplace. Soft carpet blankets the floor, a queen bed in the center.

“You look very pretty, by the way”, Rafe clears his throat, standing awkwardly in the doorframe, his hands stiff by his side.

“You think I’m pretty?” You mumble, a shy nervousness causing your eyes to fall to the floor.

Rafe shuffles, taking a step towards you. In a single passing second his body is pressed against you, his hand resting on your chin to force your eyes on his.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful,” he smiles, tracing the plump skin of your lips with the pad of his thumb. It’s a gentle motion, one that forces a red-hot blush on your cheeks. You search for anywhere to look, darting your eyes between Rafe and the doorway.

“Getting shy on me, princess?” Rafe smiles, the hand on your lips traveling down to your jawline, tracing every inch of the velvety skin. You nod your head in a deafening silence, unable to stop the involuntary trembling of your body.

In all the years of knowing Rafe, he had never been this close. He never even made a pass at you. You figured he must not be into you, the way he used to frown at you from across the room at parties.

“It’s okay, I knew you would be. My shy, little girl”. His hands fell to the zipper of the jacket he had placed around you, slowly pulling the cold metal down until it clicked loose. His hand brushed against your shoulder, fingers hooking the thick material until it was falling down your waist onto the floor.

“Rafey,” you finally speak, your breath low and fatigued. You force yourself to look at him, studying the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart between yours, hands falling to the small of your back to pull you fully into him, your arms resting around his neck.

“Can I kiss you, princess?” Rafe’s voice is barely a whisper, almost inaudible in the white noise of the snow crashing down outside.

You try to respond, begging yourself to say that simple three-letter word, but your voice is stuck deep in the back of your throat. Instead, you give him an exasperated whine, your eyes pleading for his touch.

Rafe almost laughs, watching you squirm into him, your legs pressing tightly together. As much as he wanted to laugh, and release some of the thick tension built up, nothing was funny. He wished it was humorous, watching you try to fight off the desperation your body was echoing, but it was serious, deadly in the way your little moan sent an intoxicating jolt straight to his cock.

His eyes darted between yours, studying the way your eyelashes peered up at him. He bowed his head, bending his shoulder as leaned into you. Rafe’s small breaths ghosted over your lips, the grip on your back turning to iron. Every muscle in him tenses, his forearms flexing against your body.

Rafe groans, finally meeting your lips in the kiss he has spent years daydreaming of. It’s deep and insistent, his tongue gliding past your lips to explore the warmth of your mouth. He pulls you impossibly closer, molding your molding into his until you are practically one. A raw intensity ripples through him, burning just beneath the surface of his skin as his tongue dances along yours, prompting a low moan from your throat to echo into him. It vibrates through him, his body stiff and hard as his hands roam over you. Every curve, every soft dip is met with a possessive touch, his fingers tracing red hot patterns over the fabric of your clothes. His movements are slow, calculated even under the intoxication of your lips. His hands make a home on your sides, cold fingers gently slipping under the hem of the warm fabric of your sweater. Fire burns through him, the sensation of your smooth skin sending bolts of electricity straight to his cock. Rafe’s hands continue on a dangerous trail upwards, calloused fingers caressing your stomach and ribs.

Rafe’s lips leave yours, both gasping for air as he trails down your cheek, kissing a sloppy path down your jawline to your neck. You whisper his name, all shaky and out of breath as his teeth scrape at the skin, sucking a crimson mark easily seen by others. You should stop him, but your mind is in a daze. Whatever neurons in charge of firing were clearly asleep, your only thought focused on the way his hands travel up your shirt. His fingers trace the outlines of lace, feather-light and reverent as he lingers against the hem of your bra. He takes his time, eyes locked on yours as he teases the material, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern of the fabric before he cups your breast in one hand, his palm warm and firm against your flesh.

Your hands fall to Rafe’s chest, the gentle rising and falling of each breath expanding his muscles under your touch. He shivers at the contact, squeezing the subtle fat of your breast.

Rafe stands motionless for a moment, his only action the gentle caressing of his hands running up and down your sides. His eyes roam your face in thought, wondering just how far you’ll let him take this. His hands grip your hips tighter, his thumbs stroking the bare skin between your shirt and pants, as he gazes down at you with a look of conflicted desire.

“Can I-Will you let me…Fuck, you got me all messed up, princess.” His voice is shaky, the usual roughness betrayed by a yearning need of desire. He clears his throat, swallowing hard as his eyes flutter closed. For a moment he just breathes, holding you against him in a stoic mystery of private thoughts. “I want you…I-If you let me. I p-promise I'll make you feel fucking good. I’ll be gentle. J-just please, please let me inside you. God, I need you so bad, baby.” The words come spilling out of him, like a rush of freedom granted after a thousand years of silence. You swear he’s staring into your soul and you can’t help but wrap your lips around his again, this time a hungry desperate action, leaving a layer of his saliva around your mouth.

That’s all Rafe needs. The confirmation that you want him, that you need almost as much as he does. Rafe grabs at your thighs, a sickening desperation as he hoists you up to wrap your legs around his waist. His hands grip under your ass, squeezing at the fat concealed by a pair of denim jeans. His tongue dances in your throat, his steps messy and uncalculated as he searches for the bed.

The kiss grows more heated and desperate as his hands grip onto your ass, squeezing and kneading at the flesh there before he drops you on the bed, his hips pushing against yours in an anguished attempt for any kind of friction. His body traps you, your back pressed into the warm soft mattress and his muscular frame.

Rafe breaks the kiss, leaving your chest heaving as he gazes down at you with pleading lust-dark eyes. “C-can I take t-this off?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse as he tugs gently at the hem of your shirt. “Please, please let me see you.”

Never would you have expected Rafe to be so tender, the way he begged for just a hint of you almost making you cum right there. “Oh god, yes. Please Rafey, I-I need you,” you whine, your back arching off the bed and into his chest.

Rafe's eyes darken with desire at your words, his control snapping at the way you cried out for him.

“I know, baby. I got you”, he groans, his hands gripping your shirt tightly and quickly pulling it over your head. He tosses the fabric to the floor, his eyes roving over your exposed skin with a longing admiration. "So fucking pretty," he murmurs, his hands running up your sides and caressing your flesh.

Rafe's gaze drops to your bra, his eyes fixed on the lace that covers your breasts. He stares at the thin material, reaching out to caress one of the straps with a shaky hand, his eyes still locked on the way your tits bounce free. Rafe's hands are quick, his fingers falling to your back and unhooking the bra with trembling motions. He drags it down your arms, his eyes ghosting over your bare chest. He swears for a moment he dies, brought back to life by the way your hard nipples sit erect in the air, the subtle pink bud breathing new life into him.

"Fuck," he mutters, his hands immediately coming up to touch your skin. His fingers trace over your flesh, kneading fists full of fat before attaching your nipples between his fingers. Little moans flow out of you, your hips bucking into his relentlessly.

“So soft”. His voice is hardly above a whisper as he peppers wet kisses down your collarbone landing on the bone that separates your breast. He licks a long strip between the two mounds, slipping a nipple between his teeth and sucking. He bobs his head a bit, the swollen bud becoming impossibly harder as his warm tongue teases you.

“Rafey”, you whine, the unfamiliar gentleness of his touch relaxing your body. Your hands fall on his hair, the dirty blonde locks almost too short for you to grasp. He loves the way your hips writhe into him, just as pathetic and needy as him. He gasps at the feeling, his hard cock pressing against you. Even through layers of jeans, you feel him, hard and tight. Rafe growls around your nipple and presses himself against you until you're a grinding mess of moans and whimpers.

“Are you trying to make yourself cum like that, princess?” This time, he lets out a chuckle watching your failing attempt to get off on him. He hovers over you, snapping his hips against yours as your head falls onto his shoulder. “Let me help you,” he smirks, shuffling above you. He stands at the foot of the bed, fumbling at the button of your jeans. His fingers are shaking, his breath hitching as they tug at the fabric, quickly pulling the annoyance down your legs. You're left in a pair of thin panties, the light blue fabric becoming more of a dark grey as your arousal soaks the material, an obvious mark of how undone Rafe has already left you.

He towers over you, green eyes a shade darker than normal as he spreads your legs. A newfound confidence washes over him, and he’s pulling his sweater off in a swift motion. His tan muscles hit the cold air, his eyes roaming over the way your pussy lips are outlined, in clear view even though the panties hugging at your sides. He almost loses right there, watching you all sprawled out and begging for him.

Rafe undoes his jeans, his movements quick and urgent as he tries to get them off, throwing them off the bed with a light ‘thud’. You can’t help but stare, mouth watering at the way his boxers press against him, a large bulge pulling at the fabric.

Rafe’s motions are smooth as he positions himself on the bed, his back against the bed frame, pillows keeping him at a ninety-degree angle. You grasp your waist, pulling each leg by his thighs so you're straddling him. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he pushes you back in forth on his clothed cock. Even through his boxers, he can feel your slick wetness, his fingers digging into your sides as you buck into him.

“That’s it. Fuck, grind my cock baby.” That’s all he has to say before you’re throwing your head back, bouncing your tits in his face as you practically ride him. Sharp gasps escape you, the smooth skin of your thighs pressed against his as your hips stir in a string of circular motions, massaging your clit with his hard cock.

Fuck,” he growls between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as his eyes flutter close. “You…you gotta slow down baby”. He knew he wouldn’t make much longer for his cum to spill out of him, not with you crying above him and using him like some kind of sex toy. Rafe dragged a finger to your panties, quickly rubbing soft motions with his thumb, circling your clit with gentle strokes.

It’s enough to push you just over the edge of no return, your legs already shaking as your stomach tightens. “Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, your hand grabbing at Rafe’s shoulders.

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me baby?” He growls, pulling your hips harder against him and rubbing his thumb faster.

You nod your head, crashing your lips against his as your orgasm hits you like lightning, a single bolt sending shots of painful ecstasy to every nerve.

Rafe wraps his arms around you, still gasping for air as he flips you into your back, his body weight crashing down on you.

His hands dig into the hem of your panties, his eyes fixed on the fabric as if he’s completely entranced, not a care in the world other than what’s concealed underneath. "I need to taste you," he mutters, his voice gravelly with need. "Can I taste you?"

His words sent an uninvited shiver through you, your cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. You fight not to turn away, a gasp leaving your lips as he spreads your legs.

Rafe was no stranger to your shyness, always turning away when he looked too long or brushed against you. His eyes roamed over you, fingers lightly brushing your thighs. “Don't get all shy on me now,” he smirked, your adorable blush sending shockwaves to his cock. “Please, please let me do this,” he begged, lightly pulling at your panties again.

“I…O-okay,” you whined, watching your panties fall down your legs and Rafe sinks to his knees. He snaked his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he smothered your skin in soft kisses. His hand made smooth up and down motions against you, his breath hot against your core as he spread your legs, hooking your ankles around his neck.

Rafe lost it, the sight of your swollen pussy in his face. You were so fucking perfect, arousal leaking out of your dark pink hole and onto the blanket under you. He ghosted his lips over your clit, mankind small quick motions with his tongue as his fingers spread your labia apart. Your clit was so pretty, swollen, and hard against him as he sucked his lips around it.

“Fuck, ohmygod” Your words came out in one syllable, euphoria dripping from your throat as Rafe lapped at your pussy, soaking you in his salvia. His spit ran down your legs, mixing with your arousal in a warm concoction of need.

“Taste like heaven, princess. Fucking heaven” he groaned against you, vibrating your clit between his teeth. Rafe could do this hours, days even he thinks. Swirling his tongue through your folds and cleaning the mess you made against him just moments ago. The way you're moaning his name, your hips bucking into his mouth as you dig your hands in his hair, it’s too much for him to take.

“Oh, Rafe!” You pray the walls of the hotel are insulated enough to drown out your cries, your brother just on the other side. Your head falls back, spine arching in the air as you tremble around him.

Rafe needs more, needs to feel you stretching around him hopelessly as he drills into you. But he can’t rush, wanting even more in this moment for you to cum in his mouth, let him swallow every drop of wetness that falls onto his tongue.

“That’s a good girl. I knew you would like it,” he groans, sucking at your clit with vengeance. “Don’t I always take care of you?” He asks, recalling moments when he drove you home from parties or picked you up after school. He was always there, just a phone call away from rescuing you if you ever needed it.

“Ah! God, Rafe. Please, I-I’m gonna…” you were cut off by your own gasps, a second orgasm coursing through your veins.

