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avaf00rdxx · 1 month

Text

Little Shits 4

Arsenal wfc x teen!reader

Auswnt x Teen!reader

summary: you cherish some special and cheeky moments with you club team during your birthday week, and the end of Camp with you national team.

warnings: none, maybe that its edited shit - someone teach me to feel confident with my writing again so i can actually write something good

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“You can’t make up your mind, mind, mind, mind, mind!” You and Alanna screeched into the microphones on the team bus back from Marvel stadium.

“Make it stop!” Kyra screamed over the extremely loud music, covering her ears, causing other girls to laugh and yell in agreement

“Shawty is a eenie meenie miney mo lover!” You sung into Caitlin’s face in her seat, she recorded you as she laughed, you would later find that video on her insta story.

Alanna threw you over her shoulder as you walked back to your bus seats once you were both finished your karaoke song. Voices gone.

You and your national team had just won against Uzbekistan with a wicked 10-0 and were officially going to Paris. Something you had been losing sleep on for weeks.

“You have ruined Justin Bieber for me you two!” Mimi yelled over the rows

“Oh get over it!” You yelled back laughing

You had some of the sprite bottle that was in your backpack to cool down after the performance before Alanna laid on your shoulder from next to you. “Tell me I’m dreaming and we don’t have to get on a 3am flight”

You pinched her

“Ow don’t pinch me” she exclaimed as she rubbed the now red skin

“Dreaming?” You laughed “we are going to be awake the whole night before that it’s fine”

“I’m already tired” she said before muzzling herself back into your shoulder.

“You’re boring” you said already bored at her energy level, getting up out of your seat while the rest of the bus was still singing and going nuts in excitement.

When the bus reached the Hotel you all took the lift to your respected rooms. You all had roommates this camp, and you were with Caitlin as she would usually room with Sam.

When you reached your room you both plopped onto your bed's before you reached over to the phone next to you as Caitlin got up to use the bathroom.

“Room service?” You asked as she had left the room to shower, before she quickly popped around the corner again and pursed her lips at you grinning. Implying a cheeky ‘yes’.

You dialed in the number as the phone rang to the kitchen and greeeting the staff on the line. “Yes just two of your cheese burgers, two fries, one side salad, two chicken nugget meals please and your umm…chocolate Sundae as well as your strawberry one” you said, ordering a lot for you and the hungry brunette

Caitlin came into the bedroom once again, giggling at your requests on the phone.

“20 minutes is fine. Thank you!” Before hanging up the phone and putting it back on the bedside table.

“I’m not gonna have any room for my airplane food!” Caitlin said

“I don’t understand how you like that stuff”

“Airplane food is great” she shrugged

You both had 1 hour before you had to leave for the airport. It wasn’t long at all, considering you both had stuff scattered around the apartment. Caitlin’s face cringed in confusion at your choices but left it before she got on the phone with her girlfriend and your Arsenal Teammates Katie.

—————————

“No fucking about alright? Everyone is tired” Mackenzie warns you and Kyra as you are lined up for boarding, large carry ons in hand and an all too eager duo consisting of you and your best friend.

“Hm” Kyra shrugs at the tall brunette

“We won’t, I’m tired too you’ll be fine” you reassured Mackenzie

As you slowly made your way down the boarding bridge you yawned more than twice on your way you were sure. Greeting the flight attendants you and Kyra made it to your respected seats.

You had fallen asleep after an hour, which is what you were specifically not meant to do due to all of the London Aussies trying to align themselves back with European time. But you slept for five hours and now you were up. Bored as nothing else as basically the rest of the plane slept.

Peeking over the small separator of a wall between you and Kyra, you found her dead asleep. Mouth hung open like drool was about to drip out any moment. You sent a photo of the girl in her state to your Matilda’s group chat, attaching ‘I hope all you who didn’t have to leave at 3 are having fun🥰’.

Quickly deciding to get up and go to the bathroom, you found Mini waiting at the bathroom door for someone to come out so she could go. She found you walking down the aisle and smiled at you before opening her arms slowly to hug you.

You lazily accepted her arms and slumped into her embrace. “I fell asleep just before” you said leaning into her side, keeping your feet grounded as the plane slightly felt wobbly.

“Naughty” Mini chuckled

When the older woman came out of the bathroom, Mini offered for you to go first but you insisted she go. Then noticing a very tired toddler in her seat a few rows down from the bathroom as you waited, Harper yawned bringing her smaller arms up to stretch which made your heart melt. Her tired and slow eyes found yours as she smiled before opening her arms for a hug.

Even though you were quite a fair bit away for her, you made your way back down the aisle to sit next to her in her overly large seat. She crawled into your lap, resting her body there. You, Carefully stroking her arm and looking around the plane at some of the girls asleep, you had completely forgotten about needing to use the toilet before Mini came down the aisle once again.

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“And to all those returning home, welcome home” the captain said sweetly over the overhead speakers, Kyra rolling her eyes. You had slung your carry on over your shoulder and prepared to get straight out of your seat once Kyra had gotten her over-head carry on out.

“Hello London” you said once you finally made it to baggage claim and stopped to stand and stretch for a moment, before resting on your suitcase waiting for the other girls to grab their’s. Katie would be picking both you and Caitlin up and would drop you home. Teyah picking Kyra up.

“Oh my gosh can I please get a photo y/n!” You heard an excited voice behind you. Your tired expression immediately vanished as you turned around on your heel to meet with the voice.

A girl and a boy that looked about 10 years old stood there cutely with their phones out asking for a photo. “Me?” You asked smiling

“Yes! Only if that’s okay” the short boy said

“Of course” you smiled before putting your handbag on top of your suitcase so you could take the photo.

“We are Australian too! We are on holidays” the girl explained once you handed her phone back to her after you all took the photo

“Oh I thought I heard some Australian accents” you laughed “what do you think of London?”

“It’s very cold” the girl said

“Yeah” they both laughed

“Oh I agree. Bit different from Australia. What are your names?” You asked them

“I am Emma”

“And I’m Luke I play soccer like you!” The small boy said after his sister

“That’s awesome wow!” You said excitedly.

“Hey y/l/n, Katie’s here” Caitlin said from behind you. Not seeing the two young fans that you were talking to just yet.

“Caitlin Foord!” The little girl said excitedly before they both ran off to her. The small boy waving to you as he ran.

You looked a little to the left to find the Irish girl standing there smiling at the interaction, you walked towards her before she started to do the same to you when she noticed you. You hugged, a hug that felt long because it felt soothing to be in her arms like always. Every time Katie hugged someone, it was liked she always framed them in her arms perfectly.

“How you going tiny?” She asked looking down at you with that wide and comforting smile.

“Good”

“Good” Katie mimicked you

“Very tired but I’m happy” you shrugged before pulling her back in. Before feeling a slight tug at the hood of your jumper. Caitlin pulling you away from Katie, so she could greet her. You grabbed your suitcase quickly while they kissed and did whatever else you chose not to look at for too long.

“Let’s go” Katie said grabbing your suitcase off of you so she could hold it before you all walked to her car and out of the airport.

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“Vivvy I don’t need your help” you groaned as Viv came over to where you sat at the dining table, attempting to help you with your homework for the 10th time tonight.

“We aren’t starting this movie until it’s done and unless you want to be hated from us collectively I suggest you pick up that pen” Viv stated trying to keep her words firm and clear.

“Kyra I’ll have one” you pointed to Kyra who was at the fridge getting herself a coke. Completely ignoring Viv who attempted to help you hurry up.

“I give up we are starting the movie” Viv said before walking back to the living room where most of the girls were already.

It was a team bonding night with some of the girls who lived super close to you, Kyra and Alessia’s building. Everyone forced the idea on you that you would host. As no one else was bothered to host and cook for everyone.

You were quite a good cook as the 16 year old yourself. So you gave in, but had deadlines for your online school due tomorrow that you were nowhere near done. The girls found out about your deadlines and made sure you finished them.

“I’ll just ask for an extension” you shrugged getting up and heading to your kitchen to grab the coke off the island that Kyra left for you.

“You can’t just ask for an extension every time” Caitlin, your Australian teammate, said from her position leaning against your kitchen counter, digging her grimey fingers into the leftover salad on the counter.

“out” you flicked her fingers out from the bowl and pulled her arm with you into the living room. “Yeah well I don’t know my teachers so I don’t care” you shrugged before you both sat down on the couch. Caitlin having to take the floor, sitting in between her girlfriend’s legs, due to there being no more space left in the couch nor the beanbags.

“Excited to be 17 tiny?” Laura said from her position on the couch next to you

“Very” you smiled sweetly. It was your birthday in two days.

“That reminds me. Game day in two days, so we can’t watch this full movie” Kim said from the other end of your couch

“Oh come on” Leah groaned like a child to her club Captain

The movie had been playing for around 45 minutes now. When Kyra’s intrusive ideas quickly sprung up and she was sharing them with you. “If we snuck out no one would notice” she whispered

You quietly chuckled at the comment that came completely out of no where, before some of the girls turned to look at you, as the movie scene playing was definitely not that funny.

“Mate how are you gonna do that”

“Your gonna do it with me” Kyra said, you laughed quietly dropping your head and shaking it.

“Yeah and where the hell are we gonna go”

“We can literally just go to my apartment or the lobby. Just to see how long they notice, or how long it takes for them to finally find us” she said finally now leaning back into the couch to act casual, but waiting for your response. Instead you headed to the kitchen

“I’m grabbing water” you said as the rest of the girls eye’s stayed on the screen, Kyra’s following you before quickly getting up and following you when you motioned her to do so.

“I’m in, come on” you whispered before grabbing your key and heading for your front door, which was luckily behind the couch where the rest of your friends lay.

“Should we take our phones?” Kyra asked looking back before she shut the door behind her.

“Nah” you shrugged before Kyra finally shut it, very, very gently.

Bad idea.

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Vic’s Pov

I got up to use the toilet, softly apologise to girls as I stepped over their legs that sprawled out over the carpet before I made my way to the bathroom. I knocked, remembering that Kyra had gone in not too long ago.

“Kyra?” I questioned softly after hearing not response, knocking again. “Kyraaa” I dragged out as I very very gently opened the door slightly to see if she was even in there. When my head finally poked through, I saw no one there. Walking in to double check, there was no one.

“Guys where is Kyra?” I yelled from the bathroom not too loudly. There was silence for a moment as none of the girls bothered to respond to me.

“Where’s y/n?” Katie yelled back, making me exit the bathroom and go out to see the rest of them. “Y/n” Katie slightly yelled across your small apartment. Going to check your bedroom and guest bedroom. “Did you say Kyra was gone too?” Katie asked me as she walked to the rooms, the movie now paused.

“Yeah she’s not in the bathroom like I thought she was” I said before following Katie, me laughing slightly once we checked both rooms only to find them not anywhere.

“Fuck me” Kim said under her breath, now getting up front the couch, Teyah also getting up along with Lia. Viv and Leah asleep on the couch.

Kim went to the kitchen to grab her phone so she could call y/n and Kyra. “Kim” Katie said motioning for her to look at herself, holding up both there phones as she walked out of the room. Signalling they left them.

“Why do they do this” Caitlin said as she went to your front door to look out into the hallway, before completely disappeared down it to look for both of you.

end of pov

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“You dumb kid why did you say no when I asked about taking phones?” Kyra groaned as you both sat up against the wall, the outside of your apartment building. You and Kyra had ventured down to the lobby, only to think that it was too obvious, so you walked outside into the dark and sat outside the building. Dangerous. Yep.

“Oi Don’t call me that. Why did you ask me then?” I rushed

“This is boring come on” Kyra said before getting up and reaching her arms out, offering for you to latch on so she could help you up. Kyra dragged you back through your libby and then out a door. Leading to the car park.

“It’s so scary down here no” you said standing in the emergency doorway that you had both snuck into. It was 11pm, pitch black, and Kyra was making her way over to the box trolleys. The trolleys that the residents used to take up large items.

“Push me” Kyra said sitting down in the middle of the trolley, putting her hands in her lap, and crossing her legs.

“No” you hummed

“Yes”

“No”

“Yes”

“Only if you push me after” you gave in. It sounded fun.

“Don’t push me into a car” Kyra laughed as you started to walk with the trolley “faster cmon”

After spinning the trolley around for no more than two minutes filled with laughter and Kyra screaming as the trolley headed for the cement wall. "Okay off, my turn please" you said tugging on Kyra's sleeve before you helped her out of the trolley. As you went to hop in, you both heard the squeaky but heavy door leading to the car park swing open from he other side of the lot. Thinking someone was here to kill you both, you shared a paranoid look before instantly moving behind the red car you were both near, you peaked through the car's back window to see if you could see the figures that had entered, you heard the voice of a female before your eyes landed on Katie, Kim and Teyah.

"Is it a man?" Kyra asked, not looking, her back against the car.

"what? oh, no, worse. Kim Little"

Kyra just looked up at you and smirked before pulling you away, further into the dark parking spaces filled with cars. "Oi!" a strong Irish accent was heard, you looked back as you and Kyra ran through the large car park, locking eyes with a stern Kim Little. "Get back here!" Katie yelled again, a slight goofiness in her voice.

Kyra pulled you behind a car as you noticed Teyah and Katie running up to follow you, you and Kyra ducking out again and running behind another car. "Stop" Teyah breathed out as she ran after you two again. You turned back around only to realise you were running straight towards your captain Kim.

"Ah shit" you chuckled as your jogging came to a stop "hey it was funny-"

"we didn't know where you were, everyone was looking for you two!" Kim exclaimed

"Why" you asked smiling and still breathing heavily, recovering form your chase. Hearing the squeals and laughs from afar, Katie and Teyah were still taking off towards Kyra as they basically played tiggy.

"cause we all care about you. And it worried me that you and Kyra just left"

"Kyra's 22!" you said throwing your arms up

"Is she" Kim said, motioning towards Teyah and Katie tackling Kyra into the cement ground while she broke out into a giggling fit. "besides you're 16!"