“Good fucking girl,” Rafe growled, quickly standing to his feet and tugging his boxers down. He knows he should probably open you up with his fingers, help stretch your walls a bit before he pounds into you, but he feels like he’s got seconds to last before he’s nutting in his underwear like a bitch.

“Fuck, I need you baby. Please, can I put it in?” He whines, a sound so foreign to you, that you almost can’t recognize it’s him. Rafe tried so hard to wait for you to tell yes, but he’s already rubbing the tips of sick against your pussy, your slick wetness painting the underside of his.

Rafe grabs at your legs, pulling you farther back until your ankles hang on his shoulders. “Fuck baby, need to hear you say it. Tell me I can take you. Tell me this pussy is all for me”

The tip of cock pressed into you lightly, dangerously close to dipping inside you. Rafe can feel your walls clenching, the warmth of you on his cock destroying all the strength he has.

“Please, Rafey. It’s yours. Please, please, please,” falls from your lips, your fingers digging into the blankets as Rafe shivers his cock inside. One swift motion and you are seeing stars, the pit in your stomach filling with rapture.

Rafe swears you were made for him, taking his cock until his balls are pressed against your ass. He tries to be gentle, pulling out so tormentingly slow. He finds a steady, rhythmic pace as he slams back into you, your legs shaking like you just ran a 5K.

“Fuck, ain’t gonna last long with you squeezing me like that,” Rafe groans, pounding into you with an unforeseen violence even he didn’t know how to stop.

“I need you to cum baby, please. Cum around my cock, need it so bad.” He practically cries, biting at his hand as he watches the way your tits bounce with every thrust.

“Close,” is all the strength you have to say, your eyes clenched tight as Rafe slams into your cervix. He brings his hand to your clit, rubbing soft circles that make your mouth snap open.

“Fuck!” You scream, bucking your hips as much as movements would allow. In a second you're following his instructions. Your walls are like velvet, hugging his cock so tight he’s afraid he might not be able to stop. He growls at the thought, wishing he could flood you full of his hot thick seed.

“Shit,” he whispered through gritted teeth, pulling his cock out faster than he ever would have hoped. “Open that pottery mouth baby, fuck” Rafe grabs your hair, gently pulling you so sit just under his cock, your tongue pressed against his tip as he strokes every bit of his cum into you.

“Fucking swallow it,” he demands, pumping harder as he shoves his head passed your teeth, hitting the back of your throat as ropes of his juices fill you. Salty and bitter, but a welcomed taste you always dreamed of.

“Good girl” he whispers, watching you scope the drops running down your chin into your mouth, sucking your finger as you swallow.

“You okay,” he asks, a hint of nervousness overshadowed by breathless huffs.

“Great,” you laugh, pulling him next to you on the bed. You run your hands down his chest, the veins in his arms lightly sprinkled with sweat.

“You know I’ve always liked you more than your brother,” Rafe chuckles, running his fingers through your hair.

“Yeah, me too” you smile, sprinkling his shoulder in light kisses.

“I meant what I said at you being mine. I don’t ever want to be away from you.” Rafe pulls the blankets over your body, holding you tight as the storm outside continues to brew, the hollowing audible again.

“I meant it when I said I was yours.” You close your eyes, Rafe's strong arms warming your body.

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milkb0nny · 27 days ago

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Drift to Impress

Pairing: Dean x car obsessed fem!reader

Summary: You knew your ways around cars and handled your own one quite skillfully. Dean didn’t know until you pulled a move on him on the highway in the night.

Note: I rewatched Fast and Furious Tokyo Drift and got inspired by this clip. And oh my, what power move that would be on Dean . <3

Content: drifting, cars, heavy flirting, fluff

Word Count: 1k

You hadn’t known the Winchester brothers for long. All you knew about them was that they hunted the supernatural and that your city was heavily affected.

They had originally come into your garage after Baby got banged up and the engine started struggling. You were a mechanic - and a quite skilled one.

Cars were your passion and your lust; you adored the smell of rubber and oil, you admired the speed and power, and you loved the sound of a humming engine. All that made your heart jump. Receiving new car parts spiked your joy.

While you fixed their car, you found yourself in the company of these two gentlemen. One more stern than the other, and one more flirtatious than the other. But when you heard them talking about the missing people in your city, you grew alert. A friend of yours had vanished a few days ago, and maybe they could help you find them.

That was the start of your journey together, which had only been going on for a week. You were intrigued by their work as you dived deeper, and you found joy in helping them. You believed their theories, even if they sounded unimaginable. Though those were the only clues available; the only way of finding lost people.

And one Winchester man, in particular, charmed you in a way no one else did. He flirted with you endlessly, but you weren’t about to let him be the only cocky one on Earth.

This morning, Sam and Dean left the motel room quite early. You, on the other hand, stayed in town, researching new cases in the newsletters. As the hours passed, you lost yourself in the scattered papers and the mass of newsletters. So much text but no viable information for the case. Before you knew it, the sky turned dark, and the weather cooled.

Your eyes scanned the ink on the white paper when suddenly, you found a clue. A clue that might save lives… including your friend’s. You were quick to dial Sam on your cellphone.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Sam’s rough voice rang through your phone. He sounded distressed, probably because they hadn’t gotten closer to the damn case.

“I found something. Where are you guys at?” You said while searching your car keys in your pockets. Hell, where were they?

Dean replied, “Wait, can’t you just tell us?”

“Nah, that’d be too easy,” your cocky voice slipped out. “I don’t know if this is really something. Maybe you guys should overlook it before I give you false hope. I’m not that deep into the game.”

Sam told you their direction and read out the nearest road sign.

“We’ll drive a little slower. There’s no one out here anyway,” Sam explained before you ended the call.

In a matter of seconds, you were on the road, your engine roaring deeply, and the numbers on your dashboard climbing fast. You loved to drive this sleek, bright car with the underbody lighting, the chrome rims, and the big wing on the back. The Winchesters hadn’t seen you drive this beast yet because you usually arrived everywhere on foot and the motel wasn’t far from your apartment.

The distant hum of the engine and the occasional screech of tires set the backdrop for a night filled with adrenaline. After all, you needed to arrive quickly.

You sat behind the wheel of your midnight-black Nissan 240sx, feeling the rhythmic pulse of its engine, ready to make an impression.

You were more than ready to surprise Dean, to rob him of that cocky smile and leave him speechless.

Then you spotted them. Two men in an Impala - Baby - driving slowly yet cautiously. That’s when you decided to make your move, a grin tugging at your lips as the idea took hold. You’d done this a hundred times, pulling this move on your brothers or even your boss, but never on a man you found madly attractive.

“What’s that flashy car?” Dean’s eyebrow furrowed when he spotted the flashy lights in the rearview mirror.

Your hand gripped the steering wheel as your eyes locked onto your target. You eased the car forward, smooth and under control, catching their attention without saying a word. The boys’ eyes turned toward you, curious, just as you hit the throttle and flicked the wheel.

The Nissan spun sideways, its tires letting out a sharp screech as the back end swung around. The front bumper skimmed within inches of their car, the precision perfect, the control undeniable. The car’s tires sprayed a fine mist of water, as you effortlessly completed a flawless drift around their vehicle.

“Is that…?!” Sam asked, surprised, clearly in shock that you’d do something so reckless.

Dean was speechless, just as you’d anticipated. He’d never encountered a woman taking such a risk just to impress him. Yet, there you were, a wide grin on your lips.

Your car slid to a halt beside them, its engine purring confidently, as if it knew it had just stolen the show. Hell yeah, you did.

The window rolled down, and you leaned out slightly, your gaze sharp and playful. “Hope I didn’t startle you,” you said, your voice dripping with charm.

Dean smirked, leaning slightly forward, his flirtatious voice matching yours. “That was bold,” he replied, his tone teasing. “But can you do it twice?”

Your grin widened as you revved the engine, the sound echoing through the night. “Stick around,” you said. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

You handed the clues and sheets of paper through the car window, for Dean to give to Sam.

Sam was grateful for having something to distract him from the tension that hung between you two. Though, attention swiftly shifted.

“You got it,” Sam said enthusiastically. “Let us check that out.”

“Say no more.”

With that, you shifted gears, the car launching forward with a burst of speed, leaving the faint scent of burnt rubber. The look on Dean’s face was worth all the rubber your expensive tires lost, and Dean’s heart raced just as fast as your car did.

“Damn…”

#supernatural dean #dean x reader #sam and dean #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #spn #spnfandom #spn fanfic #supernatural

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hanibalistic · 10 days ago

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HIT DOG HOLLER, HIT DOG'S COLLAR | JAKE SIM.

genre | fluff, angst / hurt comfort au

synopsis | when a dog was surrendered to the shelter you worked it, you had no other choice but to call your ex-boyfriend for help.

word count | 4.2k+

warning | mention of abandoned pets, pet urine / dog is referred to as 'it' in narration / mention of insecurities

note | i kept telling myself i am allowed to finish this even though i can't find any point in the story.

Jake bolted out of his dorm room when you texted him for the first time after six months.

The annoyed complaints of his half-asleep roommate were fleeting. Strings of curses bounced off his hurried figure as he scrambled to put on a pair of sweatpants. When he snatched the keys off his desk, he knocked over the water bottle on the edge and earned another earful before he slammed the door shut.

The roads were empty and dark so late at night, allowing him to speed without potential repercussions. He checked his phone repeatedly during the drive for new messages, but the only text you sent after finally unblocking him was ‘help. shelter.’ It was radio silence after, like it had been the past six months.

It had been a mistake.

Jake knew he wasn't the type of man to take a bet. During his university years, nonetheless! But the effect of alcohol, his aversion to confrontation, and his friends' rowdiness pushed him to keep at the lie.

One year ago, he drunkenly confessed to you at a party, and you gave him a chance. Twelve months into dating each other, his friends drunkenly told you the truth, and you cut him out of your life without so much as a tear.

Tonight was the first time you've voluntarily spoken to him. He didn't care that you only did it because you needed his help. He would have learned every skill under the sun if it meant you'd talk to him again—plumbing, repairing, installing, modifying, you name it.

Tires screeched over the white line and stopped. He turned off the engine and got out of the car, unfazed as the cold air hit him until he reached the door of the animal shelter you worked at.

The lights were on inside.

He breathed through his mouth because that was the only way to accommodate how much air he needed.

You were inside, waiting for him.

A moment passed after he knocked. You opened the door carefully, peeking over the door frame not because you were cautious of the visitor but because you weren’t ready to face Jake yet.

His hair was disheveled, and his small eyes were hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. He did not wear enough for the cold weather, but the shelter was warm enough, so you tried to stop worrying about him.

Veins ran softly along his hands and arms, parts you’ve let touch you all over, inside and out. His limbs used to be confident and bashful, playfully reaching for your waist and shyly searching for your face.

Jake wouldn't dare to touch you now, not even to shake hands, not without your permission. He pulled at his fingers and watched you intently. His gaze traced your face, and his downturned eyes mimicked a dog on its death bed—timid, wishful, pleading.

"Hey," he greeted. "Is everything okay?"

You stared at him, subconsciously reminded of the first time you invited him to accompany you during a day shift at the shelter. Biting back a sob at the question, you shook your head and opened the door wider for him to enter.

“He’s back," you said. "Pluto is back."

Pluto was the golden retriever you and Jake fostered over the summer last year. He was adopted, returned, and adopted again after almost making it to his euthanasia day. It has been months since you last saw him so you thought he had found his forever home.

But, this afternoon, he surrendered again because the parents couldn’t handle having him and more than three children in the home.

You kept him company for most of your shift to ease his anxiety, but when it came time for you to close up and leave, he refused to enter the cage.

You attempted to lure him with toys and treats to no avail. It was as if he knew it would be over once he was locked up behind the metal bars.

“That’s...” Jake swallowed the frustration. He stopped hearing news about Pluto after you broke up. He had no idea it was given up once already. “That’s horrible.”

“I know. My coworker said she tried to convince the mother to bring Pluto home, but...” You trailed off in exhaustion. You rubbed your eyes and sunk your shoulders. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you for help if I hadn’t run into a dead end. I don’t know what to do.”

"No, don't even–" he waved his hand dismissively with a soft chuckle– "don't even apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

You smiled. He always told you that. You couldn't remember a time when he was mad at you and demanded an apology, even when some of your decisions had been questionable.

If he was ever upset, you remembered all it ever took were hugs and kisses to make him feel better, the things you give your pet dog to brighten your day and theirs.

Sometimes, you wondered if he was easy or if it only worked for you because he was in love with you.

He told you otherwise, though. After dumping him, he spent two months pestering you however possible with a variety of apologies and only ever one confession: I love you. I love you more than anything.

He stopped after you snapped at him in public, practically humiliating him for your subconscious fulfillment.

You had given him everything—all of your firsts, all of your mind, and all of your body. He had deserved it. He stopped bothering you afterward, which was understandable.

A dog beaten and bruised enough would never return.

“Let's see what I can do," Jake said.

You pursed your lips and gestured for him to follow you.

The shelter remained the way it had been since the last time he visited. White ceiling lights, disorganized papers on the reception table, stacked metal cages, dirty food trays, narrow spaces, a dirty whiff of air, and abandoned pets everywhere.

He didn’t expect otherwise. There were never enough donations or government funds to make it a better place. People wouldn’t even do that for other people, let alone animals.

Jake spoke to the animals along the way, ignoring the ones asleep and cooing at the ones who jumped to greet him. As you led him to the back of the shelter, a sullen mass of fur curled up in the corner came into view.

"Pluto!" he exclaimed with considerate joy as he crouched with open arms. "Do you remember me, sweet boy?"

Pluto remembered. It got up from the corner and pounced on Jake, scraping its paws on his shoulders for a hug and licking his face. He laughed and rubbed its back, letting the affection attacks continue as Pluto pleased.

It got distracted when you also neared. Barking once for good measure, it bounced between your feet and Jake’s embrace, reliving how it used to be when he was still living with you both.

“He looks healthy," Jake said.

“He wasn't abused, just abandoned," you clarified.

"Same difference."

You peered at him like a hit dog about to holler.

In the depths of your conscience, you admitted that you were the one who gave up. Maybe you were well within your right to, or maybe you didn't believe in clarification and second chances.

You tried not to think about it too much. It made you feel bad.

"Where is his cage?" Jake asked offhandedly.

You motioned your chin toward the corner without thinking. You’ve already placed a cartoon blanket inside as a makeshift bed, and the dog bowl was filled half way with dry food.

“Alright, buddy,” Jake said, hopping onto his feet. “Let’s get you inside so we can go home.”

Pluto jumped up to meet Jake’s knees. He played with the dog, swinging his hands around its peripheral vision and playing bitey. You discreetly reached for the cage to open it. When he noticed, he stopped to hold Pluto’s face in his hands before lifting it up by its paws.

Jake was always the good cop. You made Pluto wait for dinner, didn't let it jump on your bed, and never fed it food under the table. Jake was easier. He took it on morning jogs, ran with it when it had zoomies, and sometimes cooked it a small plate of steak.

A little affection and a wide-eyed gaze could go a long way for Jake, but not so much for you.

You always knew the dog liked him better than you. You didn’t realize it would be easy for Jake to pick it up. However, just as you thought your ex-boyfriend would succeed, Pluto dropped its whole weight onto the floor and refused to budge.

Jake yelped at the sudden pull. His feet stuttered to balance himself, forcing him to release Pluto onto the floor. Not giving up, he shook his hands and reached down to try and pull it up again. The dog still wouldn’t budge.

Deciding to try another approach, instead of pulling Pluto up by its torso, Jake thought he could begin with its front legs. Once he gets them through, the rest should follow.

"Come on, buddy," he encouraged. “I know it's scary, but you gotta sleep somewhere warmer than the shelter hallway."

Pluto began to whimper when its front legs reached inside the cage. It used them to support itself, weighing itself down onto them to avoid being pushed inside wholly.

You furrowed your brows as you listened to Jake’s fading encouragement. He was a mirror of who you were a few hours ago when your shift began. He wasn’t growing impatient, only frustrated that this was how it had to be for a beloved pet.

Your shoulders sunk in defeat when you noticed droplets on the floor. Jake paused when you curled a hand around his arm and gently pulled him away.

“Let’s stop. He’s scared,” you said. “He peed on the floor. I’ll go get the mop.”

He glanced at the floor, but he was trying to see if you touched him again. And then he looked up at you, nodding in grim agreement. When you released his arm to clean the floor, he rubbed the spot with invisible desperation, trying his best to somehow keep your hold

"What do we do?" he asked, pressing a firm hold over where you touched him. "Shit, I feel horrible."

"You and me both." you sighed as you watched Pluto shrink into a corner. “I'll stay over with him."

"At the shelter?"

“It's not any worse than my apartment," you said. “Actually, I might be safer here with all the animals around. They’ll look out for me."

He wanted to protest. This was less about safety and more about comfort.

You looked exhausted, and he knew why. Midterms were happening left and right before the winter break, so you must be burning the midnight oil already. You’ve also got a difficult job to juggle with your classes.

He used to have to pull you away from your desk and trap you in his arms to get you to sleep.

Regardless, you needed to sleep somewhere soft and warm, and the animal shelter didn't have anything remotely similar to that besides the furry babies.

The furry babies and him, he supposed.

“I'll stay with you," Jake said.

You shook your head. This would ruin your plan to get over him, which has been going on for over half a year yet has garnered no real progress.

You still thought about him day and night, seeing him in the shadows of your once-shared apartment and whispering his name into your pillow. You blocked and avoided him because you knew he could lure you back so quickly because you had unfortunately been in love with him the entire time.

“It’s fine. You should go home,” you said. “I’m sorry I called you up so late.”

"No, I don't mind," he protested. “It’s not like I was sleeping anyway."

He visibly gulped, swallowing any sentiment because you’ve rescinded his right to love you. And you bit your tongue to keep the fight and the cries in because it wasn’t easy to look at him and not do something.

You couldn't kiss him, you couldn't fight him, and you didn't want to hurt him.

"Do whatever you want," you muttered.

Jake watched you leave the room. He heard cabinet doors opening, and he moved against the wall to sit down. He reached a hand out, his palm facing skyward, and he gently lured Pluto onto his lap. When you returned, it was with two thin blankets, one for yourself and one for them.

You reached for the cage to take the food bowl out and closed the door, locking it. You sat next to Jake, across from his side, and wrapped the blanket around you.

"What are we going to do now?” You eyed the dog.

"What are the protocols?" he asked.

"We hold and look for housing," you said. "But–" you reached out to rub Pluto’s head–"he's getting old. It took long enough to find a family who's willing to adopt him, so there's no guarantee we will be able to find anything before he's put on the euthanasia list."

As Jake ran over what you said in his head, you took a small handful of dry food to feed Pluto, who released itself from pressing on Jake’s chest to eat. You smiled at its eagerness, but your brows were furrowed with unspoken sorrow.

It seemed you could already predict Pluto’s fate, but you needed to device a course of action for good measure. Anything to make sure you didn't give up immediately, even when there was nothing you could do.

There was nothing worse than being at the bottom. Knowing that after taking so many turns, you ended up at the dead end you were meant to reach anyway. Looking at you was almost like looking at himself—both of you have exhausted all your resources.

But Jake was known for going above and beyond. At least for you, he would.

“I can adopt him."

You perked up slowly in bewilderment. The reason why you two decided to foster Pluto back then was because of a dual income. If it was so affordable to own an old dog, you would have done it already.

"You live on campus. The dorms don't allow pets," you said. "You also don't have money. What are you gonna do if he gets sick?"

“I’ll move out. I’ll get a second job and pick up more shifts at the current one,” he said with a shrug. “There are cheap places to live, and I’m sure Jay will be willing to help me if it comes down to it.”

"Jake–"

“If push comes to shove, I’ll move back home,” he said, his voice slightly louder to drown out your worries with his optimism. “Let this be the last disappointing thing I do to my mom!”

You wanted to hold his face and talk him out of it. His optimism was both a friend and a foe. Sometimes, it pushes him to do amazing things, but mostly, he ends up embarrassing himself.

No, your coworker wouldn’t want to talk to you after being denied their vacation time over yours. No, your mother already thinks you buy enough unnecessary things; she won’t appreciate this. No, that won’t help anyone like you think it would.

You’ve often had to be his voice of reason for the most trivial things. It usually worked. His brain fries and he turns all putty when he’s being held, but he’s extra impressionable in your hands. He’d agree to anything just to keep you talking.

“You’re going to struggle," you warned.

“I'd rather that than have you feel guilty that you couldn't do more for our dog."

“You don’t know that I will,” you scoffed with a brief glare.

His eyes were on you. It has been on your since the moment you saw each other.

“I know you will. I know you," he retorted.

He was right. No matter how much you played up the role of a bad cop, or the nonchalant pet owner, ultimately, you cared. Maybe not as much as he did, maybe not as much as he could, and definitely not as openly as he could. But you loved the dog.

It was your dog. It was you and Jake’s dog.

Pluto stayed with you for a few of the happiest months of your life. The months when you woke up seeing Jake and went to sleep talking to him. Losing the dog is a significant progression to an end.

"This isn't about me." You shook your head. “Don't do this for me.”

“I can’t not,” he said. “I want to."

“Why?" It came out before you knew it. It was a trap.

The room went quiet, accompanied only by the sound of chewing and the impossible thoughts of escaping such silence. You focused on the food disappearing from the metal bowl, doing your best to keep away the tremors from knowing his eyes were on you, from already knowing his answer to your question.

Something has to happen when the food is gone.

A distraction, an apology, a reconciliation, a blackout.

"Because I love you."

A confession.

You dropped the bowl and rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. Heat released from all corners of your body, traveling to the base of your neck where it pulled at your nerves, souring all the way up to your tear ducts. He kept saying that; it was the last thing you wanted to hear from him.

His breathing quickened at your dismay, and the corners of his lips arched down in shame. He looked away from you at Pluto’s head, wondering what about his affection was so genuinely sickening that you had to reject it with so much force.

If it was about his bet with his friends, he had already attempted to explain that multiple times.

“I'm sorry I kept the bet from you. I really am. I will never deny that it was a terrible decision, that I was drunk when I first confessed to you," he said defensively, a whimper catching in his voice.

“Won’t you just–“ you rolled your eyes– “just stop. Stop explaining it to me.”

“No! I need you to understand that I never lied about how I felt after!” he exclaimed.

It never changed. His story wouldn’t have a contradiction even if he tried to rip it apart on purpose. He lied to you because he was drunk, he pretended to be your boyfriend, and then he ended up becoming it. His friends told the same story, and he repeated it multiple times. You’ve heard it all.

A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it with intention. When he realized his eyes had begun to cry, his voice and movement followed. Looking down at the floor helplessly, his shoulders hunched up as if to shrink small.

You blew air into your cheeks and bit the inside of your lip. Seeing him cry made you cry. You never wanted to hurt him again. You didn't think that you could, and oh, how you were proven wrong.

“How come you don’t believe me?” he asked, his voice timid as a child wronged by his parents. “I fell in love with you. You have no right to take that from me.”

Feeling a sob come up, you dropped your head and stared at the floor. Goosebumps lined around your heart, suppressing its beating with unease. That was the problem. He told the truth, which was the problem because you couldn’t handle it.

"Do you know how I felt when I found out?" you asked. "I wasn't angry, or frustrated, or even sad. I was just disappointed that it made sense."

Jake wasn’t a man of your caliber. Even when he first confessed to you, you mistook it as an act of aggression. Hence, you double-checked with him the next day through text; surprisingly, he didn’t deny it.

He was a great boyfriend. He was kind and supportive, handsome and strong, charming and considerate. The whole nine yards. He stumbled once in a while, but he never did anything wrong.

It was both agony and relief when you discovered that he initially stayed for a bet. While it was hurtful to know you and him would have never happened otherwise, it fulfilled your growing itch that needed a reason to feel bad. While you lost the love of your life, the loss helped you make sense of a greatness you didn’t think you deserved, all by forcing you to let go of it.

Jake didn’t do anything wrong. He couldn’t if he tried. It was just easier when he didn’t love you back. Because then you wouldn’t feel like you were taking up too much space, and your inferiority has a reason to exist.

“It was hell to hate myself,” you said. “If I made it seem like you never loved me at all, then all the pain wouldn’t be for nothing.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice was tearful, and he played with Pluto’s fur so his hands wouldn’t claw at his skin to peel himself to death, knowing that you felt like hell when you were with him. “Did you always feel like that?”

You went around the answer but remained truthful. Yes, you felt like that all the time. No, it had nothing to do with him.

You told him how great he was, how you appreciated everything about him. The fact that he remembers every little thing, how his voice is soft, and his willingness to always be the bigger person.

Self-hate was an accumulated skill that can never be unlearned and only worsens. He was in the wrong position when it decided to show itself.