"and you're over reacting" you breathed out before grabbing your jumper off the ground near the door and making your way to the exit. Getting in the elevator by yourself, pressing the button with the number 16 on it, heading to your apartment again. Though the lift stopped at ground level, above the car park, someone also trying to get the lift up.

Once the elevator doors opened, a blonde girl with a messy bun and her head in her phone was walking in. Not seeing you yet. "Shit"

Leah looked up from her phone at you. "There you are" Leah said, hitting the back of your head before rubbing your hair aggressively.

"Ow" You groaned, rubbing your head.

"I was looking outside for you, where's Kyra?" Leah said as the lift dinged and you both walked up the hall.

"Kyra's with Kim, Katie and um Teyah" you said, now unlocking your apartment door.

"Where on earth did you go" Leah asked now

"first outside, then the car park" you grinned

"look who it is!" Viv said as you both walked in, from her spot on the couch next to Beth, Laura and Alessia.

"Where is the rest of yous'?" Beth asked you simply shrugged, not bothering to answer, before collapsing into Laura's lap on the couch.

"You're kinda sweaty" Laura said from above your head.

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Your birthday happened to land on a Thursday, which was your day off. Which meant your birthday would be spent not in the gym, and relaxing, just how you preferred. You sat up in your own bed, in your own apartment face timing your whole family on your computer. Once that ended, you stayed in bed, smiling and your heart warming at the Instagram posts your friend's back in Australia had created for your day, and the one's from your teammates also.

After a slow 30 minutes, you finally left the comfort of your blankets and got into the shower to freshen up for the day. You would be meeting the 'London Aussies' for breakfast this morning. Which included you, Caitlin, Steph, Macca, Sam, Kyra and as of late, Mini and Charli. It meant a lot to you that they took the morning's out of their day off to spend it with you on your birthday. Something you weren't sure would've even been thought about when you nervously moved across the world.

Steph offered to pick you up. So after applying some light makeup to match your usually-bronzed Australian self, changing into a warm outfit consisting of Jeans and a crew neck, Steph had texted you that she was now out the front of your apartment complex.

A wide grin was plastered on both your faces as the glass door outside your lobby opened, Steph leaning against her car waiting for you, large bouquet of yellow flowers in her hand. "Happy birthday Dancing queen!" she exclaimed before engulfing you in a tight hug, slightly lifting your feet off the ground in the warm gesture, you giggled at the comment before she let go of you.

She handed the flowers to you, "for me?" you asked in awe of them as she smiled.

"Of course" Steph said warmly

"Thank you it means a lot to me" you said hugging her again.

"Okay let's go i'm starving" She said before skipping off to the other side of the car to drive. You chuckled as you got into the car

"Where are we even going" you asked on the road, curious as to where you and your Aussie teammates would be eating

"I forget what it is called but I have taken you here before, you loved it" Steph said. Moments later, the car pulled into the parking lot, you remembering the cafe now. You saw Kyra getting out of the car with Charli, from your window.

Meeting up with all your Australian teammates from all around London once again made you happy, almost was the highlight of your day. During the breakfast, you got photos together at the table, some of the girl's mentioning that they would post them on their stories later for Instagram. You spoke about the Olympics, Sam's recovery and wedding plan's, along with plan's of Steph's big day also.

"You're gonna love the present from me and Katie" Caitlin grinned, nudging your shoulder, You let out a quiet but excited squeal.

"What are your plan's for the rest of your day y/n?" Sam asked you before sipping her iced coffee.

"I have been invited over to Beth and Viv's place for dinner tonight. So just chilling at my place then I will head over for that" You said to the girls, them all nodding.

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Your birthday breakfast was over and Steph had dropped you back home, after taking you to the super market. To buy you whatever Sweets or snacks you wanted for your own apartment. You heard a knock at your door so you walked over to it and peeped through the door. Only to be met with a man in a fluro green vest and black hoodie.

"Y/n y/n/n?" the man asked. You hesitated at first, the multiple worried chats from Leah pondering into your mind about not talking to people who just show up at your apartment. That was before you looked down at the large box with pink wrapping paper and yellow ribbon, the object softening your initial expression. You quickly nodded at the man, before singing on a line from the form he put in front of you.

"Thank you" You smiled before he headed off, leaving the pink box at your door. You went to pick it up, it was heavier than you expected, but you brought it inside and placed it on your dining room table. You unwrapped the gift and saw the card from Katie and Caitlin. Their sweet words about how they were proud of your journey and their love for you had you smiling to yourself. You had received multiple gifts, most of them at training yesterday though, they all made you extremely grateful for the teammates you could call home now. The gift from Katie and Caitlin was a light pink Smeg mixer for baking may not seem to exciting, but baking and cooking for the people closest to you was your love language at this point.

Your teammates had become used to you hosting dinners, with your cooking skills. Also getting used to and comfortable with you regularly bringing them baked treats you had made. Some of them like Katie, Leah and Kyra had become quite demanding that you visit them with treats now.

On the cardboard box the mixer, Katie had written largely in thick-red sharpie 'I expect a shit ton of cookies now', her writing taking up the whole left side of the box. You laughed to yourself at her antics before opening up the box and taking a look at your present.

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You and Viv got out of her car, where she had parked it outside her and Beth's flat. You were here to spend your birthday dinner with them. "Ready?" Viv asked before she opened the door.

"Uh yeah why" you questioned. Quickly before the door swung open and lights were turned on

"Surprise!" yelled a group, you shooting your head up.

You were met with the beaming faces of your whole family. Including your parents, older siblings, grandparents and closest cousins. Your jaw hung low really fast in shock. Your Australian family was all her in front of you. "What are you-" you yelled in excitement before running into your mother's arms. You greeted your whole family eagerly before hugging Beth who watched you interact with a proud smile.

"who did this?" you asked looking up at her, Beth still holding you

"i may have organised it. But you can thank your siblings" she grinned at you before you hugged her tighter.

You spent the rest of the evening eating pizza and talking with your family. You ended up having to get takeaway as Viv bought the wrong meat from the butcher to make for dinner. Forever grateful for your biggest supporters in your life and your Arsenal and Aussie teammates.

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Not my best fic at all so i apologise. And i'm so sorry it took so long. Uni is kicking me in my ass daily so it's hard to edit a such.

xxx

#woso #arsenal women #caitlin foord #leah williamson #matildas #woso community #katie mccabe #arsenal #auswnt #kyra cooney cross #matildas x reader #arsenal x reader #arsenal wfc #kyra cooney cross x reader #arsenal women x reader #woso x reader #woso x teen reader

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munson-blurbs · 7 months

Note

Hey can I do one of the spirit Halloween requests. Sour Patch Kids/Butterfinger. And can it be with Eddie please. Can include smut if that's OK. Thank you 😊

Enemies-to-Lovers/Shy!Reader/Eddie Munson

(+ 3 other anon requests)

I couldn't figure out a way to make it smutty without it seeming forced, but there are definitely some raunchy elements. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Eddie is mean to Reader, allusion to masturbation (18+ only, minors DNI), Reader wears a skirt

WC: 1.2k

Divider credit to @saradika

“Absolutely not.” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, a sneer cursing his lips.

“Come on, man!” Mike grumbles, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I told Nancy I’d help her out.”

Eddie scoffs, turning away from you and your best friend’s younger brother. “Yeah, well, I didn’t promise shit,” he retorts. “We don’t need anymore players, and we definitely don’t need her.”

Your lower lip quivers, and you bite it to stop from crying. “I, um, i-it’s okay, Mike,” you hurriedly reassure him. “I’ll tell Nancy you tried.” You turn around and leave the drama room, tears blurring your vision.

“What the hell is your problem?” Mike yells loud enough that you can hear him halfway down the hallway, despite the pounding in your ears. “Nancy said she’s really into DnD. She could, I dunno, be our sub when Lucas has a game or something.”

“Am I speaking a different language? No. N-O. Not happening.”

Gareth cocks a bemused brow. “Are you still pissed off about—”

“SHUT UP!” Eddie’s bellow reverberates around the tiny room. “Look, are we gonna play or not?”

“I gotta go make sure she’s okay before Nancy kicks my ass,” Mike huffs, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Thanks for nothing,” he spits at Eddie.

No one says anything for a moment; the Hellfire Club is eerily silent. Finally, Jeff speaks up. “That was pretty harsh, Ed.”

“That was harsh?!” Eddie guffaws and clenches his jaw. “Me telling her she can’t join Hellfire is harsh, but she can talk shit about me to her friends, and that’s totally fine? Cool, got it.” He shakes his head at the memory. Just a few weeks ago, he’d been walking to your locker to ask you out, only to overhear you telling Nancy that you wish he would disappear and leave you alone.

“Why do you even care so much?” Lucas asks, now thoroughly invested in the drama.

“Because he loves her,” Gareth pipes up, “and she thinks he’s an obnoxious prick, which is accurate.” He’s unfazed by Eddie’s glare, having been on the receiving end of his anger many a time. “Dude, you embarrassed the shit outta her in history! Why would she be nice to you?”

Dustin rolls his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Eddie insists at the same time Gareth says, “As soon as she walked into class, he jumped on his desk and shouted, ‘there’s the prettiest girl in Hawkins!’”

All of the guys let out a collective groan. “You can’t do that with a shy girl!” Lucas groans. If Eddie wasn’t six inches taller than him, he’d smack him upside the head. “Max would kick my ass if I did that to her.”

“She probably thought you were making fun of her,” Dustin points out, and Eddie’s face falls when everyone else nods in agreement. “Have you tried, like, talking to her and not at her?”

“No,” Eddie admits, scuffing the toe of his Reeboks on the tile floor. “Shit, I gotta fix this–I’ll be right back.”

You’re nearly at the double doors of Hawkins High’s entrance when you hear a familiar voice calling your name. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and muster up all of your courage, but your words still rush out too quickly. “I’m gonna tell Nancy that Hellfire wasn’t my scene. You’re in the clear, okay? Just…go away.”

But he doesn’t go away; he comes closer. The anger that previously flamed behind his eyes is extinguished, replaced by concern. “Can we talk?” he softly asks. “We can go in my van so it’s more private. Please.”

“Fine.” The desperation in his tone convinces you to give in. You follow him to the van, offering him the smallest smile when he opens the door and motions for you to go inside. Pushing aside a stray guitar pick, you take a seat on the carpeted floor.

Eddie takes a deep breath, twisting his rings around his fingers nervously. “I, um, I’m sorry. For, y’know, the whole thing in history class.”

You suck your lip between your teeth before responding. “S’okay,” you mumble. You really want to tell him off so he knows how hurt you were by his teasing, but you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

“No, it’s not. I…I should’ve told you when it was just the two of us,” he counters, drawing a confused look from you. “What?”

“Told me what?”

“That I think you’re the prettiest girl in Hawkins.” He offers his own puzzled expression when you scramble to your knees and lean for the door handle. “Wait! Where’re you going?”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow before you can speak. “This is obviously a big joke to you, Eddie. ‘Ha ha, let’s point out how ugly the nerdy girl is!’”

“No. No.” Eddie’s voice is firm but kind. “It wasn’t a joke. I really think you’re the prettiest girl in Hawkins. And I like you. A lot,” he adds with a nervous laugh. “That whole, uh, performance was my way of flirting.”

You’re still unconvinced, cocking a brow in disbelief, so he continues. “How about this: since I embarrassed you, I’ll tell you an embarrassing secret. And if I’m lying about liking you, you can tell everybody.”

You relent for the second time today. “O-Okay. That’s fair.”

“All right.” Eddie rubs his palms on his jeans, slick with anxious perspiration. “So, remember that time that I got to class, all…sweaty and out of breath and stuff?”

You nod. “Mhm.” He’d told Mrs. Click that he’d been in gym class, but you knew he’d just come from lunch like you had. You’d figured he’d had a deal out in the woods and ran back to school.

“Well, um,” he looks down at the carpet, “it was because I saw you in the cafeteria wearing this cute little skirt, and I had to…take care of myself. In the boys’ room.” He presses his palms to his eyes and says, mostly to himself, “No fuckin’ way did I just admit that.”

You’re shell-shocked. Like joining Hellfire, the skirt in question was another one of Nancy’s ideas to ease you out of your comfort zone. You had no idea he’d even noticed. “Y-You liked it?” you ask dumbly.

“Ohhhh, yeah,” Eddie chuckles. “I gotta stop thinkin’ about it before…” His eyes drop to the zipper of his jeans, a small tent already visible against the seam, and he hurries to switch subjects. “D’you still wanna play DnD with us? I promise I’m usually less of a dick. And a perv.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I have my doubts about that last part,” you tease, only half-joking, “but, yeah. I would love to play with you guys.”

“Awesome.” Eddie’s face lights up. “And maybe after, you and I can grab something to eat? Maybe catch a movie or somethin’?”

Before you can chicken out, you kiss his cheek. “It’s a date.”

The two of you walk back into the school, Eddie’s hand on the small of your back. “Oh, um, one more thing?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you change into that skirt?”

#trope or treat #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #fanfic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #smut #eddie munson angst

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months

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A Family at Your Side

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x shy!paramedic!fem!Buckley!reader

Summary: You, Evan Buckley's sister, are a paramedic with the 118. When you're called to a fire, it quickly becomes a crime scene when someone opens fire on you. Your boyfriend Tim Bradford and your fire station family have to work together to save you.

Warnings: angst, fluff, injuries (r is shot), depiction of arson/shooting, lots of teasing. [While r is Evan's sister, I don't put anything specific in here past some teasing, so it could be viewed as adoptive or some other relationship dynamic!]

Word Count: 2.6k+ words

A/N: I've only seen a few episodes of 911 (season 1), so I hope my characterization of them isn't completely terrible. I really like this dynamic though; it's so fun and complex!!

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Picture from Pinterest

“There’s no escape,” you whisper under your breath, desperately wishing for some relief.

“Oh, c’mon, we’re not that bad,” Buck replies, knocking his fist against your shoulder. “We’re better than the cop.”