You simply didn't love yourself enough to have him. That was it.

Irregular drops of tears rolled down his face. He began to hiccup away the knots of air stuck in his throat that were supposed to be violent sobs. He looked everywhere but at you, and his hands curled and uncurled to catch pressure in the air.

He suffocated with every word you said. It didn’t matter that you admitted he wasn’t the reason; he was horrified that you thought his love would be better stored anywhere else than with you, his keeper.

For six months, he stayed cooped up inside himself, uncomfortable but unwilling to burst just in case you would come back to drain his soul out of him. He would return to where he belonged, through your mouth into your skin.

The dog on his lap had become a nuisance, but he kept it there.

Jake pushes nothing away. He stretches and pulls until someone snaps him in half to stop him.

"Please don't be upset," you whispered after cutting yourself short. “I'm sorry for everything. It wasn't your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either,” he said. “The mind is–is a weird thing. It’s a weird thing. Sometimes you can’t help it. I understand. It’s not your fault, either. I don’t want–“ he pursed his lips, his hair shaking with his head– “I don’t want you to blame yourself. It hurts knowing you did something–something bad. I don’t want you to–uh,” his voice became smaller, “I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

Scooting to sit next to him, you took off his glasses and set them on the floor next to you. You pulled at the hem of your sweater to wipe the tears around his tired eyes. You cleaned him and yourself, wetting your sleeve with mutual suffering.

“What do I do?” he asked, leaning his head against the wall with a faint shake. “I miss you.”

“I'm sorry," you said, disarming your mind.

“I won’t say anything. You don’t have to believe I love you. We can just be friends,” he bargained. “I just want to be around. Please let me.”

Pulling your knees up to your chest, you pressed closer against his side and smiled bitterly at the notion that you’ll never find someone like him again. That was why you gave him a chance a year ago, but instead of his dashing looks and fit physique, it was his extraordinary affection this time.

Who else would love you enough to pretend he doesn’t love you at all? It’s just him.

“I should probably go see a doctor, huh?” you joked, wiping under his eye with your thumb. “They can help me come around.”

Jake raised his hand. It shakily hovered around your wrist, waiting for permission.

You pushed the back of your palm toward it, allowing him to engulf your hand with his, and then you brought it to his face, holding him gently. He smiled a little; he couldn’t help it upon the familiar, long-awaited touch.

“I’ll wait for you,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

You glanced at his lips. Stained with tears, like it was rained on. You nudged his nose with yours, and you kissed him. He shuddered. His mouth was metallic and sour; you realized there was a canker sore in his mouth. It must be painful. He kissed you anyway, resting his whole life on your lips.

Pulling away, he bumped his forehead against yours, his features softening in relief.

It was always the same confession. He never deviated from it.

I love you. I love you more than anything. I love you more than me.

“Do you want to take care of Pluto together?”

And that was your version of it.

#enha imagines #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enha x reader #enhypen x y/n #enhypen x you #enhypen x reader #enhypen x gender neutral reader #jake sim x reader #enhypen jake imagines #jake imagines #jake x reader #jake x y/n #enha x y/n #enha x you #jake sim x y/n #jake sim x you #jake sim imagines #enhypen jake scenarios

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rubiehart · 3 months ago

Text

how are jj and bsf!reader doing after s4’s events…

♪ heavy - the marías ♪

the neurons in jj’s body are practically buzzing with how giddy he is, blonde mop flopping back against the head rest with every bump of the long country road. his lips are fixed in that signature cocky grin that made you fall head over heels for him all those years ago in the sand box days. “you kiddin’ me?” he laughs breathily, the north carolina air whizzing past the semi-crooked open windows. manually wound down ‘cause the twinkie’s an old girl to say the least.

the wind whips through his blonde tresses and he’s happily bobbing in his seat, hands readjusting on the wheel, one on the ten, other on the three, as he fixes his gaze on your form, looking like some kind of hyper-active puppy with you sprawled out in shotgun, back resting against the door as you grin fondly at his antics. he whistles, his adoration of you being completely obvious. “cause seein’ you in that ‘kini.. nearly sent me off my damn feet..”

the change in his approach is noticeable as you pull your head back in from the window to meet his eye, wind no longer roaring in your ears when you smirk almost challengingly, elbows leaned against the rim of the open window, tilting your head to the side questioningly, knowing he could never resist your teasing, you murmur a “yeah?” watching the way he fidgets in his seat as the van rumbles down the empty road.

he noticeably jerks in excitement as your slight show of submission, warm, ring adorned hand moving to rest against your bare thigh, kneading the flesh fondly, eyes never leaving yours as he silently pleads with you. “you’re not kiddin’ right, baby? ‘cuz that’d be real mean, i promise ya.” he speaks slow, in that southern drawl that always made you mentally fold for him, you shrug, faux carelessly as you bump over another pothole, tits jostling in your triangle bikini top.

you dismiss his admission with a soft shake of your head and a flick of his knuckle, cheeky smile on your face as he re-situates himself with two hands on the wheel, a little pissy about the loss of contact. “eyes on the road, jay.” you tease, ironically because you’re sitting horizontally in your seat, and neither of you are wearing seatbelts, he plays along though, tonguing at his bottom lip with a grin. “damn straight baby, gotta get the princess home in one piece, hm?”

the air is thick and heavy, almost swelteringly so outside of the car’s open windows. and if the north carolina sun is beating down fierce on the back of jj’s neck, he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest as your eyes rake all over his form shamelessly, lazy smile on your face as you take in his angular nose and chiselled jaw, carefree smirk and shining eyes.

you reach for the stereo, turning up the volume as your head whips around, vision fixed on the passing private beach, littered with people and laughter. you pass over more bumps and pot holes, which only makes this more torturous on jj as the fat of your tit slowly reveals itself to him at every jostle of the vehicle.

his hands are white knuckled on the wheel, readjusting his grip, one of the twelve, one on the nine. and it’s not from speed. he’s gripping the wheel so hard that when the car jerks once, twice, three times, he’s squeezing his eyes shut momentarily by the end of it, forcing his mouth shut. the cause for the reaction is the sight he’s currently privy to in the corner of his peripheral view. his jaw is slightly agape, eyes wide and lovesick. “god. damn.” he whispers.

your head whips back in his direction, eyebrows furrowing in confusion before you realise what had elicited that reaction from him. you laugh softly, readjusting the thin fabric of your bikini top over your pert nipple, eyes finding his own wide ones. “eyes on the road, jay.” you reprimand once again, teasing evident in your tone.

he swallows, throat dry as the sahara as he attempts to play it off, drumming his fingers against the wheel, nodding along. “eyes on the road. eyes on the road, yeah, yeah, yeah - yeah.” he’s far from convincing as you snicker at him, watchinf the way his eyes are on the road for all of three seconds before they’re dipping back down again. he’s starting to sweat a little and it has nothing to do with the blazing heat outside.

jj’s lips tug into a smirk that’s all too cocky for his current situation as they speed past the marshlands. he won’t admit the heat that’s currently spreading through his body and quickly making its way south, tenting the front of his swim shorts noticeably. “shut up-“ he grumbles, running his hand through his slightly damp hair, gesturing towards you as he continues. “look at you.”

she just laughs, giving herself a dramatic look over in the windshield, pursing her lips and playing with her hair. “guess i am pretty cute, huh?” his hands adjust on the wheel, relaxing again is his seat as he looks you over with a fond smile, heart swelling for the girl of his dreams. it seemed something else was swelling too.

it’s almost like you can see the cogs turning in his head, sniffing in an attempt to seem casual as he speaks, canines glinting in the sun as he eyes you with hooded lids. “what d’ya think ‘bout pullin to the side of the road for a bit? just for a lil’ while.”

“that was weak.” you laugh, but your eyes tell a different story because he’s already flicking on the turn signal and slowing the van a little.

“so is that a yeah?” he says, the van coming to a stop on the side of the road near a clump of bushes, no passing cars, and he’s desperate to be on you.

“as long as you’re gonna be pullin’ somethin’ else to the side.” you snort, nodding with a raised eyebrow, and he’s already scrambling for the door handle with a triumphant ‘woop’. you follow in suit, pulling open the backseat sliding door of the twinkie.

he gets the door open, stumbling out of the driver’s seat and practically tripping onto the backseats. he lands on his butt with a huff. “that was a weak ass line-“ jj can barely get his words out before he’s got a lapful of his girl and soft, eager lips on his own. he kisses you back with equal, if not more, fervour.

she pulls back, a weak string of saliva connecting their kiss swollen lips as she grins, “you love it.” the heat between her legs being sensed by jj as he grabs her hips, grinding her clothed cunt against his bare thigh.

“damn right, i do baby.” he grins, immediately latching his lips onto the skin of her collarbone, sucking fondly, the smell of her filling all his senses as his ringed fingers dig into the flesh of her hips lovingly.

her head lols back, breathy little whimpers leaving her lips as he marks her, fingernails digging into his broad shoulders as she speaks, voice all soft and needy. “roadside quicky, what’dya think?”

he pulls away softly, hands sliding up her stomach and eventually resting on her tits as his eyes find her own glazed over ones. he lets out a low, shaky exhale against the skin, making goosebumps rise along her arms, a hint of a smirk on his kiss swollen lips. “i think you’re a little eager, baby.” he teases, warm hands sliding under the thin material of your bikini top to palm your tits.

“can you blame me?” she says, in attempt to sound teasing but she just sounds utterly desperate as her shameless eyes roam all over his form, that look in her eye he knew all too well as you grind against his harness softly, eyes locked on his.

“no ma’am.” jj grins, giving your hips another encouraging little squeeze as they move in slow, tantalising circles over his lap. “god, no.” he practically growls, head falling back against the leather seat, adams apple bobbing as he swallows.

the feeling your giving him is something he’d kill to keep forever, and the feeling is easily reciprocated by you. and like every other time you’re with jj, the same question is spinning around your mind: why did you hold back from heaven for so long?

#couldlnt make my comeback with anyone other than my babies😣#season 4 doesn’t exist they’re just in love!!#꒰ jj maybank ꒱ྀི #꒰ bsf!jj ꒱ྀི #jj maybank #bsf!jj #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj obx #jj maybank blurb #outer banks #jj x reader #jj maybank headcanon #jj maybank obx #obx #jj maybank outer banks #jj maybank fluff

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pandapetals · 2 months ago

Note

I have a request if you’re interested

Logan and Reader get into a really bad car accident and Reader ends up in the hospital with their injuries. Reader has temporary memory loss and Logan struggles with how long it could take for their memories to come back. I love the angsty stories 👀

Hi, I love angsty stories as well. When I read this I immediately thought of the movie The Vow. So, this is inspired by what I vaguely remember from it. Also, it’s longer than i thought it would be but i couldn’t help it.

logan howlett x fem!reader - married couple, angst, car accident, inspired by the vow, no y/n used, slight reader description, logan POV, memory loss, self-loathing logan, guilt, past relationship, jealousy, ex-boyfriend, slight fluff at the end, not proofread—got lazy

Logan sat in the cold, sterile chair beside your hospital bed, his elbows digging into his thighs, hands tangled in his hair. His eyes, rimmed red from sleepless nights, stayed fixed on your face—pale and still against the stark white of the pillow. The steady hum and occasional beeps of the machines filled the room, a cruel symphony that reminded him how fragile your life had become.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the back of your hand. It felt wrong—too cold, too lifeless. You had always been so warm, so vibrant. The weight of the wedding ring on your finger, still there like a promise, made his throat tighten. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, but the words stayed trapped in the hollow silence between you.

He stared down at your hand as if by holding it tightly enough he could pull you back to him, back to the mornings when you'd steal the blanket and laugh at his protests. Back to the afternoons spent dancing in the kitchen to songs neither of you knew the lyrics to, back to before.

The argument played in his head on a loop, though the details were blurred now—just fragments of harsh words and raised voices. What had he even said to you? Something cruel, something stupid. Something about how he felt like he was being shut out lately. But wasn’t that the irony? He had shut you out first, hadn’t he?

The look on your face, the way your shoulders had slumped, defeated, haunted him now. You’d grabbed your keys and your coat. Your voice was low and trembling as you said, “I just need some space, Logan.”

And he had let you go.

Why didn’t he follow you? Why didn’t he stop you? If he’d just swallowed his pride for one second, he could’ve called after you. Could’ve told you he didn’t mean it. Could’ve held you until the anger melted away. But he didn’t. You had walked out into the night, into the rain-slicked streets where headlights blurred like ghosts.

Now, you were here, unmoving, silent. A deep gash marred your temple, angry and red against your skin, and your arm was in a cast, bruises blooming dark along your collarbone. The doctors had said the words he never thought he’d hear: brain trauma, coma, uncertain recovery. They had said it calmly, clinically, as if they weren’t shattering his entire world.

Logan let out a shaky breath, leaning forward until his forehead rested on your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he wished he could undo. “I’m so sorry. I was stupid and angry, and I—” His words choked off into a sob he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The memory of seeing your car crushed on the side of the road burned in his mind. The twisted metal. The shattered windshield. The red and blue lights flashed as he ran toward the wreckage, screaming your name. He had gotten there too late to stop it. Just like he had gotten there too late to stop you from leaving.

Every moment since then had been a waking nightmare, the guilt eating away at him like acid. He stayed by your side day and night, afraid to leave in case something changed—afraid you might wake up and he wouldn’t be there. Or worse, afraid you might not wake up at all.

His fingers tightened around yours, desperate, as if holding on to you could tether you to this world. He thought about the vows you had exchanged on your wedding day. How you had promised to stand by each other, for better or for worse. But this…this was a kind of worse he had never imagined.

“I need you to come back to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll fix it. Whatever I broke, I’ll fix it. Just…please.” His tears fell onto your skin, and he cursed himself for being so weak. For being the reason you weren’t awake to hear him.

The nurses came and went, adjusting the machines, checking your vitals, murmuring polite words he barely registered. To them, this was routine. To Logan, it was agony.

The night stretched on, each hour slower than the last. Logan stayed right there, clinging to hope and your hand. The moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor. He thought about the life you had been building together—the plans, the dreams. He thought about how he had ruined it all with his anger, and his carelessness.

“I love you,” he said softly, leaning down to press his lips against your knuckles. His voice cracked as he added, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The stillness in the room was broken. Your fingers twitched—just the faintest movement, but enough to make Logan’s heart leap into his throat. He froze, staring at your hand as if he’d imagined it. Then it happened again, your fingers weakly curling around his.

When your eyelids fluttered open, his heart clenched. He straightened immediately, leaning forward, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Your gaze darted around the hospital room, wide and unfocused, like a bird trapped in unfamiliar skies. The fluorescent light painted your features in muted tones, and when your eyes finally landed on him, Logan froze. This was the moment he had prayed for, clung to in the stillness of endless nights. But the furrow of your brows, the faint confusion etched across your face, made the air in the room feel impossibly thin.

“Oh,” you murmured, your voice hoarse, as if trying it out for the first time. You glanced down at your hand, still encased in his, and a flicker of discomfort crossed your features. You gently, almost absently, tried to pull away.

Logan’s fingers tightened around yours instinctively, though he quickly released you, his hands retreating into his lap as if burned. “Hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto his face despite the warning bells going off in his chest. “You’re awake. That’s…that’s all that matters.”

You gave a polite, almost apologetic smile, the kind you’d offer a stranger holding the door open for you. “Are you…one of the doctors?” you asked, your voice lilting with curiosity. Then, with a faint chuckle, you added, “You don’t look like a doctor, though. Too handsome for that.”

The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut. His smile faltered, his throat tightening as he stared at you. He would have laughed—maybe even teased you back—if not for the hollow look in your eyes. The look that told him you weren’t joking, that you meant it.

His hand twitched in his lap, aching to reach for yours again, to anchor himself, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he forced out a soft laugh, though it sounded brittle, strained. “Not a doctor,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Logan.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if trying to piece together a puzzle that refused to fit. “Logan…” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. “I—I don’t…” Your voice trailed off, confusion deepening in your eyes as you glanced around the room again. “I don’t understand. Where am I? What happened?”

The tight band around Logan’s chest grew unbearable, threatening to crush him from the inside out. He wanted to reach out, to hold you, to tell you everything would be okay—but how could he, when the person he loved most in the world looked at him like he was a stranger?

“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, his words measured like stepping across thin ice. “You…you had an accident. A bad one. But you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

You nodded slowly, but your expression remained clouded. “An accident…” you murmured as if trying to grasp the edges of a memory just out of reach. Then your gaze flicked back to him, hesitant. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t know you.”

The words hit harder than he thought possible. Logan’s shoulders sagged under the weight of them, his hands clenching into fists in his lap as he forced himself to stay calm. He had prepared for this—doctors had warned him it might happen. But nothing could have braced him for the reality of hearing you say it.

“You don’t…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to push back the sting of tears. “That’s okay,” he said quickly, though the words felt like shards of glass in his mouth. “You’ve been through a lot. It—it might take some time for everything to come back.”

You gave him another polite, uncertain smile, and the distance in it gutted him. “I guess so,” you said lightly, though your tone carried an edge of unease. “But…um, if you’re not a doctor, who are you?”

Logan’s jaw worked silently for a moment, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric of his jeans. How was he supposed to answer that? How could he possibly sum up everything you had been to each other—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—when you couldn’t even remember his name?

“I’m your husband,” he said finally, his voice quiet, trembling under the weight of the admission.

The room seemed to go still. Your eyes widened slightly, your expression shifting to something unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even fear. “My…husband?” you repeated, the word foreign and heavy on your tongue.

Logan nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ve been married for two years.”

You shook your head slowly, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “I—I think you’ve got the wrong person,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “I’m not married. I mean, the last thing I remember…I had just broken up with Henry…I don’t even…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands as if searching for answers in the lines of your palms.

Logan’s heart shattered into pieces, each word cutting deeper than the last. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the overwhelming ache in his chest. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, worse than the accident, worse than waiting in that hospital room, hoping you’d wake up.

“You don’t remember me,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, and the genuine regret in your voice almost destroyed him.

Logan leaned back in the chair, his hands covering his face as he tried to collect himself. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. Not in front of you. You needed him to be strong. But how could he be strong when the love of his life didn’t even know who he was?

When he finally looked up, your gaze was still on him, uncertain and wary. He forced a small, fragile smile, his voice breaking as he said, “It’s okay.”

You turned your head, your gaze drifting past Logan to the window, where the sunlight filtered through sterile white blinds. The light painted soft patterns on the hospital wall, but your expression remained distant, blank. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, tentative, as if testing the waters of your own thoughts.

“Are my parents here?” you asked, still not looking at him. “Do they know?”

Logan’s lips parted to answer, but then you added, almost absently, “What about Henry?”

The name hit Logan like a cold slap to the face. He felt his stomach drop, the ache blooming deep in his chest as if something vital had just been ripped out of him. Henry. Of course, you’d remember him. The name twisted in his mind, sharp and jagged. He forced himself to stay still, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the chair.

“Your parents know,” he said, his voice calm, betraying none of the storm raging inside him. “I’ll call them and let them know you’re awake.”

You nodded slightly, still gazing out the window, your profile softened by the daylight. You didn’t ask about Logan again. Didn’t even look at him. Just Henry. Henry, the man you had loved before him.

Logan pushed to his feet, the motion deliberate and slow as if moving too quickly might shatter the fragile calm he was trying to maintain. He had to get out of the room—just for a moment, long enough to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

“I’ll go get the doctor, too,” he said, his voice tight but even. “They’ll want to check on you.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, finally glancing at him, but it wasn’t the kind of look he was used to. It wasn’t filled with love or recognition. It was polite. Detached. The look you might give a kind stranger.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully, but he nodded and left the room. He made it halfway down the hall before his knees threatened to give out. Pressing a hand to the wall, he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She doesn’t remember you. She doesn’t remember you, but she remembers him.

It shouldn’t matter. The doctors had warned him this could happen—that memory loss could be selective, and inconsistent. It didn’t mean you loved Henry now. It didn’t mean you wouldn’t remember Logan someday. But the thought of you holding onto someone else while Logan had to start over? It tore him apart.

𓂃

You sat propped up in the hospital bed, the pillows arranged carefully by one of the nurses. Your parents were on either side of you, their voices gentle as they spoke to you, relief etched into their faces. The doctor stood near the end of the bed, clipboard in hand, explaining something in medical terms that felt both simple and complicated.

Logan lingered just outside the room. He didn’t want to intrude. But he also couldn’t leave—couldn’t bring himself to step away when every part of him screamed to be near you.

He could hear your mother’s voice rising and falling, warm and comforting. You were laughing now, though it was light and hesitant as if you weren’t sure how to feel. Logan closed his eyes, leaning his head against the doorframe. He wanted to be there with you, to tell your parents how long he had waited for you to wake up, to reassure them that he hadn’t left your side. But when he finally stepped inside, you looked up, your expression unreadable.

“Logan,” you said, and his name sounded unfamiliar on your lips. He held his breath, waiting for something—anything—but instead, you hesitated. “Um…would you mind giving us a little privacy? I just…I want to talk to my parents for a bit.”

His chest tightened. The words shouldn’t have hurt as much as they did, but they knocked the air out of him anyway. He glanced at your parents, who exchanged awkward, apologetic looks. Then his eyes flicked back to you, searching your face for some sign that you didn’t really mean it. But you were waiting, patiently as though asking him to leave was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Of course,” Logan said quickly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His voice was steady, but he couldn’t stop his hand from curling into a fist at his side. “Take your time.”

He turned and walked out before the cracks in his facade could show. Each step away from you felt heavier like it was sinking him deeper into quicksand. Once he was out of earshot, he leaned against the wall in the hallway, his head hanging low, his hands bracing his knees.

Logan had spent days, weeks, clinging to hope that you would wake up. But this? This was a new kind of agony. You were awake, alive, breathing—and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already lost you.

Eventually, your parents emerged from your hospital room, their relief evident in the softening of their faces. Your mother spotted Logan first, her lips pressing into a trembling smile as she hurried toward him. She wrapped him in a tight embrace before he could even react, her arms warm but shaking slightly.

“Logan,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Her words carried the weight of a shared grief, a mother’s heartbreak that mirrored his own.

Logan’s throat tightened, but he managed a small nod, his arms briefly returning the hug before she pulled back, dabbing at her glassy eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

Your father approached next, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. A man of few words, he wasn’t the type to display emotion often, but there was something raw in the way he looked at Logan. His jaw worked as if wrestling with what to say, and finally, he reached out, patting Logan on the shoulder.

“She’ll remember you, son,” he said quietly, the gruffness in his voice doing little to hide the uncertainty beneath it.

Logan nodded again, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “I hope so,” he replied softly, though the words felt hollow in his chest. He didn’t know if he believed them.

Your parents lingered for a moment longer, your mother touching his arm gently before they walked down the hallway, their figures disappearing around the corner. Logan stood there for a beat, staring at the door to your room. He could hear faint sounds—your voice, movement, the subtle hum of machines.

His heart pounded. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face you again, not after the way you had asked for privacy, not after hearing you ask about Henry. But he couldn’t stay away.

Inside the room, you were sitting up slightly, your hair mussed against the pillows, your expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity as you fiddled with the edge of the hospital blanket. When Logan stepped inside, you looked up, your lips parting slightly in recognition—not quite familiarity, but something softer than before.

“Hi,” you said, tilting your head.

“Hi,” Logan replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he closed the door behind him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if he should approach, but when you didn’t tell him to leave, he slowly crossed to the chair by your bedside.

“You don’t have to sit so far away,” you said, surprising him. There was a faint hint of amusement in your tone, a flicker of the warmth he had spent years falling in love with.

Logan’s breath hitched, but he smiled, moving closer, pulling the chair right next to your bed. “Better?” he asked lightly, his heart skipping at the way you almost—almost—smiled back.

“Better,” you murmured. You studied him for a moment, your brows furrowing as if you were trying to solve a puzzle. “So…you’re Logan?”

He nodded, his throat tightening again. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And we’re married?” you asked, tilting your head. There was no edge to your voice, just genuine curiosity as if you were asking about someone else’s life.

“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. “For two years now.”

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s so crazy. I mean, I don’t feel married.” You glanced down at your hand, frowning at the simple wedding band that still adorned your finger. “It’s weird…I don’t even remember the wedding.”

Logan’s chest ached, but he forced a small, hopeful smile. “It was beautiful,” he said. “You picked this little garden venue. Said you wanted it to feel like something out of a fairy tale.”

Your lips quirked upward slightly, and for the first time, you looked at him like you might want to believe him. “That does sound like me,” you admitted, your voice lightening.

He chuckled softly, daring to hope, just a little. “It was the happiest day of my life,” he added quietly, his gaze dropping to your hand.