“In every way!” Hen adds, smiling at you. “Why you started dating him is one of the two things I will never understand about you.”

“What’s the other?” you ask.

“How you-“ she turns to point to Buck as she continues, “and him are related. He can’t shut up and you can’t make eye contact.”

“I got all the good genes,” Buck explains, smiling.

“Yet none of the smarts,” Hen argues, pressing her lips together as she tilts her head.

“Or looks,” Nash calls from his place in the kitchen. “Now if you’re done bothering her, can someone set the table?”

You stand to help, and Nash points a spatula at you as he says, “Not you. You do it all the time. Make your brother do something for once.”

“She has no power over me!” Buck yells dramatically. “I have leverage. Like that time she-“

Chimney hits the back of his head, telling him to stop, as your chin drops to your chest. The alarm goes off before you can wonder which embarrassing story he was planning to use, and as you rush to the ambulance with Hen, you’re glad Chimney stopped him. Their attention was bad enough without him divulging your personal information.

✯✯✯✯✯

“This is a suspected arson, meets the MO of a few previous fires. We need that fire out before the police get here so they can get in,” Nash announces.

“Anyone inside?” Hen asks.

As Nash answers, someone screams in pain, and you look at Nash. He hesitates before nodding, and you grab your bag before running into the clear side of the duplex.

“Los Angeles Fire and Rescue,” you call. “Is anyone in here?”

“Yes! I need help!” a man yells from the back of the dwelling.

Rushing through, you radio to the rest of the 118 that you’re looking for an injured resident.

“We can’t get the fire under control,” Buck answers, his voice tight. “You need to get out of there.”

“I see him. Keep trying, Buck. Sir, are you injured?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answers shakily. “I smelled the smoke and- and I have asthma, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and I was scared to leave.”

“Okay, take a deep breath, sir. I’m a paramedic, so I’m going to get you out of here and then we’ll make sure your airways are clear. Do you understand?”

He nods but refuses when you gesture for him to stand.

“It’s on fire!” he argues.

“Sir, we have a clear track to the front door, but the fire will spread with the Santa Anas blowing outside, so we need to go now,” you explain.

Something crashes outside, and you pull the man to his feet.

“Get out of there! If I don’t see you in ten seconds, I’m coming in after you,” Buck radios.

“We’re coming, Buck,” you answer, pulling the man along.

More sirens become audible as you reach the door, the fire much closer to the front of the building. Several police cars approach, and you breathe a sigh of relief. The man stops, and you turn toward him quickly.

“Sir, we’re almost there,” you remind him, pointing to the ambulance.

“He’s still out here!”

“Who?” you ask, your voice quieting again as the adrenaline wears off.

“The man who set the fire!”

You freeze, a sudden cold rush contrasting the heat from the fire.

“Where is he?”

“I- I don’t know.”

A shot rings through the air, and you drop to the small porch, pulling the man behind the railing beside you. The fire is moving toward you, but with no idea of where that shot came from, you can’t move and risk your life and this man’s.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Everybody down!” Nash yells, ducking behind the truck.

“7-Adam-19, shots fired at my location. LAFD 118 and LAPD in need of backup, dispatch air support for possible sniper,” Tim calls, kneeling behind his shop before rushing to the fire truck.

“She’s still up there,” Buck calls, squatting behind the ambulance with Hen.

“Who?”

Buck and Nash look at each other and then Tim, and he immediately knows they’re talking about you.

“Backup is on the way, but we can’t do anything yet,” Tim explains.

“Bradford, the fire is spreading, we can’t stop it with this wind!” Nash adds.

“Or a sniper taking shots at us!” Buck yells. He drops his head to his radio to ask, “Sis, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Bradford and Thorsen are here, they called for backup but we can’t do anything until-“

Another shot cuts him off, and you move back against the railing.

“Talk to me!” Buck yells into his receiver.

“I’m okay, Buck,” you reply quietly. “Our- uh- our guy passed out after working himself up, so…”

“He’s not our primary concern right now,” Buck responds.

“Careful,” you warn, your voice nearly inaudible.

“No, I happen to agree,” Nash adds to the conversation.

Tim pulls Chimney’s radio from his chest to say, “I do too. You take care of you, and we’ll worry about him when we can get up there.”

The radio stays quiet, and Tim looks around the end of the truck. He can’t see you, but knowing you’re out of sight and safe makes him feel better.

“Uh, Tim?” Aaron asks. “Eyes on our shooter.”

Tim turns quickly, looking up. He sees the end of the rifle, and when it lowers suddenly, he doesn’t think before yelling at you.

“Stay down!” he screams.

You drop lower, your face to the concrete as the shooter releases several rounds, making a line of bullet holes across the front of the duplex. The fire is moving slowly, but it’s still closing in on your hiding place.

The cold feeling hasn’t gone away, and as you look at the unconscious man at your side, you can only hope to make it out alive.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Where is your backup?” Buck asks Tim, leaning forward to look past Hen.

“Still a minute out. Aaron and I are going to go through that building, find a way to the roof,” Tim answers.

“Be careful. We all care about the woman stuck back there,” Nash reminds him.

Aaron and Tim nod before moving between the shop and the fire truck, rushing to the main entrance and entering quietly.

“Go left, I’ll go right,” Tim whispers.

As they move up the stairs, Tim hears their backup and the airship approaching. He hopes that the shooter doesn’t do anything stupid when he sees the police and gestures for Aaron to go faster.

“LAPD, put the weapon down!” an officer demands over the speaker of the airship.

“Thorsen, go!” Tim yells, kicking the door open to walk onto the roof.

The man turns the rifle up, shooting toward the helicopter before it moves. Aaron and Tim approach from different sides, and when the gun suddenly drops and the man begins emptying his ammunition toward you, Tim doesn’t hesitate to shoot.

“7-Adam-19, suspect is down,” Aaron radios. “Tim, go get her.”

Nodding, Tim stands, rushing down the stairs and out into the road. The fire has worsened, and the 118 is still in place.

Evan sees Tim and clenches his jaw, stepping toward Tim to yell, “This is your fault! It’s all on you!”

Tim’s brows furrow, looking to Nash for more information.

“She’s, uh- she’s not responding to the radio calls, and we can’t get up there until we get part of the fire out, enough to get through with our gear,” Nash explains.

“You should have brought enough backup to begin with or gone up there sooner!” Buck continues.

“You think I don’t know that?” Tim snaps. “But she was already stuck when I got here, so work on getting to her and getting her safe, and then you can get mad at me!”

“And if it’s too late?” Buck demands, his chest heaving in anger.

Tim looks away, and Buck moves forward quickly, causing Nash and Chimney to lunge forward and hold him back.

“I’ll kill you if we’re too late!”

“Buck!” Tim yells, walking to him. “I know this is my fault and if she doesn’t make it, her blood is on my hands. I’m sorry, I really am, but there is nothing I can do now except keep people back so you can get this fire out and find out if- and make sure she is okay.”

Buck relaxes slightly, pushing Chimney and Nash off of him.

“Let’s get her out!” Nash calls, directing everyone to their positions.

✯✯✯✯✯

The man beside you groans as you tug him further against the wall. You’re caged in against the fire, and you dropped your radio, watching it burn as you kept your head down.

When water sprays onto your face, a steady stream coming from the street, you force a smile, hoping to get out, get warm, and hug your brother and Tim for as long as you can before they make you shy away from them. You love them for it, you remember, reminding yourself to think happy thoughts.

“Where’s the ambulance?” the man slurs before coughing.

“Just a minute, sir, keep your head down and breathe.”

The fire is driven back by two hoses, and when several feet are clear on the side of the railing, people begin yelling.

“Sis! Can you hear me?” Buck asks loudly, appearing in his turnout gear a moment later.

“Get him to the ambulance,” you reply, standing shakily as he pulls the man over his shoulder.

You walk into the small yard, looking for Tim. The persistent cold feeling is just beginning to concern you, and when you grow dizzy and stop in the yard, you realize that something is wrong. Raising your hands to press against your stomach, you begin to run through a mental list of potential injuries.

“Hey, hey, gorgeous, c’mon, we got to get back,” Tim calls as he jogs to your side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, ducking away from his hands on your face.

“Good,” Tim replies, laying his hand on your upper back and directing you to the curb.

“You got lucky,” Buck grumbles, joining your other side across from Tim.

“We all did our jobs, Buck, she’s safe, just leave it,” Tim says lowly.

“No thanks to you!” Buck responds, stepping forward.

You recognize the look in his eyes, an anger he seems to reserve for you. Without thinking, you move a hand from your navel and push it against Buck’s chest to stop him. He and Tim look at your bloody hand before yelling your name as you tip back.

Buck catches you, lowering you onto the grass as he rips your shirt open.

“Hen!” he screams, a pained, guttural sound that draws the attention of the entire 118.

Hen sees you on the ground, unconscious between Buck and Tim, and rushes to you, her bag thrown over her shoulder.

“GSW,” she decides quickly, looking at your stomach, a mess of tattered fabric and blood. “Roll her over, carefully.”

Tim keeps his hands on your side, helping Buck tip you onto one side as Hen runs her hand down your spine.

“No exit wound, we need to go. Now.”

Leaning back, Tim gives Buck room to lift you, running to the ambulance as fast as possible.

“Are you coming?” he yells, raising his arms as he looks at Tim.

“Go!” Nash, Chimney, Aaron, and newly arrived Nolan yell.

Tim nods, rushing into the ambulance and sitting as it lurches into motion.

“I didn’t mean it,” Buck says, looking at you while he speaks to Tim. “It’s not your fault, but I can’t- I can’t lose her.”

“You won’t. We won’t,” Tim promises.

Hen works quickly, muttering under her breath about needing your help.

✯✯✯✯✯

When you open your eyes, you first notice the unmistakable feeling of someone looking at you and touching your side, a gentle touch as fingers drag up and down your skin.

“Is he okay?” you ask, blinking against the harsh light above you.

“The man from the duplex?” Buck asks. “Yeah, he’s fine. Had an asthma attack and then a few panic attacks, but he’s good. You- you got shot and didn’t tell anyone.”

Tipping your head down, you’re surprised he’s standing at the end of your bed. This means the fingers on your exposed side belong to…

“Tim,” you whisper, glancing at him.

“You scared us, baby,” he replies softly, spreading his warm hand over your skin.

He smiles when your muscles tense beneath him, but it quickly disappears when you groan in pain.

“I didn’t mean not to tell you,” you say quietly, pinching the blanket between your fingers. “I didn’t know I got shot.”

“That’s kinda- that’s pretty epic, really,” Buck says, laying his hand on your foot. “Makes a good party story.”

“I don’t go to parties,” you grumble.

“I mean for me,” he replies happily.

“Are you two fighting?” you ask, looking between them.

“No,” they answer together, both squeezing you reassuringly.

“We were scared and upset, didn’t have anywhere else to take it out,” Buck explains with a shrug. “He’s just lucky you stopped me from hitting him. I would’ve removed him from active duty for six weeks minimum.”

“You wish,” Tim scoffs.

“Stop,” you say, chuckling when they look shocked at your bold demand. “Please.”

“You were in surgery for a long time,” Tim tells you. “How’s your pain?”

“It’s fine, manageable. I mean, I can feel it now, but it’s not too bad.”

You glance down, your brows furrowing as you realize why you could feel Tim’s skin directly on yours.

“Wondering where your hospital gown is?” Tim asks, a smile you know all too well on his face. “I put in a special request.”

“Gross. That’s my sister,” Buck interjects. When you look at him with wide eyes, he sighs and fills you in: “They couldn’t get to your stomach well enough with one on. If you want to cover up, we’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

“It’s okay,” you reply, gently tugging the band of your sports bra down.

“More than okay,” Tim says, quiet enough that Buck can’t hear.

You look away quickly, and Buck makes a ‘tsk’ sound.

“The shooter is in custody,” Tim says, giving you a break from his ‘abuse.’

“Will I have to testify or anything?” you whisper.

“No,” Tim and Buck answer together.

Buck pulls his phone from his pocket, nodding before shaking your ankle, his hand still resting on you.

“I have to go, we’ve got a call, but when we’re done, everyone wants to come by,” he says.

You nod. “Be careful. I love you.”

“Love you, sis!”

Looking at Tim’s chest rather than his face, he takes the chance to tease you. “Maybe you should get a shirt before your team gets here.”

“Get out,” you mumble. “Or give me yours.”

“Whoa! You get shot once and become a whole new person.”

“Wasn’t worth it.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Tim replies, taking your hand. “And I’m sorry that I couldn’t do anything to keep it from happening.”

“’S not your fault.”

Turning your attention back to the blanket, Tim asks, “You get this shy with your patients?”

“No. But they’re not as pushy.”

“Hey,” Tim calls, using his hand to gently turn your chin toward him. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I love you, too. Thanks for being here through all of it.”

“Try to get rid of me.”

“I do. You never listen.”

Tim laughs, loud and happy, and you smile, turning your face into his arm where it holds your hand, glad he’s at your side, and you have a whole team, a family, to be with you through everything.

#tim bradford x reader #shy!reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #evan buckley #the rookie #911 abc #team shy!#fem!reader #requests

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netherfeildren · 2 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XII : Venus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A/N: I realized shortly after posting chapter 11 that I’d made a small mistake in the timeline I’m intending this to follow. I included a line from Din saying Paz had already tried to take the Darksaber from him and failed, but where we’re at now, chapter 5 of The Book of Boba Fett hasn’t happened just yet. So I’ve gone back and deleted that small detail from the previous chapter, and why am I even telling you this, idk, but if you guy could do me a solid and pretend to forget my fuck up, I’d love you forever for it.

Writing Star Wars is hard

Also, the indomitable @dirtysouvenir has rendered the most gorgeous artwork imaginable of Din and Sithy, and I still can’t quite believe my eyes every time I look at it. Everyone please go show Jonis all the love and praise she deserves.

Anyways… like always, forgive me for the wait. I love you all for being so patient with me. And shout out to chapter four of Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband which served as inspiration for this. You will always be famous to me!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

CHAPTER XII : VENUS

What are we doing here, and why are our hearts invisible?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

“Just like that, yes. Good girl–keep doing what you’re doing.” His hand slides to circle your wrist, leather and the thick weave of your tunic, the slight shake of your nerves caught between. “Grip it firmly, but squeeze it gently. Yes– yes, good. You’re doing so well.”

You suck in a trembling breath, too hyper aware of the feel of his chest plate brushing against your back, the cap of his left knee gently bumping the back of your own, his arms wrapped in a loose and careful cage around your frame where he’s helping you direct the blaster at the target he’d set up several meters away for practicing. He’s got one of your wrists wrapped in the leather of his fist, the other cupping the underside of your elbow to keep your shaking arms steady.

“I don’t know why I’ve never been very good at this,” you whisper over the sound of the burning desert winds lashing you in the brow. “It’s just never come very easy.”

“That’s alright. That’s why we’re practicing again.” The hand cupping your elbow moves slowly to your waist, all his handling of you these past few days has been so intentional, cautious and patient and aware of himself and you and your reactions. Your heart beats, thumps and thumps hard enough to make you a little dizzy, a little sick. “Keep your right arm firm, but fluid. Try not to lock your elbow, let the recoil move through you steadily.”

He’d covered your hair and face in soft white linen wraps to keep you from being scorched by the sun and sand, and his voice is so deep, head pitched low so that the modulator is vibrating right at the level of your ear, the sounds of him sluicing through the linen to curl around your ear. You shiver again, squeezing your fist too tight around the butt of the blaster. You’d asked him if he’d help you practice just before you’d made planet fall a few hours ago, and now here the two of you are. A few clicks outside of Mos Eisley, he’d found a cluster of sandstacks to land the Crest amidst for a couple hours of target practice—near an area he’d told you is called Beggar’s Canyon.

You’re not sure if it’s just an excuse to have him touch you, but here you are now, in the circle of his arms, shivering with nerves and heat and want. The sun burns, but the places where he grips you burn worse, and your heart rings in your skull.

“Focus your gaze between the eyeline, eventually, it’ll come naturally, your aim, but for now, use the field the blaster sets. Squeeze gentle–” He grips your now healed elbow firmly, anchoring your arm, the hand holding your wrist moves to your waist, securing you in his hold so that when you pull the trigger, the zing of the blaster bolt leaving its chamber moves through your limb, into your chest cavity, electrifying your heart, and his hold is steadying all the way through. He’s there to keep you up, keep you strong, and so it’s almost thoughtless when you do it, a gut instinct or some muscle inside your brain desperate to flex and stretch or come awake because faster than you can blink or think, you take hold of that bolt of plasma with your mind, freezing it midway between where the two of you stand and the target he’d set.

You feel his hands flex around you, but he keeps still and silent, watching, waiting for what you’ll do next. And your heart beats faster and faster, the bright of the sun gleaming and nauseating, refracting off the sand, the plasma, your eyes. The bolt screeches and writhes and defies the laws of nature by your hand, and it does not feel good, but it does feel right.

The first time you’ve really wielded the Force since the night you escaped.

There’s something painful and uncomfortable and familiar about it coming back to you. Your breath goes fast within your chest, the taste of the desert on your tongue and the grit of sand sneaking beneath your clothes, sweaty line of anxiety down your spine, and his steady, calm breaths up against your back every other moment, this power inside of you that’s always been the cause of everything bad and only some things good. It vibrates in everything, moves through all living things, the Force, within you, within him.

“Let it go, cyare. It’s okay if you miss.” You shut your eyes and let it fall away and now it’s not the Force or you or anything else, it’s only him keeping you up against the rest of everything.

The two of you, like grief and the mountain.

“How did you meet this woman again?” You ask for about the third time, seemingly unable to keep your mouth shut and your nerves to yourself.

“She’s been keeping up maintenance on the Crest for a while now. And she helped out with the kid, watched him for me a couple times—I trust her.”

“Peli,” you repeat the name contemplatively, taking in the sight of him as he checks the pre-landing codes, flipping switches and punching toggles a little too roughly. He’s agitated, covered and swathed in it. You know he’s worried about you, the way you’ll feel being around someone else, scared you’re still feeling fragile or tired or weak. And you’re accepting it for now because you are. You are tired and you do feel fragile and you do need taking care of. If only for the time being, if only for a little bit longer. A sort of end feels very near, and you’re still working out what that such end is going to be.

“Peli,” he sighs, hitting the last button and finally swiveling in his chair to face you, and you eye him suspiciously, you know that sigh and head tilt. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not tired?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

Hurts. “Fine.”

“Cyar’ika.”

“Din.” Another sigh. Another shake of his head. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath that stupid lug of metal he wears on his fat head. But you hope that he’s smiling too, and you give him a soft, small one of your own, twisting your fingers together tightly in your lap. You want to reach out for him, to go to him and sit with him and kiss him again like the other day. But you don’t feel ready again. Again, fragile, tired, a weakness of heart within you that you can’t understand the source of, or you can, but you don’t want to accept it, you want to be able to move on, to get over it, to be like you once were. But that you also know he’ll let you feel for as long as you need to.

“I promise I feel okay, and that I’ll tell you if I don’t.” The target practice had left you tired and awake, and there is something moving inside of you—a recognition of sorts you can’t pinpoint exactly, but which you know is going to show or tell you something about yourself soon, the Force, the things you’d done or the things you’d do. And there’s patience too, a waiting, a readiness to receive whatever this would be without pressure or urgency. You feel entirely strung tight, a knot about to be set loose, entirely at ease, as well. Something strange about the anxiety you carry within yourself, like it doesn’t really matter much anymore and is only waiting for the right moment to be expelled.

He gives a soft grunt and turns back to face the control panel. The rolling golden sands of Tatooine like an ocean before you, and then there in the distance, the littered smattering of sand blighted little buildings that make up the spaceport of Mos Eisley. He directs the Razor Crest towards Hangar three-five, the ship jostling with the lowering of the landing gear.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” You ask nervously, following him down the ladder once he’s eased the ship into the landing bay, fretting over this ordeal of having to meet someone else from his life, a friend, which wasn’t even something you were aware he knew how to have. You hear the heavy thud of his boots against the durasteel, and then his hands are circling your waist and pulling you down the rest of the way, paying no mind to your indignant squawking.

He’d been strange with his touch, as well. As if he couldn’t help himself some moments, overcome by habit and familiarity, and then afraid and cautious in others. And you can’t understand how you feel about this either. Grateful, a sort of soft that makes your eyes smart and your cheeks bleed with heat. He’s so aware of you, so aware of what you might want or need, but then overcome, as well, needing you, wanting you. And you feel so afraid you won’t be able to give him those things—the ones he wants or needs, that you won't be able to find your way back to the way things had been between the two of you before.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, little compassion to be found for your fretting. You stick your tongue out at the back of his head, rolling your eyes and steeling yourself as he lowers the hatch, and a chirpy little voice calls, Mando!

The plank lowers, and lowers, and lowers, and finally, a mess of springy dark curls come into view. The small woman, Peli, claps her hands excitedly and spreads her arms in wide welcome of him, and something in your heart throbs.

A friend, indeed.

“Peli,” he greets her, heavy, swaying gate stomping down the gangplank, voice serious and not all matching her enthusiasm. You roll your eyes at him again as the reverberations of his steps tickle your feet through the soles of your boots.

“Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando,” she says to the chittering droids whirring around her. You follow him slowly, slinking directly behind him so that the breadth of his shoulders conceals you for a second longer before, “And who do we have here? Another unlikely companion?”

He pivots, letting you step into full view and brave shyness, a hand coming up to hover around your waist, urging you forward, but not actually touching you. The sound of your name rings in tune to the thump of your heart through the modulator. Careful, so careful, and it makes you hurt at your own self. Wanting to touch you one moment, unable to stop himself from ripping you into his arms; another, afraid, feeling like he can’t even put a gently motioning hand on your body, and how will you ever fix this? How are you going to ever be able to get the two of you back to where you were?

You take a hurt little step away from him, swallowing the heat in your throat several times before you can force a smile onto your face.

His body shifts and sways towards your retreating one.

But the small woman steps towards you, pit droids spinning and skittering frantically around her, and she claps a work hewn hand on your shoulder. “Let Peli take a good look at you.” Her gaze is cheerful, full of a youthfulness that belies her age and an even more cheerful, gap toothed smile. “Pretty girlfriend, Mando.” She waggles her bushy brows up at him. “Brought me another set of bright eyes, didn’t’cha?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peli.” Your throat feels humiliatingly tight when she takes your hand in her smaller one, giving it a swift shake, no gentleness about the way she handles you, and there’s something comforting about the forsaking of the kid gloves. Your fracture isn’t obvious for the whole world to see, there’s still normalcy to be found for you.

She looks up at Din as you avoid his burning gaze, laughing scowl on her sunny face. “Who woulda thought you had it in, ya, huh?” She thumps a fist on his chest plate, shaking her head and moves to take a look at the Crest. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Chasing down some elusive bounty? Carbon scoring’s worse than last time.'' She chatters a million miles a minute, pulling out some sort of electric scanner, assessing the old gunship.

“We had a long trip,” he sighs, hands fisted on his hips as he watches her impatiently, turning his gaze back to your face every few moments. You want to bare your teeth at him in a snarl and tell him to stop fucking worrying. You want him to take you into his arms or hold your hand.

“Long trip, sure. That’s what he always says,” she tells you over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “Turns out it’s usually a gun fight or something just as idiotic.”

You snicker, enjoying the easy way she handles your Mandalorian’s surliness, grateful for the cheerful buffer she provides between your own internal angst and his overzealous worrying. “It was a long trip this time, I swear. We’re coming from the Core,” he grumbles, and the two of you follow her while she inspects the damage on the ship, and in a moment of bravery or desperation for normalcy or closeness or just him, you reach up to grip two of his thick fingers in your fist. His hand immediately adjusts and curves to wrap around yours, intertwining your fingers and taking you securely in his grip. You feel him turn to look down at you questioningly, but you refuse to look back. This is normal, this is how it should be, this is what feels right even if you need the barrier of his gloves to feel like you can breathe.

“The Core! Long way’s.” Hmm, she muses as she goes. “Got a fuel leak.” Again. He huffs. “Taking a vacation now?” She turns back with another smarmy smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Nice little honeymoon?” She teases. “I could use one of those myself.” She scans something else, and the pit droids chatter and chirp around her, almost full her height, she’s so small.

“Peli–” he grumbles. Your grumpy, shy boy; you wonder if he ever blushes under that thing, squeezing his hand in yours as tight as you can.

“Yeah, yeah. No droids, I know. When are you gonna get over that nonsense, huh Mando? It’s about time, you know!” She bends to inspect something closer near the landing gear, covered in carbon scoring here too, examines her scanner again, then clips it back to her utility belt. “Alright, here’s the deal–” But he cuts her off, pivoting while pulling his blaster in one fluid motion to shoot at a poor little droid that's gotten too close. “Hey! Hey! What’ve I said before? You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” She shouts.

“Din–” you scold, gripping the thick of his arm to pull the weapon down.

“What’ve I told you?” He barks.

“No droids. No droids. Blah, blah. You have got to get over that! I’m tryn’a make a deal with you here, ya womp rat.”

He jerks aggressively towards another little droid that wanders too close, sending it skittering away in terror, and you pinch his arm beneath the thick duraweave, frowning up at him, be nice, when he looks down at you, giving him a jut of your eyebrow and thrusting your chin at Peli. He groans, cursing low and grumpy in Mando’a. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“If you let them work on the Crest–” She jerks her chin at the little pit droids quivering behind the crates strewn about the hangar in abject terror of the mean Mandalorian.

“No,” he cuts her off, stubbornness in every line of his frame.

“Din!” You scold again, bumping your hip into his.

“Come on, Mando! I’ll charge you half price–”

“Deal,” he cuts her off again immediately, the cheapskate.

“Ha!” She hoots and claps loudly. “Droids! Get to work on this lovely man’s ship. Lemme see the cash.” She holds out a grubby palm, wiggling her fingers. “He’s pretty easy, you ever notice that?” She says to you conspiratorially.

“Constantly,” you can’t help the laugh in your voice. Your first laugh in what seems like years.

“Loose knickered is what they used to call it back in my day.” And you have to turn your face into his arm to muffle your cackling, listening to him start up another string of curses beneath the helmet.

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before, ever,” he mutters sullenly.

“Well, you’re young.”

“Not that young,” you provide helpfully, big cheesy smile that feels slightly unnatural and rusted spreading across your face.

“Whoopee, Mando! I like this one! You really do know how to pick ‘em.” She claps him roughly on the shoulder, her little paw slapping loudly against his pauldron. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to be for the next couple of days, you see. I’m dating that Jawa again—the one I’d told you about,” she announces, proud as anything, big smile across her leathery face.

“A Jawa?” You repeat, making sure you heard right.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, bright eyes. They’re quite furry… very furry, but…” She clicks her teeth together, “You know…” Grins.

You look up at Din, squeezing his arm in your grip. “Guess I gotta try it.” You’re pretty sure you hear him grumble something to the effect of over my dead body, before he’s agreeing to Peli’s deal with a clap and a shake, and the promise of two hundred and fifty Imperial credits and absolutely no harm done to her droids while she’s gone and they work on the Crest.

“Treadwell, get in there!” She shouts, and the little pit droid chirps fretfully, trembling behind an R5 unit. “You can’t say no, you’re a droid. Oh, he’s not going to shoot you. Stop being a coward! What is this, a democracy all of a sudden?” Losing the fight, the droid wheels forward to get to work. “Yeah, thought so.” She turns back to you and Din. “You two can stay here, look after the shop while I’m gone? It’ll only be a few days.”

“We have some resupplying to do, but we’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises.

“And you’re not going to shoot my droids?”

“And I’m not going to shoot your droids,” he agrees, but later, you catch the too rough nudge he gives one of the little droids with his boot when he thinks no one’s watching. This man and his droid complex, you roll your eyes.