You hesitated, glancing back at him. “So…what’s the story with us?” you asked, curiosity shining in your eyes now. “How did we even meet?”

Logan’s heart lifted at the question, the smallest spark of hope igniting in his chest. He launched into the story, telling you about the coffee shop where he had spilled an entire latte on your laptop and offered to pay for the repairs. How you had laughed, waved him off, and then somehow ended up sitting with him for hours, talking about books and movies until the shop closed.

You listened intently, your head tilting, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. Logan felt like he wasn’t completely invisible to you. Like maybe he could remind you of what they had.

But then the door creaked open behind him, and Logan’s voice faltered. He turned, his stomach dropping as he saw him.

“Henry,” you said, your entire face lighting up in a way that made Logan feel like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Hey,” Henry replied, stepping into the room with a boyish grin, far too casual for Logan’s liking.

You beamed, sitting up straighter, your eyes sparkling with recognition. “You’re here!”

Logan watched as Henry strode over to your bedside, his confidence unshaken, his presence commanding. You laughed at something he said—light and free, like it came effortlessly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he watched you smile at Henry in a way you hadn’t smiled at him once since you woke up. It wasn’t fair—Logan knew that. It wasn’t your fault. But watching you joke with Henry, watching you light up for someone who wasn’t him? It hurt more than he thought was possible.

He shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a space that should have been his.

“I…I’ll give you two some time,” Logan mumbled, standing abruptly.

You glanced at him, a flicker of guilt crossing your features, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Oh, okay,” you said, your tone polite but distracted as your gaze returned to Henry.

Logan didn’t say another word. He slipped out of the room, his heart heavy, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop them from shaking. Once the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the floor as your laughter drifted faintly through the cracks.

He had thought there was hope. For a fleeting moment, he had believed he could reach you. But now, as the laughter continued, all he could feel was the growing weight of doubt pressing down on him, threatening to crush what little hope he had left.

𓂃

Henry had finally left, his departure marked by the faint echo of his footsteps down the hallway. The air in the hospital felt quieter now, the tension that had lingered in Logan’s chest slightly eased but was not gone. Night had begun to creep in, soft shadows stretching across the halls, but Logan couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He sat slumped in one of the chairs by the wall outside your room, his head in his hands, exhaustion pulling at his body like weights. He knew he should go home—sleep, shower, eat something that wasn’t from a vending machine—but the idea of leaving you even for a little while felt impossible.

Just as he was steeling himself to push through the door and check on you, it opened. He froze, his breath catching as you stepped out. You were still in your hospital gown, though you’d tucked it neatly into a pair of oversized gray sweats. Your casted arm hung awkwardly at your side, and your steps were unsteady, the hospital socks slipping slightly against the tile.

Logan shot to his feet without thinking, reaching you in three strides. “Whoa, easy,” he said, his hands gently gripping your uninjured arm to steady you.

You let out a soft laugh, a sound so warm and unexpected that it made something flutter in his chest. “I’m fine,” you said, though you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned into his touch, just slightly, the way you might lean into a doorway for balance.

“Fine?” Logan’s brows rose in disbelief as he adjusted his grip, his fingers steadying you at your waist. “You’re wobbling like a baby deer.”

“I’m starving,” you shot back, ignoring his concern and offering a playful roll of your eyes. “And no one’s feeding me in there, so what was I supposed to do? Waste away?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head but unable to stop the grin that tugged at the corner of his lips. “You should’ve buzzed the nurse.”

“I did. She brought me some mystery soup that smelled like feet. Hard pass.”

Logan snorted, his laugh slipping out before he could stop it.

You glanced up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching into a grin. “Anyway, I asked Henry if he’d go to the cafeteria for me.”

Logan stiffened at the name, his heart sinking slightly. “And?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Your grin faded, letting out a low scoff, shaking your head in exasperation. “And the fucking asshole said, and I quote, ‘Are you sure you want to gain weight from that trash?’”

Logan blinked, his brows pulling together. “What?”

You rolled your eyes again, more dramatically this time, but there was humor in it. “Yeah, I know, right? What a prince.”

Logan couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that surged through him: relief, amusement, and a flicker of hope he hadn’t dared to feel since the accident. “That doesn’t sound very…supportive,” he said carefully, though his lips twitched with the effort not to smirk.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you replied dryly, then tilted your head slightly, studying him with a faint smirk. “You, though? You seem like the kind of guy who’d smuggle me in a cheeseburger if I asked nicely.”

The teasing glint in your eyes caught him completely off guard, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe. The playfulness in your tone, the familiarity in the way you looked at him—it was the closest you’d come to being you again.

“Cheeseburger, fries, milkshake,” Logan listed, trying to match your energy, his grin breaking free despite himself. “Name it, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Careful,” you warned with a mock-serious expression, though your lips curved into a smile. “I might actually hold you to that.”

“Good,” Logan said softly, his voice dropping just enough that you blinked up at him, something unreadable flickering in your expression. For a moment, the space between you felt smaller, the weight of your shared history—your love, your life together—lingering in the air even if you couldn’t remember it.

Then you broke the moment with a small laugh, glancing past him down the hallway. “Okay, so…where’s the cafeteria?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan said firmly, his hands still steadying you. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

Your lips parted, surprised, but then you smiled again—this time softer, more genuine. “Fine. Surprise me.”

He smiled back, his chest feeling lighter than it had in days. For the first time since the accident, there was something else besides fear, guilt, and heartbreak. There was a spark—a tiny ember of hope.

When Logan returned with a tray of food, you were back in bed, the blanket pulled up over your legs as you flipped through the channels on the TV remote. The sight of you looking so at ease, so normal, made his throat tighten.

“Delivery service,” he joked, setting the tray on the table beside you.

You eyed the burger and fries with mock suspicion. “Okay, points for presentation. But does it taste as good as it looks?”

“Only one way to find out,” he quipped, handing you the burger.

You took a bite of the burger, your eyes widening slightly as the flavors hit your tongue. “Okay,” you murmured, groaning softly in approval. “That’s better than I expected.”

Logan sat in the chair beside your bed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he watched you eat. He didn’t say anything letting the sound of your quiet satisfaction fill the room. You looked comfortable, at ease—more yourself.

You glanced at him, catching the way he was looking at you, and tilted your head. “What?” you asked, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips.

He shook his head, his smile growing slightly. “Nothing. Just glad to see you’re enjoying it.”

You eyed him for a moment, then plucked a fry from the tray and held it out toward him. “You want some?”

Logan blinked, caught off guard. “I’m good,” he started to say, but you waved the fry in his direction, insisting.

“Come on,” you said, your tone light but with a faint edge of concern. “My mom told me you haven’t left. You should probably eat something before you pass out.”

He hesitated, the simple gesture tugging at something deep inside him. You didn’t know who he was—not fully, not yet—but there was something familiar in the way you looked at him just then. It wasn’t quite recognition, but it wasn’t indifference, either.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Logan said with a soft chuckle, leaning forward to take the fry from your fingers.

“So I’ve been told,” you replied playfully.

The moment felt light and ordinary, but something struck Logan as extraordinary. The way you’d handed him the fry, the way you spoke to him—it reminded him of the quiet intimacy you used to share in your everyday moments. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

As Logan chewed the fry, you leaned back against the pillows, watching him curiously. “So, did you really not leave?” you asked, your tone quieter now.

He swallowed, glancing down at his hands. “I just…wanted to be here,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “In case you woke up.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. “That’s really…sweet,” you said finally, your lips curving into a small, almost shy smile. “I mean, you’re my husband but…thank you.”

Logan looked up at you then, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in your voice. He wanted to tell you everything—to remind you of the life you’d built together, to make you remember how much he loved you. But he didn’t. Instead, he smiled softly and said, “You don’t have to thank me. I’d do it a hundred times over.”

You blinked, something flickering in your expression—something that made Logan’s breath catch. It was brief, fleeting, but for a moment, it almost seemed like you were seeing him.

“Did we know each other a long time before we got married?” you asked suddenly, your gaze searching his face.

The question caught him off guard, but he nodded. “Yeah. We knew each other for a while.”

You frowned slightly as if trying to piece together a memory that stayed just out of reach. “You feel…familiar,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, almost to yourself. “It’s weird because I don’t remember you, but…being around you doesn’t feel wrong. It’s…nice.”

Logan’s heart ached at your words, the mix of hope and longing almost too much to bear. He wanted to hold on to the tiny glimmer of connection you were offering, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

“It’s nice for me, too,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

You smiled at that—small and tentative, but genuine. Logan felt a flicker of hope. Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you didn’t remember the life you’d built together, the love you’d shared. But something was still there, beneath the surface, waiting to be rediscovered.

You handed him another fry without a word, and this time, he took it without hesitation.

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vivwritesfics · 6 days ago

Text

Slow Down, You're Gonna Crash

Chapter One

In her defence, she didn't know it was a Navy bar. In his defence, he didn't know that she was an F1 driver. It shouldn't matter when it's just a fling (but it's not just a fling, is it?)

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Verstappen!Reader

In her defense, she didn’t realise that The Hard Deck was a Navy bar. The sign by the beer taps should have given it away. Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar, you buy a round. She had taken in the final part, keeping her phone in her pocket as she ordered.

Because that was all that she wanted. A drink, a moment of peace before she hit the road. The bar was empty as she sipped her very first drink, tucked away in one of the booths. The longer she sat there, just slowly sipping her drink, the longer she had to stay in San Diego, away from her family. Good. The longer she was away from them, the better.

By the time she had finished her first gin and tonic (something she had gotten a taste for because of her big brother), the bar began to fill up. Men and women in khaki uniforms walked through the doors. Some went up to the bar, some reserved tables for themselves and their friends, and some gathered around the pool table.

The woman behind the bar released a whistle and the group around the pool table turned towards her. She held out two pool cues. “You know the rules, Hangman!” She called and a handsome man approached the bar.

“Trust me, Pen,” he said, green eyes sparkling beneath the bar lights, and handed his phone to her. Another man, equally as handsome, followed him over and passed her his phone, too. She gave over the two cues. “We know the rules.”

She kept looking at the group. The more she looked, the more she realised how attractive they all were. The girl with her dark hair in a bun, the man with the wire rimmed glasses, the shorter man with the close cropped hair. A group this attractive wasn’t natural, she thought as she drained the last of her glass, sipping the gin and tonic mixed with ice in the very bottom of her glass.

Standing up, she grabbed her keys from her pocket and moved to leave the bar. But her eyes were still on the group, too intrigued to leave just yet.

Naval officers weren’t like the people she normally hung around with. They were thin and lithe, athletes trying to keep themselves as light as possible. These Naval officers were big, broad shoulders and all muscle. It made sense for their jobs, she thought. The muscles in their arms became more evident when they began playing pool, their biceps straining the cuffs of their short sleeves.

The one woman in the group leaned over the pool table. She hit the white ball, knocking one of the striped balls into the pocket. It was insanely attractive.

“Would you like another?” The bartender asked and she tore her eyes away from the woman in the khaki uniform.

She immediately went to stand. “I can get it,” She said, but the bartender shook her head, promising to bring her another. Another full glass of gin and tonic and she wouldn’t be able to drive.

The bartender brought over her second gin and tonic and placed it down in front of her. She thanked her quickly and lifted the drink to her lips. As she sipped her drink, another man walked into the bar.

The only similarity he had to the naval officers that filled the building was the aviators sitting low on his nose. It didn’t matter that it was dark outside, he still wore them. A Hawaiian shirt was on his body instead of a khaki uniform, the buttons open to reveal the white wifebeater beneath. She had seen her fair share of moustaches on her friends, fellow drivers, her heroes growing up, but none of them looked as good with one as he did.

Colour her intrigued. She sat back as she watched the way he moved as he walked over to the bar and ordered himself a beer. As soon as the beer was in his hands, he walked over to the group playing pool.

For a minute, she lost sight of him, more interested in the drink in front of her. Just this one and she would be finished. The keys in her jacket pocket were heavy as she drained the glass, drinking until only the ice and the fruit was left.

Suddenly, he walked past her. The man in the Hawaiian shirt walked past her booth. He sat at the piano beside the jukebox and pressed a few of the keys. His aviator friends, the ones that were playing pool, surrounded him at the piano, singing along with joy as he played.

She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t look away from the naval officers that surrounded him. It was quite a sight, all of them singing along to Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe it was something he did regularly, often enough for his friends to know the words. She had seen celebrations like this before, when her big brother had won his first world championship.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt stopped playing and everybody returned to what they had previously been doing. There was still that energy about them, that happy, electric energy that filled the entire bar. His aviator friends walked past the both that only held her and went back to the pool table. He went to join them.