“How’s the N-1 keeping up?” He asks as she’s packing up to go.

“Just how you left her. That honey’s faster than a fathier. You should take her out while you’re here, give that baby a spin. Oh! And I added that turbonic venturi power assimilator I’d mentioned before. Remember? S’how I reconnected with my Jawa,” she nudges you with a wink. “You’re gonna be the fastest ship on the Outer Rim.”

“You got a new ship?” You ask curiously.

“Just a side project we took up while I had some spare time.” But the way he says it is a little strange, making you pause to look up and try to read the blank face of his helmet. Ah, and he smooths that same hovering hand from before along the line of your spine, an attempt to soothe or quell your curiosity without actually giving you the gift of his touch.

Peli leaves a few hours later, and she really does have a Jawa lover. The little critter comes to collect her right before the suns set, off to catch the sandcrawler before it journeys off into the desert, leaving you alone with only Din and the little pit droids for company.

And suddenly, that shyness from earlier is back for some reason. The distraction of travel and the buzz of hyperspace lost to the calm silence of the quiet spaceport as the suns set over the horizon and night settles in, cool winds coming in on the sand gusts from deep in the desert. After hours of work, Din posing as the menacing overlord barking orders and complaints, intruding on their work when it isn’t up to his ridiculous standards, the droids finish up for the night, and Din engages the hangar security system, and then the ship’s, locking the two of you in safely for the night.

“Dinner?” He asks as he moves slowly around the hull, pulling the cloak from his shoulders, a river of sand sluicing in a rain sheet onto the steel floor. The sound of it has a shiver moving through you as you lower yourself to the floor, crossing your legs beneath you at the edge of your makeshift bed. You desperately want to crawl between the covers without a shower and find the peace of evasion through sleep, secure in the knowledge that he won’t follow you into bed. He’d refused since you’d reunited, even though you’d invited him several times to share the much more comfortable pile of blankets than what you know his pilot’s chair or bunk provide. He’d not taken you up on the offer yet, and right now, fluttering heart and hot eyes and sweating nape, you’re glad for it.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you—or you do. You’re overwhelmed with want and fear, of him, of his touch, of having lost what the two of you had before. And as you watch him start to pull his armor from his body, first one pauldron, then a vambrace, then a thigh guard, no sense of congruity to the pattern with which he divests himself of his Creed, it’s suddenly like he’s standing right in front of you, and yet you miss him anyway. Miss him in a way that makes you sick and devastated.

You must make some sort of sound, a funny look on your face or a change in your breathing because he turns suddenly, a too worried, “What’s wrong?” on his tongue.

“Nothing.” You look up at him from your spot on the ground, head falling back on your neck, and you can feel the wet of your eyes, trying to force yourself not to blink so that they won’t fall—the tears. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He comes to a slow crouch before you, long legs folding down, down. “What is it? Tell me.” Half missing his armor as he poses now, it’s like he’s half him, half yours, half only-man, half Mandalorian. A little bit like what you feel yourself; half, half, half.

Pulling one glove from his hand, he lifts it, palm spread towards you, showing you his intention before he carefully cups the side of your face; thumb at your pulse, pointer and middle fingers giving your temple a soft pressure, pinky poised at the bridge of your nose. Your lashes brush against his index every time you blink, and his skin is smooth and rough at the same time, and warm—sun-hearted man.

You press your face harder into his palm, letting him support the weight of your head, nuzzling against the rough of his calluses, blaster blister scratchy against your carotid, and heat pulses all through you from the crown of your head, sliding down the length of your, still yet, too long hair, the back of your neck, your chest, pooling to settle deep in the pit of your belly.

And yet there’s something missing or different or off, like you feel empty but too full of trepidation to conjure up that old desire you’d always had, that need for him to fill, fill, fill you. Like the heat is there, but it’s remembered, not necessarily present. It all makes you want to cry and scream and go to sleep.

The truth, and plainly: you’re terrified of anything that might hurt, can’t fathom the idea of it.

Your heart beats in your throat, you taste it on your tongue, and it mixes with the sad when you say: “Do you remember when we were on Kashyyyk—when we sparred?”

“I remember,” he says, voice deep and low—through the modulator. You hate his helmet. You wish you could get beneath. You wish you were brave enough. The feeling of it coming on sudden and unexpected, thought, bitter and foul and not something you’d necessarily felt before, certainly not so viciously. It’s just that you hate that all this has happened—you want to feel the press of his lips at the crown of your head and the wash of his breath like heat moving through your hair—that you are not in the same place you once were, that you’re too afraid to move forward.

“When we switched weapons—”

He hums: “Yes.”

“It was so green there.” You turn your face further into him so that you’re speaking into his palm now, words pooling there in the cup of it like a well of truths and fears.

“It was.” The pointer and index stroke your temple, press once, twice, thrice—harder on the latter. It feels good, it feels real and reminding. He lets a heavy silence pass for a moment, he’s thinking of something, contemplating a push. “Do you remember—” He passes a swallow you can hear the thickness of, “Do you remember how I had you in the dirt—like a fucking animal? How you let me do whatever I wanted, however I wanted.” He gives the hardest press he’s given yet, at your temple, you think you feel the press against your brain, and you open your mouth to let the edge of your teeth dig hard into the meat of his palm. He growls a rough sound, a hungry sound, a sound like one he’d have made when he had you in the dirt like a fucking animal.

You drag your teeth along the hill of his palm, closing your mouth at the end. You don’t give him the wet of your tongue, you don’t feel ready to taste his skin like that just yet—an assimilation of violence.

“Yes,” you finally say, realizing that he understands what you were thinking without having to say it, or knowing how to, that you’re full of memories of past desires and how badly you want them back and how out of reach that all feels, but also, that suddenly now, in a single blink, the heat in your belly isn’t remembered, but present, alive, awake. That you’re cunt clenches once, twice, thrice around nothing—harder, hungrier on the latter. That you’re wet for him. “I remember.”

“Good. I remember every single thing we’ve ever done.” You roll your face in his palm so that you can look up at him now, feeling something like brave. “Every word, every breath, I remember all of it. Alright?”

“Alright,” you say quietly.

“And if you need me to help you remember too, then I will.”

“Alright.” And then: “What if I can’t, though?... What if we can’t ever have that again? What if I can’t remember? What if I can never give you that again?” A tear slides over the bridge of your nose, and now it’s not only truths and fears cupped in the palm of his hand but the saltwater of grief too.

“Then we’ll find something new. A new way, a different way. We’ll do it however you want now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” It’s very much a promise, a new Creed being established here.

“Okay.”

He nods, “Okay.”

The water is warm verging on hot verging on scalding. It feels incredible slithering over your tired and sore muscles, the ligatures in your arms still trembling from the blaster practice earlier today, from your overwhelm of emotions.

You hate that you’re not good at it, that the only weapon that seems to become you is a lightsaber.

The suds of his earthy smelling soap slide through your hair, slipping down your spine, over your ass and along your legs to pool around your feet and disappear down the drain. You shiver once, as though letting something fall away as you slide your hand down, over the swell of your belly, to cup the palmful of your cunt, wedging your hand between your thighs. You pet slowly at the wet curls there, realizing some of it is also the sticky slick of your desire. You were right, you’re wet for him and your clit pulses, slightly swollen and wanting. Your body is awake and hungry for him for the first time in what feels like eons.

You explore slowly, your cunt slightly trembling at the feeling of being prodded and touched for the first time in you can’t remember how long. Moaning softly, you pull your fingers from between your legs, hands sliding up now to cup the weights of your breasts in each palm and squeeze tightly. Oh, you want him, you want him, you’re afraid. Your head falls back on a thump against the fresher wall, loud enough that you hear his lurking voice through the door, you okay in there? And instead of being annoyed at his overbearing caution, his hovering, you shiver again, something coming back to you now.

Your desire.

You shut the water off, grabbing one of the soft linens he’d slung over the warm pipe for you to wrap yourself in. He knocks a knuckle against the wobbly little door, “Cyar’ika?”

Looking at yourself in front of the steamy mirror, too long, naiad hair, bright, strange eyes, you want him, you want him, you want to feel alive, awake, anything. You can’t deny your shortcomings, fears, whatever they might be called, but there is yet still a soft place inside of you that they’d not snuffed out, that wants Din still.

You turn to slide the fresher door open just as he’s readying to knock again.

He’d showered before you, after he’d fed you your soup and your disgusting fake bread he’d promised he’d find a real substitution for soon enough, and you’d needed a moment alone to sit in your grime and silence, digest your feelings. He’s clad now in one of his soft, dark undershirts, his flight pants and the helmet, opposite your towel and water dewed skin, steaming from the hot fresher.

You watch a swallow pass through his throat, words caught, slow and heavy. He clears it once, twice, tilts his head down to take in the state of you, before he says, “You alright?”

You nod, wide eyed awake. He’s standing right in front of you and you miss him and you want to shock him wide eyed awake too. “The water was too hot. I got dizzy,” you lie, swaying towards him a little, letting your lashes flutter dramatically.

Not all the way, but enough, just a little, as much as you can bear, that’s what you want from him right now.

His hands come up to grip the sides of your arms immediately, his bare hands, soaking up the wet of your skin. He pulls you into himself, pressing you carefully against his chest, and you shiver and shake against him, teeth rattling with a sound entirely lacking temperance. Your blood feels like it’s boiling, there’s desire alive and writhing in your tummy, and you squeeze your thighs together tightly, shifting from one foot to another while you drip a puddle onto the cold floor.

“Come here, sit down,” he murmurs, gently moving you to your bed, easing you down onto it slowly. “You need to take it easy,” he clucks over you, gripping your elbow to let you down carefully, keeping his hands on your bare skin until the last moment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re still tired, you’re still recovering. And you never listen. You have to listen to me when I’m trying to take care of you. You don’t eat enough, and I know your shoulder still hurts, little liar. Your elbow is barely better, and I saw you making strange faces when you were walking up the plank the other day. Your hip hurts doesn't it? Or your knee, something. No, don’t answer. I know you’ll just say no.” He talks and talks and talks, and you love him and you think that—

There’s a name for this…

He’d told you he loved you and he’d not said it again, neither had you, it felt too huge a thing to talk about again just yet while there was still so much left to discuss and bridge, but what does it matter if your body sings or screams in pain when you have the love of this beskar titan? What could you care for all the rest of everything?

Yes, Din. Yes, Din. Whatever you say, Din, as he huffs and puffs and arranges you, brings another pillow and blanket from the bunk, his only one in there, not that he cares, lovely man.

And it’s not only that you feel like you need to give him the things he wants or needs, because of course you do. You love him, you need to be able to give him things, everything, you want to be able to give him the whole galaxy. But it’s also that you want to. That to give him what he desires is to feed yourself, to live together, to be together, to give each other the things you need to stay alive.

You let yourself fall back onto the soft blankets slowly, this nest where you’ve always felt so safe and so protected and so loved, even when neither of you knew it was love that was holding you here. And you watch him for a few anxious moments as he pulls the covers this way and that, tucking them here and there, trying to avoid looking at the bare expanse of your dew damp legs. But then, taking hold of his hand, you still his nervous movements, and he finally looks up at your face, letting go of his fretting, taking hold of the bravery in the palm of your hand.

Shy—but brave. Brave—and wanting.

“We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?” You want to tell him you love him again, but there’s something slightly terrifying, gloriously intimate and fragile about the words.

“Always.”

“And we’ll keep each other alive?” Maker, I hope we keep each other alive.

“Yes.”

You take hold of the edge of the linen covering you, revealing your naked body to him slowly, exposing your soft underbelly. You hear his breath hitch, exhale on a groan that sounds like dying. His grip on your hand goes tight to the point of bone crushing pain for one brief, brief moment before he remembers himself and gentles again. You shiver at the pain, belly swooping and quivering with fear and nausea and lust.

You wish you could see his eyes, his face, his want.

“You—” he stutters, swallows, “You don’t have to, my love.” My love. He doesn’t need to say it out loud again now with teeth and tongue, he says it in all the things he does.

“You have to know that I want you so much. That I want you more than anything, Din.”

“I do know,” he says immediately. “I’ve never doubted that.”

“I want to show you.”

“You don’t have to. I know—” His other hand comes up to grip yours with both of his, caging your limb within the strength of his fists—to keep himself from touching you anywhere else, you think. But you can feel the intensity of his gaze along your skin, over your bare breasts, quivering with your hitching breaths, water droplets translating the frantic beat of your heart in their trembling on the surface of your skin. The line of your belly, the slope downward to the soft place between your thighs.

He’d seen the scarring on your hand, it was inevitable as much as you’d wished you could hide the deformity they’d left. As much as you wish you could’ve kept it from him, held an illusion for the rest of your lives together to spare him from the reminder of the things that’d been done, happened, chosen. But now… now he is to be subjected to the whole truth of it. Scars like cobwebs, strangely shimmering in silver lights beneath the surface of your skin—they’d been clever and ingenious in their torture—covering the whole circumference of your left hand up to your elbow. But also, from the lowest point of your last rib, over your right hip, traversing lower down the contours of your skin to wrap around the uppermost swell of your thigh.

They’d left their mark like they’d intended, and it wasn't something you could ever hide from him, the reality of what’d been done, what you’d chosen. It was obvious in everything, etched into your skin, a chasm in the still present distance between the two of you.

You feel like a bruise; tender, vulnerable, incongruously desperate to press on it harder and feel that dull throb, dark and ugly and on display.

His hands go tight around yours again for a moment, before he’s snatching them back to grip his bent knee, white knuckled, silent anger on display when his eyes reach the scarring.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over your hip down to your thigh to grip yourself there, digging your fingertips lightly into the plush softness. Your skin vibrates. “It doesn't hurt now.”

“What did they do?” His voice is like gravel, restrained fire-full fury.

“They wanted to see what it’d take to leave a mark. They figured it out.” The helmet turns away sharply, a short, brutal curse spit from his mouth. The tongue of his mother, beautiful despite his violence.

“It’s okay, Din.” You take hold of your thigh, pulling it up and apart, spreading yourself for him. Brave, wanting heart, be brave. He turns back immediately. “I want you to see how much I want you,” you whisper. “How much I still need you.”

You let your fingertips flutter lightly over your swollen, needy sex, and you can hear the obscene, sucking sound of your wet lips spreading apart when you part your legs wide enough for your sex to bloom. Cunt hungry and weeping for him.

Fuck, he spits, leaning closer, and his hand snaps forward to grip your ankle all the way around, pulling your foot up onto the uncompromising muscle of his thigh—your only point of contact.

“Show me, cyar’ika. Show me how much that pretty cunt missed me,” he growls.

You start slow, wide eyes fixed on the dark tee of his vizor, fingertips swirling around your clit slowly, it pulses and throbs and beats to the rhythm you can feel his own heart beating at within his own chest. But you pet it slowly, teasing both of you, and then feel lower down to the clenching mouth of your cunt—fuck, he spits again—slicking your fingers in your sticky wet. You start to rock your hips against the flat of your hand, the sound of your cunt, loud in the quiet hull, nothing to interrupt but the too desperate sound of your mutual panting. His fingers around your ankle are so tight they’ll leave a sore spot, and you can't think of the later hurt now, afraid it'll scare you out of this, all you can focus on is the beat of your cunt, the way it cries for him.

You swirl your fingertips at your opening, again, again, “Put them inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” And it’s a demand.

You start with one, slow and tentative, a little, shocked gasp as you probe shallowly within the tight, little hole. Then further, wiggling inside until you’re impaling yourself with your own small finger, the first thing inside of you in so long, and suddenly, you wish it was him. Your eyes fill with tears at the thought, spilling over at the wish that he could’ve been the first thing inside of you after all this time, but the reality that you’re just not ready for it yet. The salted proof of your inevitable shortcomings slide back along your cheeks to drip into your ears.

“Another,” he demands. “Oh, it sounds so pretty, little one. Give it another.” You pull your single finger out, sucking, wet-cunt sound that he groans in tune with, to press another one in, mewling at the pinch and stretch of it, the slick slide. Yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, he says, a mirror of his earlier words to you today during target practice. “Roll your hips, ride your hand.” You hitch another sob, “Don’t fucking cry,” he grits, pressing your heel hard into the meat of his thigh. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re going to come for me, you’re going to let me see it.” He spreads his thighs wider in his kneeling crouch, pushing his hips forward into nothing, drawing your gaze to the heavy bulge behind the plaquette of his flight pants. He’s so hard.

You crook your fingers inside yourself, hill of your palm against the swell of your engorged clit, fingertips against the spongey ridge at the front of your cunt, rolling your hips faster, chasing the orgasm you need to give him. Your foot feels numb in his grip, your cunt, on fire, so tight it hurts. Your belly hitches and heaves, open mouth gasping and you cry his name, moaning and writhing wantonly, your stomach slick and glistening again with sweat now instead of water. One of your palms reaches up to take hold of your breast, nipple caught between your fingers, squeezing tight, tight, tight. And suddenly he’s surging forward, letting go of your ankle to lean over you and rip his pants open, freeing his furious erection. The tip is red-purple and swollen fat, drooling a thick string of sloppy, white precum, and he wraps one massive fist around the angry thing. Din, Din, Din. He beats at his cock furiously, the sound of your name, the slick thwack, thwack, thwack of it sends you spilling into your orgasm, belly pulling tight, cunt twisting even tighter.

“Fuck, fucking come—fucking come,” he snarls as he twists his fist cruelly around the head and the thick white viscosity of his semen starts to spill from the fat head, bubbling up and over his fist and between his fingers, splattering heavy and hot onto your spasming cunt, coating your fingers so that you’re pushing the thick of his come into yourself, slicking you further. “Yes, yes, yes, like that. Let me fucking see it…Look at what you do to me.” And there's so much furious want in his voice, and he’s so big, long and thick, and you know it’s going to hurt when he puts it inside of you for the first time again—you remember how it hurt before, how you loved it—and you’re afraid you’re not going to be able to handle any sort of pain ever again, not even the sort you’d been so hungry for before.

But your womb pulls tight, pulses and throbs, and suddenly your two skinny fingers arent enough, you want the thick heft of his cock fucking hard and fast and deep inside of you, punching at the deepest spot within you.

His orgasm ends on a fierce groan, panting, thick chest heaving, his head hangs low between his shoulders. You pull your shaking fingers from your clenching hole, and he gives a few last lazy strokes, squeezing the last drops of come from the slick tip to splatter against your pussy. “I fucking missed this—your cunt covered in me.” His dripping cock bobs so close, and you have the sudden insane thought of him just shoving it in, holding you down prone and fucking all of his spend into your sloppy cunt, forcing you to take it and be his again. “I can’t wait to eat it. I can’t wait to fill it with my come again and eat it out of you.” There’s a part of you that might want it, that might wish for it.

“Maker, Din…” you moan, rubbing the thick semen into your overstimulated clit, your mound, up the curve of your belly, slicking yourself in him.

If you can’t have his touch, this is enough, and you bring your sticky, soaking fingers up to your mouth, sucking the come from them. He groans, not fair, sitting back on his knees, spent cock hanging obscenely from his open pants, wet and glistening. He reaches behind his head to tug his shirt up and off, leaving his sweaty chest bare and gleaming. Your eyes flutter shut, cupping your cunt in the palm of your hand, covering the slick curve of it, and you arch your back, spreading your thighs further, putting yourself on display for him.

“Gorgeous, cyar’ika,” he says between pants. “So pretty, my love.” He reaches down to squeeze his half hard cock once more. “I can be patient for you, I promise. You’re so worth it.”

He lays beside you in the dark, stretched out long and entirely clothed, but here with you, forced and convinced to share your bed with a line of pillows as a protective moat between the two of you at his own insistence.

You’re on your side, hands folded beneath your smushed cheek, wide eyes searching fruitlessly for the shape of him in the pitch dark. You want to say something else. You want to tell him you love him again, to hear the words fall from your tongue.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You hum a barely breathed laugh. And then, “I know you’re scared or regretful or worried that we’ll not get back to where we were,” he reads you.

“Yes.”

There’s a name for this…

He sighs long, goes quiet for longer, and then finally: “What’s happened’s happened, which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the galaxy.”

“Fate?” You muse, a little unbelieving.

Dark red—

“Call it what you want. We met, we separated…you were—gone. We waited. Now we’re here again. It’s meaningful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You believe in this—fate?” I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you.

“Call it what you want, but yes.”

—String.

There’s something about this that you need to consider, chew on. The fact that you’d felt, all your life, cursed to know how a thing would happen, be, end, always. Something like fate, perhaps, the whisper of it making a home for itself within the shell of your ear, and now the truth that he too believes in this thing you’ve always lived with. Destiny, what have you—you believe in the same things, you believe in each other.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He turns over, reaching to twine his fingers through yours; large, rough palm against small, soft palm. You want to tell him you love him again, you want to hear the words for him, but they feel trapped, tender, timid.

You’d always thought your destiny fixed, poised, on the tip of your tongue. A thing was what it was birthed unto the galaxy in perpetuity, and no amount of desire could absolve you of its sunken teeth. But this—this desire is like the creation of myth, that dark red thread that goes by the name of fate being pulled taught, humming in accord with a frequency heard only by the two of you.

Now: “Will you kiss me?” A beat of silence, his fingers around yours going tight, tight.

“Come here,” his voice blends with the darkness, and tugging you into himself, protective border between your bodies and his hand around your jaw, he slips a kiss onto your tongue. His mouth holds the hot recollection of being alive; the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the taste, your fingers weaving through his hair, your names sounding together, a pair because they belong on the same breath.

You pull back, and it’s only a small brevity, but it’s enough, and that confusion from earlier, that shiver of letting something go or taking it back into yourself, settles.

You’re afraid or regretful or both, yes, sure. You also find yourself to be, suddenly, forgiving, full of empathy. You won’t be able to have him unless you take possession of yourself first, and on the tail end of a comet breaking across the sky: I love him, but I must also love myself. He deserves someone who loves themself, but more than that, I deserve it too. To be able to give him the things he wants and needs: I deserve to be in love with myself.

You let the Tartarian memory become nothing.

Love manifests itself primarily in forgiveness.

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ohnococo · 4 months

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Dating Your JJK Co-Workers - Restaurant AU

[Headcanons for Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, and Sukuna in a Restaurant AU - some SFW some NSFW]

Satoru Gojo

This 37 pieces of flair ass motherfucker. Jokes with customers like he knows them, slides in next to them in the booth while taking their orders, is WAY too enthusiastic about singing the non-copyrighted birthday song to people… you can’t even be mad though because holy shit does he rake in tips.

When you first meet him you’ll think he’s a helpful, but harmless goody-two-shoes. Always making his tables smile, helping the equally well-liked new guy Yuuji learn the ropes, just always chipper and never seems like he hates his job too outwardly. You learn that he doesn’t even drink and it just solidifies your first impression of him.

Then you get to know him and realise he’s a little messy. If there’s any gossip that might be pertinent information, he’s the one who knows it. He’s not out here telling anyone’s secrets that have been entrusted with him, of course, but he just always seems to know what’s happening, where it’s happening, and who it’s happening with. It makes him fun to talk to during breaks or when you have a moment in the back.

Then you go on a night out with the staff after work and realise… oh. He doesn’t drink, no, but when he does cut loose he’s out to party. Give him a little something else and he’s ready to go. He’s hard to keep up with too, going all night until sun up and then somehow showing up for work looking like nothing had happened the night before, bright and early. You’re not sure if he even slept, but there he is ready to do his job and anyone who hadn’t seen him off his head several hours prior is none the wiser.

Once he realises he has a thing for you, he’s pulling strings to get you two on the same shifts as much as possible. Helping run things to your tables and checking on them when your section is busy (but making sure you get all of the tips, of course). Satoru generally just looks after you in your day to day job.

You’re going to have to be okay with PDA once you’re dating him. If he isn’t actively checking on his tables or bringing them things, he’s hanging off of you. Hand in your pocket, chin on your shoulder watching you key in an order. He’ll pout if you don’t want to spend your break making out.

“I miss you…” “Satoru, our sections are right next to each other. We’ve been running into each other all day.” “Yeah but I miss you…”

Suguru Geto

The bar is his domain, his own little island separate from the drama and chaos of the rest of the restaurant. It’s the perfect place to stand for a second when things are getting to hectic, and he’s happy to let that happen, pretending that he needs to run the drink orders for your table by you to buy you a few seconds of not being shouted at or having to run around.

He isn’t overly flashy, but has a good read on people so he knows when to show off while making drinks, when to chat with people, and when to leave someone be.

Suguru is pretty strict on checking IDs and not over serving as well. He won’t hesitate to escort someone out himself if they’re getting pissy over getting cut off. It doesn’t happen too often, it’s a casual place where the food is the main focus, but still.

Generally stays out of the staff’s messiness, which makes it even more surprising that the person he’s closest to by far is Satoru Gojo, who absolutely does not stay out of everyone’s business. Gojo can often be found sitting on top his bar, and can be found getting told to get off his bar too.

You first get an inkling he likes you by how often he calls you over when you seem stressed. If it’s really bad he can convince Gojo, with his endless amounts of energy, to check in on your section for a few minutes while you get your wits about you.

He has a way of calming you, even if it’s just by watching him pour drinks and pull beers.

He’ll sometimes ask you to sit at his bar during your break if it’s pretty dead. He makes you a mocktail with a cute little umbrella in it too, giving you a smile that gives you immediate butterflies as he slides it over to you, pretending you’re a patron while you get off your feet for 15 mins.

When he asks you out he takes you somewhere very different from where you work, somewhere with soft music and drinks way nicer than the standard things he has to serve day to day. He’s soft with you, patient, and once you’re his, that's that.

The same way he’s the calm in the middle of the storm at work is the same way he is as your boyfriend. You can breathe with him and it’s nice. Sometimes when you’re stressed at work and way too busy to have your usual moment with him he’ll bring a drink out to a table for you instead of you having to retrieve it from his bar. He’ll give you a reassuring squeeze of your hand in passing and it calms your mind even as it sends butterflies through your stomach - reminding you to breathe as much as it reminds you of the very same way he squeezes your hand when he’s buried deep inside you.

Choso

The back of the house is BAD fucking energy. The three cooks have tension for various reasons and Sukuna is just a messy bitch that lives for drama. Choso, however, might be the nicest of them all, despite being a little different. He's officially a line cook but winds up doing a bit of everything.

He’s divisive amongst the staff. For some he's the epitome of that “I just wish you would stop saying odd shit.” meme. The others that get him, get him. He’s harmless though, and the wait staff especially appreciate his work ethic.

Choso is good at his job, doesn’t fuck around, and he likes cooking. Things that are monotonous and have some set expectations help the day go by fast for him. He actually enjoys focusing on chopping vegetables or making sauces even if he’s doing it all damn day. He takes his job fairly seriously and doesn’t mess around on the clock. Except for the way his half-brother Yuuji’s tickets get priority if the restaurant is busy… and eventually maybe yours do too.

He’s usually quiet other than the odd non sequitur, but sweet to basically everyone he works with in his own way, other than Sukuna. He even gets on with Toji, who is the reason Choso winds up working so many extra hours. When Toji does show up he’s efficient, clean, respects the kitchen, and doesn’t make Choso have to try and be sociable. That suits him just fine.

See, Choso just doesn’t always pick up on social cues the way people seem to expect him to, so it’s easier just to focus on his work. When he meets you though… it’s enough to distract him when you come to grab orders, or ask him a question about a dietary restriction or daily menu.

The first few times you talk to him it catches him off guard, and he stares at you like a deer in headlights. He’s grateful for your patience every time though, and he does eventually snap out of it and answer you. After a while he even goes out of his way to thank you when you pick up your plates. Not that he needed to… that was weird and unnecessary but he takes every chance he gets to speak to you. Especially since he’s usually rushing around back there and sometimes misses seeing you.