She watched, watched the way he held his beer in his large hands, the way his Hawaiian shirt moved with every step as he moved towards the pool table.

But, suddenly, he slipped into the seat opposite her. She was unable to keep the surprise off of her face as he sipped his beer and said, “Hi.”

That was it. Just a quick, casual ‘hi.’ Being chatted up was nothing new for her and she was used to it. Even when she was a kid in school, boys flirted with her in an attempt to get close enough to meet her brother. She should have been immune to it by now.

But this one little word from the gorgeous man across from her and she was ready to slip from her seat, melting into a puddle on the floor.

She held her composure. The way his dark eyes stared into her own, the way a small, pretty smile played beneath his moustache, wasn’t making it easy. “Hey,” she responded, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible as she picked up her drink. Her media team had trained her for stuff like this. But one look at him and she wanted to get it all.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” he continued.

She didn’t think he knew who she was when he first sat down, but this confirmed it. It sent sparks firing off inside of her. This was freedom.

“I’m just stopping by,” she replied, a coy smile playing on her lips.

He held his large hand out towards her. She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering at the size of his hand, much larger than her own. “I’m Rooster.”

She took a hold of his hand, still unable to get over the size of it, and shook it. “Well, Rooster. Do you always start chatting up random girls in bars?” She asked.

For a moment, a very brief moment, she watched as panic shot through him. But soon he saw the smile playing on her lips, he immediately let his body relax. “Only the pretty ones,” he replied.

Suddenly, she saw an opportunity. She sipped her gin and put it to one side, focusing entirely on him. “Well, if I’m so pretty, then you wouldn’t mind telling me your real name. Because I’m betting it’s not Rooster.” She crossed one leg over the other, letting her foot bounce, occasionally hitting his knee.

He shook his head. “You’re right, it’s not actually Rooster,” he answered. “I’m Bradley. Bradley Bradshaw.”

The name suited him. Bradley. She hadn’t yet said it outloud, but couldn’t wait to feel it on her tongue. Even if it was only for one night.

In return, she gave him her first name and her first name only.

“Have you got a last name?” Bradley found himself asking.

She didn’t tell him what her last name was. Instead, she pulled out her I.D. card and pushed it across the table towards him, getting him to read it. He took it, the I.D. card looking tiny between his fingers. “Ver… Vershtap…” He tried to say it again, trailing off in a confused mumble.

“Close,” she giggled and linked her fingers together, resting her chin on her hands. “Verstappen.”

Bradley continued to stare blankly at her. So, she decided to teach him. “Repeat after me. Ver.”

“Ver,” Bradley repeated. She couldn’t help but laugh; it wasn’t like it was a difficult name to pronounce.

“Stap.”

“Stap. Verstap,” he said, nodding as he put all of it together.

“Pen. Verstappen.”

“Verstappen,” he said slowly. But then he said it again, quicker this time, surprising himself with just how easy it was. “Verstappen. It’s pretty. Where is it from?” He asked and took a swig of his beer.

“It’s Dutch,” she answered, curling her fingers around her glass. “On my dad’s side.”

Bradley said her name in full. The way it rolled off of his tongue, she could have listened to it on repeat.

He looked at her I.D once again and the smile dropped from his face. “You’re only twenty four?” He asked in surprise.

She nodded her head and sipped the melted ice at the bottom of her glass.

“I’m thirty six,” he replied.

Bradley went to stand up, to take his beer with him and leave her to sit alone yet again. But she shook her head and grabbed his hand. “It’s not a problem with me,” she said and he stilled. “You’re younger than my brother’s girlfriend and that is my threshold.”

So, Bradley sat back down. As she drank, she spoke. Bradley ordered her another when her glass emptied.

“So, what’re you doing here in San Diego?” He asked as he put the gin and tonic down and joined her on her side of the booth.

She tapped her nose twice. “That’s for me to know,” she said and giggled. But she really wasn’t going to tell him. She’d learnt by that point that, once somebody knew who she was, they were going to start treating her differently.

She didn’t want that with Bradley.

She didn’t know when they started kissing. But her hands were in his hair, tugging at it as she felt his moustache against her lip. Bradley had his hands on her ass, squeezing lightly as he pulled her onto his lap. “You wanna head back to mine, find out why they call me Rooster?” He whispered against her lips.

She pulled away and nodded her head. At that, Bradley squeezed her hip. “I’m gonna need your words, pretty girl,” he said and she kissed him again.

“Yes Bradley,” she said through a shuddering breath, her forehead against his. “I want you to take me back to your place and show me exactly why they call you Rooster.”

Bradley grinned. He took her hand and led her out of The Hard Deck. He took her past the rest of the Dagger Squad, catching the grin the female Naval officer sent his way.

“Which one is yours?” She asked as they walked out of the doors and over to the car park. She wasn’t going to point her car out to him, the McLaren she was currently borrowing from the man that had stolen her job. But more on that later.

Still holding her hand in his, Bradley took her over to the blue Ford Bronco.

She let out a whistle as she looked at it. “This is sweet,” she muttered as she walked around it.

Bradley beamed, watching as she walked around the car and to it all in. The Bronco was his pride and joy, that fact clear by how well taken care of it was. “You know about cars?” He asked and she nodded her head.

“You could say I’m a car mechanic,” she said and giggled.

Bradley opened the passenger side door. Taking her hand, he helped her to climb into the Bronco.

She fiddled with the radio for most of the ride back to his place. If it was anybody else sitting in his passenger seat, Bradley would have slapped their hand away, stopped them from fiddling with the settings on his precious radio. He had it set to the station he liked, and nobody was allowed to change it. But he didn’t mind when she did it. When she found a station she liked, she settled into the comfortable passenger seat of the Bronco and hummed along.

Bradley was a gentleman. As soon as he pulled the Bronco into the driveway of his beachfront house, he pulled open the door for her and held onto her hand as she jumped out. He pushed the door shut and immediately pressed his lips to her own, hands cradling her head as he held her against the Bronco. She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips. “Fuck,” she whispered, his lips so damn soft against her own. She’d never kissed someone with a moustache before; it was a different sensation, brushing against her lip as she fought him for control.

Control Bradley didn’t easily give up.

She pulled back, chest heaving as she stared into his dark eyes, his pupils blown wide. She was sure she looked the same. “So, are you gonna take inside or what?”

a/n: i've been promising to rerelease this for ages and it's finally here! i'm really proud of this chapter, especially compared to the original version. overall, this series will have more smut than the first time around. more smut, more detail, more emotion (i love rewrites) - let me know if you wanna be tagged!

a/a/n: this series has a sister series! written by @nurse-floyd it'll be a driver!reader x rhett abbott! (aka if you are like me and obsessed with cowboys and f1, you'll love it, even if you don't know rhett abbott)

tags: @biancathecool

@nurse-floyd

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mediumgayitalian · 10 months ago

Text

“What are your parameters for loving me?”

Careful to keep her head locked forward, Naomi glances over at her son. Will’s picked-bloody fingernails scrabble at the worn bandage around his wrist, twisting until his knuckles turn white. The car shakes with his violently bouncing leg, out of time with the shuddering engine and rumbling dust roads under the wheels.

“There aren’t any.”

“There have to be — some.” The bandage is longer than she thought, unspooled in his lap. He winds it back up again quickly, hands blurring; darting around his wrist, tapping on his knees, flexing and locking, flexing and locking. “I mean, what if I became a misogynist?”

She snorts. “I think you’re good, honey.”

“No, Mom, what if? Think about it for real. You’d stop loving me, right?”

“I might knock you around a bit, but it’d pretty hard to stop loving you completely,” she teases. She pinches the stubbornly-clinging baby fat of his cheeks between her knuckles, ruffling his hair when he ducks away.

“Seriously, Mama.”

“I dunno, Will. I’d send you to work for your Auntie Di for a while, probably. Reckon she’d straighten you out good.”

“Okay.” He nods, twice to himself, chewing on his lip. The bandage is wrapped around his elbow, now, pulled tight enough that she can hear the groan of his joints. “Okay. What if I killed someone?”

“Be a pretty hefty secret for the two of us.”

“An innocent person. Cold blood, just because I wanted to.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I could, Mom. People are — unpredictable.” He picks at a hole in his shorts until it’s wide enough to slide three fingers through, pulling the bandage in after them. It looks yellowed next to the green of the fabric, worn. “Sometimes you think you know someone but you don’t.”

“I know you.”

She pushes on her turn signal, slowing to a near stop. Will’s twitching fingers unconsciously synch up, cri-tap, cri-tap, cri-tap. The rusted rims groan as her tires amble around the bend, quieting as she lurches forward. They both duck as she hits a pothole, narrowly avoiding the warped ceiling.

“Cold blood, Mama.”

“I’d — it would scare me, I guess.” The next few potholes are smaller — she can avoid them with some manoeuvring. A mouse darts out onto the road, rushing out from the surrounding cornfields, and she slams on the break, thrusting her arm out to the passenger side. Will’s hands come to cup over her forearm as he slams into it, grunting softly. The mouse sprints across the rest of the road, tail swishing behind it, disappearing into the stalks. She settles back into her seat, brushing across Will’s seatbelt as she does, and presses the gas again. “More for you than of you. For what would happen if someone came knocking.”

“You wouldn’t report it?”

“No I wouldn’t report it, Will, Jesus.”

“But I — but I did something evil.”

“This is a hypothetical, baby.”

“And in the hypothetical. You’re —” He scrubs his hand down his face, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re a good person. You have — morals.”

“I’m a person, Will.” The GPS beeps at her — twenty-five miles to the Tennessee border. “And I’m a mother before that.”

“So if I — you would just — just like that? You’d — forgive me?”

“I’d love you,” she corrects.

“But you wouldn’t forgive me.”

She shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

“So how do you know you’d still love me?”

“Because there’s nothing you could do, baby. I mean it.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even if I was a bully? Or a landlord? Or if I — liked boys?”

He says it quickly, or tries to, but he stumbles over his words, tripping over the syllables. Naomi sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it hard.

“You would still love me, if I — if I —”

Keeping her movements steady, she removes her boot from the gas. Will glances, fast, at her tightening knuckles on the steering wheel, looking quickly away. She guides the car to the shoulder of the road, pulling into park, and kills the engine, unclipping her seatbelt and turning ninety degrees to face her son. Will crowds into the corner of the seat, hunching in on himself, shoulders tense and curling, hair failing over her lowered head.

“Oh, Will.”

His body shakes as she pulls him into her, hands trembling so bad they spasm, twitching out of the fists he makes. She shifts until both of her arms wrap tightly around her torso, ignoring the burn of the trench, tucking his forehead into her collarbone, dropping her lips to press against his temples, his cheeks, the crown of his head.

“It’s okay, baby.”

“It’s — not. I’m still, I can still —”

“Sh.” His tears drip onto her shirt, her skin. He chokes back a sob and she tightens, reflexively, pulling his whole body even closer to her, somehow, making space for his too-long legs, knees hitting his chest, feet dangling off the seat, gearshift shoved into his thigh. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping his cries locked up in his throat, hidden behind clenched teeth, squeezed shut eyes. His fingers cling onto her shirt, twisting the fabric so hard it warps. Her own fingers clutch desperately at the ridges of his spine, the inside of his elbow; squeezing, holding, bruising. His voice is rough as raw grit and reedy as pond scum, barely above a whisper.

“I like boys, Mama.”

“I heard you.” She rests her forehead on his shoulder, her own breaths shuddering. “I heard you, sweetheart.”

“I like — a boy.”

“Okay.”

“For a long time.”

Her swallow constricts her throat, shoving the air back in her lungs. How long, she cannot bring herself to ask — when was it, exactly, that he decided he could not trust her with this? When did she lose that privilege? Was it when he started protecting her from the pain in his life, or before? When he lost everyone close to him at once, or when he broke down and told her about it? When was she no longer the person he ran to when he was scared, nervous, afraid?

He used to come to her for everything.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice wet as it slides against the lump in her throat. She squeezes him again, and this time, he squeezes back, pressing his face into her skin. “Will Solace, you are what keeps me going, do you understand that? Come up here, baby, look at me.”

His eyes aren’t hers. He takes after his father, really; after his older brother once upon a time. But he speaks like she does and smiles like she does and stands like she does, and when he cries he gets that same look, like the ocean has emptied itself inside of him. She cradles both palms to his wet cheeks, thumbs pressing under his eyes, kissing his forehead, his cheekbones, wiping the tears away.