When he decides to just tell you he likes you (he might as well, half the staff seems to mess around with each other, so it’s okay since he really really likes you, right?) he asks his brother for advice. It’s weird for him, being the older brother he expects to be the one giving his younger sibling advice, but these things don’t come easily for him and they absolutely do for Yuuji. He’s grateful to his brother for being so non judgemental with him, and even more grateful that the advice he was dubious of - being honest, being himself - pays off when you agree to hang out with him after work.

The advice stays in Choso’s head, and makes your budding relationship easier for it: he’s always himself with you, always honest. Telling you when he’s nervous, telling you when he wants to kiss you, telling you when he wants to be your boyfriend, to spend all his time with you even if it was just sitting in the same room doing separate things.

Toji Fushiguro

No one really knows exactly how this motherfucker still has a job.

He’s a cook and he's good at it, don’t get me wrong. You could even call him a chef if he weren't slinging cheap food. He's efficient, runs a tight kitchen, but he just doesn’t even show up half the fucking time. Or he’ll be gone for like a month (and none of you have that kind of time off) and everyone thinks he’s finally actually fired but then there he is one day, dicing onions like he’s on iron chef or something.

He’s that one guy on staff who has been there for years but no one knows shit about him. Or they think they do but it might just be rumours that someone heard from someone else who used to work there. Never volunteers information, never goes out with everyone after work (unless someone else is paying…), and IF he shows up he’s gone the second his shift is over - do not ask him questions, do not talk to him, BYE.

Still, he’s friendly enough when he’s at work. He’s a relentless flirt when it comes to some of the staff, but in that kind of easy, confident way where you think he’s not really serious. Especially flirty with the older manager which, come to think of it, maybe that’s why he’s still employed…

When you start working there you don’t expect to be the one that starts actually getting to know Toji. Like, actually know him. Know about him. It surprises you the first time it happens. You’re having a little back and forth at work, flirting a little, laughing and hitting his arm when he teases you because of course you try to get a feel of his biceps even in a way that seems playful. Then he mentions something about his childhood. Something innocuous, tinged with a little sadness, but you might not have caught it if you hadn’t gotten used to his little micro-expressions. You don’t draw attention to it, you just continue as normal, as if it weren’t some kind of breadcrumb, and hope it happens again.

It does, a few times, and eventually one of those breadcrumbs he drops is him asking you out for a drink. On him. It’s how you learn that Toji likes to take care of people when he really likes them. He just doesn’t really like that many people.

You eventually even find out that he disappears from work so often because he’s taking up different odd jobs, not liking to be bored, not liking to be idle or feel trapped. He always comes back though, he has a little rotation of places he chooses to be, things he chooses to do. He has to force himself into a routine, even if they’re broken up into different routines every now and again.

The first time he brings you back to his place it feels like something special and the first time you two have sex, well, that is something special.

As far as everyone else at work is concerned, nothing has changed. Toji still doesn’t open up to others, he’s still out of the kitchen the second his shift is done, but he waits in the parking lot. He waits for you.

Ryomen Sukuna

Also a cook in the kitchen, and has beef with eeeeveryooooone. He’s always running his mouth, always late, and generally doesn’t give a shit. Wait staff are scared when someone sends their food back and he’s who they have to ask to remake it.

Not even his brother is exempt from his attitude, in fact Yuuji gets the worst of it.

He fucks around most of the time and it pisses Choso off. It doesn’t help that Choso has weird feelings towards him because he’s full brothers with Yuuji and doesn’t seem to have that same protective streak (or appreciation of their shared parent). Things just get tense back there because of that.

Sukuna can’t fucking stand how Toji doesn’t show up half the time and they end up busting ass to make up for it. It’s pretty hypocritical of him considering he shows up very, very late for his shifts and dicks around out back or in the walk-in constantly.

There’s always an argument when Toji finally does show up, but it doesn’t last long because neither of them are the type to raise their voices. It’s just tense energy, sarcasm, and lots of face pulling between the two of them. It's a weird one because they both will have a problem with someone on sight… but also both don’t give too much of a shit about anything really.

Honestly he only has the job for a more steady income stream and something legal on paper, because it's definitely not his only income, so to speak.

You know that co-worker you warn newbies about? Especially if those newbies are pretty girls who don’t always know how to spot a scumbag? Yeah, that's Sukuna. With his sharp wit, handsome face, and unusually nice car. He gets a little thrill out of fucking a cute waitress in the walk-in fridge (or his car in the parking lot if they’re shy). He doesn’t care how awkward it is once he starts ignoring them at work, and not answering their texts. Good thing there’s a high turnover rate here…

You get warned about Sukuna, hell maybe even see him in action. Flirting, clearly hooking up with, and then ghosting another new hire. Still… you can’t help having a thing for him.

So you decide it’ll be casual, and God does it seem worth it. He’s fun, exciting, and he fucks like an animal. You’re surprised at the things he gets you to do, but you love every second of it. If only you weren’t sort of kind of starting to catch feelings.

“Dating” Sukuna is more of a situationship, to be honest. Yeah you flirt at work, yeah he playfully asks “where’d you get all those cute little hickeys on your neck” in front of everyone, yeah he eats you out in the walk-in, and yeah he gets pissy if he happens to see you being what he considers flirty with a customer (aka being friendly and trying to actually get some tips). You argue with him often, getting his hackles up and acting as if he doesn’t even like you if he feels like you’re implying he might be jealous. But then the very next night it’s business as usual and he has an arm over you at all times while you spend the night in his bed - grumbling in his sleep if you try to move anywhere but as close to him as possible. It’s complicated.

BONUS:

The energy in the kitchen is weird. If it’s one person on shift at a time it’s fine, or even if it’s Choso and Toji. But all three? You just don’t even want to be there half the time, grabbing plates of food and heading back out front asap.

When it’s Toji and Sukuna though… it’s interesting. Bad-interesting half the time, but you can’t help being fascinated by that odd tension between them.

You tease Sukuna about it one night, laying in his bed naked, and it plants a seed in his head. Toji had flirted with you a little when you first got hired, because of course he had. He hadn’t stopped once it was clear you were fooling around with Sukuna either. Not that he minded, he wanted to fuck your as soon as he met you, of course Toji had too. He was smart. Flaky, sure, but smart. And you had flirted back…

The next day at work the two men seem to be getting along, and it’s almost more unsettling than when they hadn’t. You don’t know that they’ve had a little chat of their own, cutting to the chase as they usually did with each other because you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, can you?

You don’t know just how much they find out they have in common after their little chat, just how many of their interests align.

You don’t know that they’re planning on stuffing you full of their cocks that very night.

#my writing #jjk headcanons #reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #gojo #geto #choso #toji #sukuna #gojo x reader #geto x reader #choso x reader #toji x reader #ryomen sukuna #restaurant au

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guess-my-next-obsession · 7 months

Note

would you ever consider doing an elementary extension that includes them finding out they’re pregnant with iris? no pressure just wondering!!

The Birthday

pairing: elementary!joel x f!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: M (talks of pregnancy, steamy moments, talks of vomiting)

wc: 1.9k

series masterlist

— September 26, 2003 —

You stirred awake later than usual, your body working overtime now that after months of trying, you were finally pregnant. You had yet to tell Joel the news, wanting to wait until the appointment you made for this afternoon to confirm the results of the four at-home tests you took before you got his hopes up.

Crawling out of bed, you stretched your arms out wide, letting out a hearty yawn before turning to look at Joel’s shirtless body still fast asleep in bed, sprawled out like usual, his feet nearly hanging off your side of the bed. You smiled at him and all of his quirks that would get under your skin if he were anybody else, your hand smoothing over your nonexistent bump. Though you’d been unable to fight off your morning sickness all week, somehow the thought of carrying his child and your wedding next month seemed to cure the nausea threatening to creep up on you.

Catching the alarm on his nightstand before it could ring out its harsh and piercing cry, you leaned over his form and pressed a kiss to his temple, your palm rubbing over the muscles on his smooth and warm back.

“Mm,” he hummed, rolling over onto his back. He rubbed at his eyes as he stirred awake, and after a big yawn, he focused his vision on you sitting on the edge. “Mornin’, baby.”

“Morning, birthday boy,” you greeted him with a smile, rubbing at his chest. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Shit—“ He sighed, raking one of his hands over his face. “Promised Sarah we’d have pancakes this mornin’ but I forgot to get it at the store.”

“Eggs and bacon then?” Joel gave you a soft smile and nodded.

As you moved to stand, he caught your hand and tugged you back to him, beckoning you to lean down for a kiss which you happily obliged. Joel hummed against your lips, his arms wrapping around your waist as he tugged you to lay on top of him, your thighs straddling his hips as his kisses trailed down your chin to your jaw.

“We can call off work,” Joel mumbled against your ear as he placed a kiss there, his hands wandering over your thighs to rest on your hips. “Spend all day in bed.”

“I have an important…meeting,” you lied. “Superintendent is coming. Can’t miss it.”

Joel pouted as you sat upright, your hands resting on his chest as you smiled down at him.

“God, you make it hard to think rationally,” you laughed, lifting a hand to squish his cheeks together, his pout turning into a pair of fish lips. “That’s better.”

Joel laughed and patted your hip, letting you climb off of him so that he could stand up.

“Gonna shower,” he said. “You’re welcome to join.”

“So persistent this morning,” you teased, swatting his ass as he passed you. “I’ll take a raincheck.”

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess.”

With a smirk, you threw on your robe and padded your feet downstairs, finding Sarah sitting at the kitchen table finishing up her homework.

“Morning,” she greeted you with a smile. “How are you feeling? Did you throw up again?”

“No, I’m managing to keep it down today, or…at least for now. Knock on wood.”

After getting the coffee pot going, you pulled two pans from the cupboard and placed them on the gas stove, turning the heat on before walking over to the fridge to grab what remained of the eggs and bacon.

“You gonna tell dad today?” Sarah asked, whispering so that Joel didn’t accidentally overhear the news you’d shared with Sarah almost immediately after finding out yourself, her round, insistent eyes winning over your inner-strength.

“If everything goes well at the doctors,” you replied, looking over your shoulder at her while you cracked some of the eggs into the buttered pan. “You still wanna get his watch fixed?”

“I was hoping, but my allowance money is running a little low.” You looked back to see her shrugging with a frown, but quickly shook your head at her and walked over to your purse that rested on the counter, pulling out three twenties and handing them over. “No, I can’t—“

“You can and you will,” you replied, giving her a playfully stern look. “We’ll just say it’s from both of us.”

“Dad’s gonna love it,” she beamed, sticking the cash in her backpack. “We might see some tears tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Joel’s quick and heavy footsteps sounded as he jogged down the stairs, finding you at the stove and Sarah hard at work on her algebra worksheet. He walked over and kissed her on the top of the head before walking into the kitchen, giving your ass a loving tap as he pulled three mugs out of the cabinet.

“Tommy coming by?” you asked as you watched him divvy up the coffee pot equally into all three cups. As if a lightbulb rang in your head, you realized caffeine might not be the best thing for you given the pregnancy. “Oh, actually…you don’t need to pour me one.”

Both Joel and Sarah gave you an odd look, having never seen you turn down your morning coffee.

“Just…I don’t want to be jittery and anxious for my meeting,“ you lied.

“You have coffee every mornin’,” he countered, his brows furrowed as he watched you try to form a better excuse.

“Not when I’m already anxious,” you returned, doubling down on your lie. “Coffee will just make it worse.”

“Mm,” Joel narrowed his eyes at you as he lifted his mug to his mouth to take a sip. “You’re lyin’ ‘bout somethin’.”

“No, I’m not,” you quickly denied his claim with a giggle.

“Yeah, you are,” he chuckled. “But it’s alright, I’ll let you have your lie for now.”

“Mornin’, mornin’!” Tommy walked in with a wide smile, rubbing his hands together as he peered over your shoulder at the eggs. “Make sure to put some cheese on mine, sis.”

“She ain’t your personal chef,” Joel barked.

“Shh,” you hushed your guard dog of a fiancé with a smile before looking over at Sarah. “You want cheese with yours, Sarah?”

“No, I’m okay,” she replied as she stuck her binder in her backpack. “I would like some OJ, though.”

“Bought a new jug of it yesterday,” Joel announced, moving to grab a glass from the cabinet behind him. “Baby, you want a glass, too? Since you’re not havin’ coffee for whatever reason.”

“Yes, please,” you replied, flashing him a thankful smile.

“Why ain’t you havin’ coffee? That’s new,” Tommy noted as he took a seat beside Sarah at the table.

“Why are you both so interested in what she does and doesn’t drink?” Sarah asked, coming to your defense.

“Alright, alright—“ Joel held his hands up in defense. “Didn’t know it was a touchy subject.”

“It’s not, now come help me carry these plates to the table,” you ordered, taking two of the plates in your hands while Joel set his coffee down to grab the other two. You set the plates down in front of Tommy and Sarah before taking your usual seat beside her, Joel joining shortly after.

“You think you’ll be home on time today?” you asked, looking to your fiancé as he stuffed his mouth full of bacon.

“Doubt it,” Tommy interjected. “We gotta wait for the cement guys to come and they take fuckin’ ages—“

“I’ll try my best,” Joel interjected with a glare aimed at his brother. “‘Specially if this one doesn’t drag ass again.”

As if your body suddenly remembered its current condition, the nausea that was nowhere to be found just minutes ago began to take root deep in your stomach. The smile on your face as you watched Joel and Tommy go back and forth faded into a look of worry as things spiraled faster than you could act. Your hand lifted to your mouth as you abruptly slid your chair back on the tile, drawing all eyes to you as you sprinted towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind you and just barely making it to the toilet.

“Baby, you alright?” Joel’s voice sounded from the other side of the door as every bit of this morning’s breakfast came back up until you were left dry heaving. “Can I come in?”