“Fifteen years long you’ve been the light of my life. I need you to understand that, Will. I have never loved anything like I love you and there will never be anyone who comes even close. There is no hypothetical, no situation, no anything that could change that. There are no parameters. None. You understand me?”

“Everything stops,” he croaks. “Everything has a limit.”

“Not me,” she says firmly. “You ain’t a baby no more, baby, but you’re gonna have to pretend for a moment that I know everything again. I am telling you that there is no boundary. And I am not giving you the option to disagree. You are my son and my sun and that’s final, Will. That’s final.”

His face crumples. She pulls him close again, sighing, letting him curl up in his lap like he’s ten years younger than he should be, instead of the ten years older he acts. She runs a hand through his knotted hair and another down his back and presses her lips to his temples, holding him every place she can reach, and rocks them, even though there’s no room to do it, humming slow and low under her breath.

“We’ll get there,” she promises, tapping a beat on his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Okay?”

He nods into her neck. “Okay.” His voice is small but not cowering, thankfully; small like he’s hiding in her instead of from her. She fights the urge to sag into him, to burst into tears of her own.

“I love you, Will. No matter what and forever.”

“I love you too, Mama.”

#naomi solace love of my life #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #will solace angst #naomi solace #naomi solace & will solace #hurt/comfort #autistic will solace #coming out #my writing #fic #longpost

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jasmines-library · 5 months ago

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Could u pls do a Winchester sister fic like (season 10 ep. 15) but instead of the parasite going into cole it goes into the sister and Dean tries to shock it out like in the episode but then she almost dies and they have to try and find another way

The Things They Carried

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Word Count: 2284 (wow look at me go)

Warnings: Uhhh not sure how to phrase it. Overall gore, kinda throwing up?

⛧ SPN MASTERLIST ⛧

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The woman had vanished without a trace. Well, at least at first. Her body was found strung upside down in the storage room of a remote part of the city Feyetteville, North Carolina. Perhaps one of the most perplexing parts of the victims disappearance, was that not only was she an Army Private, trained in Krav Maga and Jiu-Jitsu, but her organs had been drained, along with the bone marrow sucked out of her body. This is what had caught Dean’s attention. He now sat in front of you and Sam, the article pulled up on his ipad.

Sam raised his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling as he studied the article once more before handing it off to you. “So…cannibalism. You thinking a Rugaru?”

“Or a God. Maybe.” Dean agreed. A second later he was up on his feet, ready to go. Sam tried to protest. Ever since Dean got the mark of Cain Sam has been solely focused on trying to find a way to remove it. He was constantly on edge and you had to admit you were too. It seemed that no amount of research seemed to give enough answers on the mark. Eventually, with a look from his older brother and a defeated sigh, Sam let up and not even 10 minutes later, the three of you were speeding down the road.

Much to your disappointment, when you arrived in the city the first thing the three of you were told was that the local police had closed the case. However, they had given you a name, and the incriminating evidence. The sheriff; an elderly man, perhaps late 60s with white, thinning hair, had also told you that the offender had also committed suicide before the feds could lock him up. He also told you that this was the third suicide the city had seen in the last 6 months. A pattern. This was definitely something supernatural, if that wasn’t already clear. However, when Sam asked about the body, the sheriff informed the three of you that there were no bite marks, and that the victim had been killed with a bowie knife. That ruled out a Rugaru, leaving your trail dry.

The next step of the hunt was to speak to Beth, the offender's widow. She was rather distraught as she bounced her baby softly in her arms. When she glanced away from it, you could see the pain in her eyes; the dark circles that rim them.

“Rick was a kind soul.” She insisted sadly, glancing down at the floor. The way she spoke of her late husband was filled with awe, but woven thick was pain that choked up her voice. You could tell that she still hadn’t processed her husband’s recent change in personality.

“Did you ever notice anything strange?” Sam asked gently, his fingers clasped together as he leaned against the countertop. “Violent mood swings?”

“Weird smells?” You added.

“No….” The woman frowned. “But Rick was- he was-” she stuttered, unable to word what she wanted to say correctly, almost as if she didn’t really believe it or understand it herself. “He was thirsty.”

You tilted your head at her, her words catching your interest. “Thirsty for what?”

Her answer surprised you. “Water. He’d spend half the day drinking from the garden hose. And then, when I told him to stop it was like he couldn’t even hear me. And his skin; it got so dry it bled.”

Your older brothers watched intently. “Did he see a doctor?” Dean questioned gruffly.

The poor woman shook her head. There were now soft tears rolling down her face, mingling with the ghosts of the ones there before. “He just got put on a list to be put on a list. And then he stopped talking. He just wasn't himself–” she sniffled, shifting her baby in her arms. “I thought….maybe it was just PTSD.”

No one said anything for a moment before you broke the silence tenderly. “We’re very sorry.”

“You said that Rick had been recently deployed.” Dean said. “Do you have any idea where?”

“No.” She answered rather bluntly. “That stuff’s classified. They don’t even let the wives in on it.”

And the trail runs cold again.

But then, just as you were about to leave and Sam left your number, Beth stopped you again.

“There’s one other thing.” she added. “I ran into my friend Jemma at the supermarket. She’s married to Kit Verson. A guy from Rick’s team. She thinks Kit came back different this time. Kind of felt like we were dealing with the same thing.”

The trail picks up again.

After a little while running around after Kit Verson, discovering that he murdered someone else the same way that his friend did, the three of you ended up in an old shack that his wife believed he might have fled to. It was dark. Eerily so. However not as eerie as the trail of dead mice on the floor. Machetties in hand and guns in holsters, the three of your crept through the darkness of the hut. You found him hunched over in the back room of the house. His breathing was rough and ragged as though he might have run a mile at top speed. When you reached out to touch his shoulder, his head whipped around, bloodshot eyes boring into you. His mouth and face was splattered with blood and dirt, and his movements were erratic as he stood up to face you. He gripped you tight, cold fingers like icicles against your skin as he pushed you back against the wall. And then his eyes were pleading with you. The harsh crease between his eyebrows softened for just a moment as he used his body weight to keep you pinned up against the wood panelling.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted out, wrestling with you to keep you in his grasp. “I can’t stop.”

And then, you were on the floor, dirty ground rising to meet you fast as he made you lose your footing. And then, as you struggled beneath him he made this awful gagging noise as the creature slithered out of his throat and forced its way into you. You coughed, gagging yourself as your brothers rushed into the room. They were on Kit in seconds, but he was strong, throwing your brothers around before dashing out of the door. Quick on his feet, Dean followed, leaving you staggering for breath on the floor with Sam.

“Are you alright?!” Sam asked, alarmed as he rushed to your side, helping you up off the floor.

You coughed. “Some-something’s inside of me–” a grimace spread across your face as you felt it move. “It’s alive–”

“It what?” Sam blinked. “What did it look like? Do you know what it was?”

“Khan worm.” Dean answered, catching on to the end of the conversation. “At Least i think it is. Why? Did you see it?”

You groaned in pain, so Sam answered for you. “It crawled inside her.”

Dean froze, his eyes going wide. “What?”

Sam nodded grimly.

“Did you see what it was? Dean asked worriedly.

You coughed, hands flying to your mouth. “Khan worm.”

“Shit.” Dean cursed aloud, running his hands through his hair.

“We have two options.” You said, trying to hide the grimace on your face as you felt the worm moving, ,crawling under your skin. Neither of the two options were very pleasant at all. You and your brothers had worked a case with Khan worms a few years ago and there were two ways that you discovered the worms could be killed. And while these worms seemed slightly different to the first ones you discovered, you figured that they were similar enough that the same rules would apply. The first option was probably the most forward one, but it also involved certain death; a headshot to the infected person that would cause the worm to flee the body where it would then be crushed by Sam or Dean. Option one was very clearly off the table. The second was far more painful, but it also harboured greater chances of survival.

Dean began to protest immediately. “No. No no. there’s got to be another way.”

“You know we dont-”

“Kid….” Sam started.

“Just do it. We have no other choice.”

Dean sighed, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”

Dean had managed to find two batteries hidden in the small cabin. He placed them grimly on the table with a thud before connecting two of the jump wires that Sam had gone and collected from Baby’s trunk. You were sitting in the armchair, fingers gripping the leather as you waited anxiously. Sam tried to give you some comforting words, but you weren’t sure who he was trying to comfort more; you or himself.

“Alright.” Dean said, his voice laced thick with an anxiousness and guilt he was yet to shake. He brought the cables over to you as you took a deep breath, placing a wooden spoon between your mouth to keep you from biting through your tongue.

Settling back in the chair, you took a moment to collect yourself. To prepare for the agony you were about to put yourself through. And then, you gave him a brief nod

The sudden pain when Dean pressed the jump cables to your skin was overwhelming. Unbearable. A million agonies all combined to one as the electricity raced through your veins. You screamed, crying out as your teeth bit down on the wood of the spoon, which helped to muffle the sound. Both of your brothers winced at the sound of your agony as you twisted and writhed. Sam had to look away and Dean had to force himself to keep the cables against your skin though he yearned to take away your pain. But nothing happened. As soon as your brother removed the cables, you were panting for breath, trying to recover quickly from the pain. You couldn’t help but notice the looks on your brother’s faces.

“Anything?”

Sam shook his head dismally. The parasite was still in you.

“Go again.”

Dean startled. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Go again.” You strained.

Dean collected himself, and then; the same pain. But still as you writhed. Fists clenching and nails digging into your palms the worm remained inside you. And your brothers were growing increasingly concerned. Your movements began to slow as you grew quieter and your eyes fluttered, drooping with a sudden heaviness. Dean pulled the cables away immediately and you slumped back against the chair. Your head lolled forwards against your chest and your breathing was concerningly slow and laboured.

“Okay….okay…” Sam said gently, slipping an arm behind your back to help support you.You whimpered slightly at the movement. “ Shh. You’re alright sweetheart.” he glanced up at Dean, fear and worry evident in the creases on his forehead. They would have to find a different way to get the worm out.

You were sweating. Gods….you’d never been hotter. Your body still ached as you sat in the armchair of the cabin. The old leather was flaking off and was practically covered in a sheen of your own sweat. Sam and Dean had pushed it towards the fire, leaving you to sweat against the heat. They had figured that as the parasite needed water, if they could make you sweat it all out…then the creature would leave. But now you were practically slumped in a chair, dark veins crawling up your neck as you tried to rid the worm from your body. You coughed a little, your throat dry, with no way to soothe it. Thirst…..that was the only thing that consumed your mind…you were so. damn. thirsty. Your body craved it. Anything you could get you would take….even your own brothers’ blood. The parasite yearned for something. You could feel it, squirming around inside you. Uncomfortable, you whined before coughing a little, doubling over on yourself.

Sam placed a hand on your shoulder. “Hang in there, Sweetheart. You have to sweat it out.”

“Can’t–” You coughed.

“Yes you can.” Dean shut you down quickly. “You can’t give up. Winchesters don’t quit.”

Reluctantly, you nodded. Your head spun. You felt sick. But you knew you couldn’t give up. You were in for a long waiting game.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, when you were on the verge of breaking down that you began to feel it slithering up your throat. You gagged, coughing as you tried to expel the creature from your body.

Sam and Dean were by your side in seconds, both trying to coax you through it, ready to stomp on the worm as soon as it made an appearance. Sure enough you managed to cough it up uncomfortably. It splattered on the floor, squealing as it writhed and trying to slither off to infect someone else. It didn’t make it far before Dean slammed a heavy boot over it. And once more for good measure. It squelched under his shoe, peeling off from it as it stuck to the floor. He grimaced at the sight before moving to crouch beside you, checking on you.

You wiped the string of saliva from your mouth with a grimace before gratefully taking the water bottle Sam offered you and wasting no time before drinking it to quench your impossible thirst.

“That's it. Easy, Sweetheart.” Dean cooed. “It’s over now.”

“You did it, kiddo.” Sam said, guiding you to lean back in the chair more. “We knew you could do it. We’re proud of you.”

(A bit of a rubbish ending! I'm sorry i wasn't sure what to do)

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SPN TAGS:

@xxrougefangxx @hell-o-kittys @inlovewhithafairytale @harleycao @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @rosecentury

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#supernatural x reader #spn #spn x reader #supernatural #supernatural x sister reader #spn x sister reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x sister reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x sister reader #supernatural fanfiction

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