“It’s gross,” you croaked, hoping it was loud enough for him to hear. It seemed he didn’t care much about your warning as he turned the doorknob and let himself in, finding his seat on the edge of the bathtub.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and soothing as he rubbed your upper back.

“Yeah,” you nodded, reaching to flush the toilet before moving to sit against the tub beside him, your head resting on his leg. “Must be the nerves.”

“You still goin’ with that lie?” he smiled down at you. “C’mon, baby.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you said, smiling nervously as you looked up at him. “A confirmed surprise.”

“Confirmed?” he repeated, his brows lacing together. You took a deep, calming breath and let it out in a slow sigh before meeting his eyes again, a grin spreading across your face.

“I, uh, I was feeling off a couple weeks ago and so I went and got some tests—“ Joel’s brow softened, his eyes going round. “And they were positive.”

“You’re telling me…what?” he chuckled. “You’re…you’re pregnant?”

“Yeah,” you giggled and nodded, wiping a tear that flooded your waterline.

“Really?” he swooned, reaching out to help you onto your feet so that he could wrap his arms around you. “You ain’t punk-in’ me, or whatever that Ashton Kutcher show says, right?”

You laughed and shook your head as you squeezed his shoulders, his face buried in your neck.

“No, you’re not getting punk’d,” you said.

“Does this mean y’aint got an important meeting with the Superintendent today?” he asked as he pulled back to stare at you, his thumb stroking over your cheek.

“No,” you smirked, looking down at his belt. “I am technically sick.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. “And it’s my birthday.”

“Sounds like we’ve got some calls to make,” you said, biting your lip. “But first I think I need to scrub my entire mouth clean because that was—“

“I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” he interrupted your less than sweet talk with some tear-inducing sincerity. “Does Sarah know?”

“Yeah, she got it out of me pretty much right after I took the tests,” you laughed. “She’s excited, I think.”

“I’d kiss you if your breath didn’t smell so bad,” he teased, making you gasp and pinch his side. “Fine, I’ll kiss you anyways.”

“If it wasn’t your birthday—“

“But it is,” he smiled at you devilishly as his hands rested on your hips and tugged you closer to him, his lips leaning in to hover over your pulse before pressing a petal soft kiss there. “Go call off work and do what you gotta do. All I want for my birthday is you in my bed all damn day, alright?”

“Whatever you want…daddy,” you purred, a grin spreading across your face at the groan he let out.

“Lord,” he sighed, shaking his head as he pulled back to look at you. “Go call out.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller series #joel miller fluff #elementary

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angstywaifu · 21 days

Text

The Lost Sister - Part 20

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

Garrick Tavis x OC

The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: In this part I have used some Gaelic phrases to represent Tyrrish, as both Garrick and Ophelia can speak it. Mo grádh will translate to My Love. And on that note. Enjoy. Also poor Xaden. Warnings: 18+, Smut

Xaden had remained true to his word. For me at least. Liam was still assigned to Violet wherever she went. Which for the most part also meant me, but if I walked off elsewhere he stuck to her. I was glad Xaden had let me have the freedom I requested. Not that I wouldn’t have had freedom. But it would have meant Liam following me around.

But in his absence Garrick had fallen into place. Not as over bearing as Liam was with Violet. But outside of classes Garrick was always there with me. Which I couldn’t deny I liked. I liked it a lot. The night of me finding out about Aretia we had spent in Garrick’s room. And it had reminded me so much of our down time in Aretia. Us lying in his bed or mine. His head in my lap as I read a book or played with his hair as he slept. It had taken me back to a time where we didn’t have any cares or worries. It was something we both needed. And was something we had planned to do tonight, till Garrick had decided to move some of my stuff to his room. His argument was I would be spending most of my nights here unless he was away on a supply run. It just made things easier in his mind. So now I sat on his bed, sketch book in hand as I watched him try to rearrange his armoire and desk to accommodate some of my things. The man was too excited of the prospect of me essentially sharing a room with him from here on out. But it kept Xaden happy that someone was watching over me at night, and meant Liam could have more focus on protecting Violet who was still yet to manifest a signet. And has also received another threat from Barlowe today in sparring that had caused Liam to shove him out of the room entirely. Garrick’s mumbling pulls me from my drawing of my dragon Mealladh. I look up to see him looking in the armoire, scratching the back of his head. I place my sketch book on the bedside table and walk up behind him, my arms wrapping around him as I rest my head against his bare back. My fingers tracing lightly over the defined muscles of his stomach. His hands coming to rest over mine as he looks over his shoulder at me.

”You seem stressed.” I tell him.

He sighs. “It’s because I am.”

I can’t help but laugh at him. “It’s just some space in the armoire, space you don’t even need to find. I can keep my stuff in my room.” I tell him.

I feel Garrick stiffen in my arms, turning to face me as his hands find their place on my waist. “I do need to find it. I want to find the space. I’ll make it work.” He tells me sternly.

This man was way too intent on making this a space for both of us. But it wasn’t something new for us. Back before the rebellion, we had started to leave things at each others places. It had been frequent that we would stay at each others places, Xaden included. But this was on a more serious level than that. We hadn’t defined what we were yet. But we were more than friends now. We had taken that leap. But we hadn’t put a label on it. We didn’t need to. I was his, and he was mine.

”Well I’m sure it can wait till tomorrow I tell him.” With a smirk on my lips as my hands travel from his back to rest on his chest, one of them travelling down to toy with the band of the grey linen pants he had on. The only thing he had on.

I watch as his eyes darken, clearly picking up on the intent in my actions and words. Besides that night of threshing, we hadn’t had another chance. Mainly due to Garrick being away with supply runs. Which at the time I didn’t know about. And I knew Garrick was wanting this as much as I did. His lingering touches had hinted otherwise. I was surprised he hadn’t jumped on it earlier when I had stripped down to my underwear, and slipped on one of his black cotton shirts that was huge on me. His hands now find their way under that very shirt, gripping and massaging my sides as he kissed his way down my neck, lightly biting as he went. Leaving marks I definitely wouldn’t be able to hide. Bastard. Garrick’s hands slowly move down my sides as he kneels in front of me, his fingers hooking into the band of my underwear, quickly sliding them down my legs. I step out of them and he throws them to the other side of the room. His hands wander up my legs, so slow its almost torture. Especially as he moves them to my inner thighs, lightly ghosting over the sensitive flesh. I go to tell him to hurry up and stop teasing, but one of his strong hands grips my left knee, throwing the leg over his shoulder. I don’t have time to ask what he’s doing before his fingers slide up and down, coating them in my arousal. One of my hands reaching down and tugging on his curls as my head rolls back as a moan rolls off my lips. The bastard was taking his time, but I couldn’t deny I enjoyed it. And I knew what eventually would follow would be worth the wait. Each stroke sending a shiver through my body, that I knew would have him smirking. Finally his fingers slide lower, slowly pushing two of them in, followed my his mouth latching on to the bundle of nerves. My eyes fly open at the sensation, getting the full view of a very blissed out Garrick kneeling before me, taking pride in the pleasure he was giving me. Slowly he adds a third finger, stretching me out more. I nearly come undone then as he curls all three fingers inside me, hitting the perfect spot. My leg gives out, but Garrick’s arms keep me upright as he continues his assault. Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, the bastard stops. And I have no shame in not stopping the growl that leaves my mouth. Garrick smirks, bloody smirks up at me as he kisses the inside of the leg still hooked over his shoulder.

”Don’t worry mo ghrádh, I’m just getting started.” He tells me in a low tone as he stands, pulling the shirt over my head as he does so.

His fingers make quick work of my bra as it soon follows the rest of what I had been wearing to somewhere else in his room. His lips are quickly and roughly on mine as he walks me backwards to the bed. He goes to push me down but I quickly manoeuvre us, pushing him down onto the bed as I crawl up him and straddle his hips. Garrick’s eyes darken and widen as I slowly grind back and forth on him, a growl rumbling through him. I can tell it is taking everything in him not to completely take over and flip me onto the bed and take me. I can tell he is curious as to what I will do. I watch some of that control slip as he goes to grab my hips, but I move faster and line us up and slowly sink down to him. Garrick’s head falls back onto the bed. A loud moan echoing around the room.

“F-fucking hell.” Garrick stutters out as I start to move up and down.

His hands grip onto my hips, helping me up and down, his hips meeting my movement, hitting the almost perfect spot every time. Garrick must notice my legs shaking from the effort and flips my back onto the bed as he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder again as he leans forward. It was now my turn for profanities to fall from my lips at the new angle and pace. My pace had been fast, but Garrick’s was harder and faster. My nails dragging down his back, leaving marks yet again. Marks I knew last time had gotten him a few comments. Garrick reaches down with his fingers, and as soon as they meet that sensitive spot I’m done. My back arching off the bed, my eyes shutting as I moan his name. I swear I heard thunder or something similar in the back ground as I finish. As I come down from the high, Garrick picks up his pace again. Not faltering once. The bastard not even close to finishing or being done. He pushes my leg from his shoulder as he scoops me up into his arms and stands, walking over to the desk. He lifts me off him and places me on the ground before spinning me around to face the desk.

”Hands on the desk mo ghrádh.” He tells me as I feel him press against my hips.

I do as he says and lean forward, my hands bracing on the desk as I lean forward. As soon as he’s satisfied I’m comfortable Garrick pushes in slowly. And I know he’s doing it on purpose when I go to lean into it and his firm hands on my hips stop me. As he fully sheaths himself in me, he slowly moves back and forth at a pace that has soft moans escaping my lips. But clearly slowly is not what Garrick has planned, quickly picking up the pace again, forcing me to grip onto the side of the desk to stop me from falling forward. Garrick leans over me, his arms resting on the desk next to me. The new angle having me arching into him as we both moan at the sensation. The desk slams into the wall, and I pray Xaden isn’t in his room or Garrick put up the silencing wards. Seconds later Garrick and I finish almost at the same time, our names falling from each others lips. Garrick lowers himself to rest his elbows on the desk as he catches his breath. He places a soft kiss on my shoulder, before we both freeze at the voice yelling at us from the other side of the wall.

”What did I say about the silencing wards!” Part 21

Taglist: @riorgail @going-through-shit @fw-gt @bbkissme99 @xceafh @leptitlu @came-to-laugh-but-cried @onthewaytotimbuktu @daardyrnitta @lovemesomevesey @mxtokko

#fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #garrick tavis #garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis imagine #garrick tavis x oc #garrick tavis smut #fourth wing x oc #fourth wing x reader

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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

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one of these nights - Dean Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.

Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.

Words: 20k.

Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

All your life, you’d never been keen on cliques. But there’s a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.

It’s a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet it’s true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Dean’s jacket swinging with his saunter, Sam’s hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt you’d just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldn’t be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending it’s not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.

Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar you’d picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,” you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “you really are in a good mood.”

You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. “We’re celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?”

Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up he’d just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you can’t fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know it’s on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.

“How do you know?” He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since he’s spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.

You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. “‘Kid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.”

Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, it’s ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. “Two? Break out the balloons,” he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, “You sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkers…”

You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a little—he’s in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because he’s being even more of a tight-ass than usual.

“Cut that ‘kid’ shit out and maybe I’ll throw in some jäger,” Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but he’s still smiling to himself.

Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Sam’s head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jäger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like that’s the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.

Last time, you’d been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Dean’s walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.

“Hold on—that table’s opening up. I’m gonna steal it for us,” Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, “Order for me.” Realizing the troublemaker he’d just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. “Actually, _____, can you—?”

You raise a hand before he can finish. “The cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before we’re forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.”

Sam gives you this trusting nod that’s just golden, because the second he’s gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. “...So. You think he’ll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?”

The smile that hasn’t left Dean’s face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. “God,” he sighs, wistful, “you’re my brand of evil genius, you know that?”

You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bend…

Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, “Can you go see how many songs are in the jukebox’s play queue for me? I wanna dance to—”

“I know what song you want to dance to,” Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. “You know what d—?”

“—yeah, I know what drink you want,” you finish for him, just like he had for you.

Dean’s face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch he’d given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.

You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the air—something’s different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until he’s safely hidden behind his laptop’s screen.

“That was a lot of touching up there,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather.

You take the same tone, shrugging like he’s pointed out it’s gonna rain later. “S’ been a good week, Sammy.”

Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. You’re an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Dean’s pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.

“Your hands are shaking.” His brows bounce once at you over the article he’s reading.

You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesn’t drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. It’s squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyes—please stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. I’ll pay you.

Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Dean’s had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.

Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Dean’s kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means you’re going to hit a big drop. You’re a hopeful person, though, so you can’t help but read Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. He’s not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.

Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.

“I get the feeling tonight’s different,” you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Sam’s laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. “All these months of…” you gesture broadly, “I think… something could happen.”

Sam pulls a face. “Ew.”

You kick him under the table. “Shut up,” you laugh, “I’m being serious, dude. Dean—”

…appears right beside you. In your mind’s eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. “You rang?” he says. “Got your song going for you. Should be the next one.”

Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. It’s practical—he would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.

Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but there’s a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so you’re led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then you’re off for the open space between the tables. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache.

You’re chased by Sam’s playful shout. “Don’t have too much fun out there!”

The race to the lyrics is literal. You know there’s only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but god—the supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the bar’s dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now it’s just him, as you’ve always remembered him.

“One of these nights…” you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. You’re laughing too hard to sing with him, “One of these crazy old nights…”

Through giggles, you dryly comment, “Excellent starting move.”

“Why thank you,” Dean replies.

You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Dean’s. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you can’t help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:

You’re wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Dean’s other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. “We’re gonna find out, pretty mama,” he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, “what turns onnn your lights…”

He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just can’t shake.

Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names you’ve forgotten, it’s the one piece of him that you’ve pried loose from John’s influence. Sam isn’t looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (you’re pretty sure that’s what it’s called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Dean’s cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.

Every other day of hunting season, Dean… compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but there’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.

“...been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself,” he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism you’re both tired of living. “I’ve been searchin’ for an angel in white…”

You drop a wrist over Dean’s shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.

It’s unfair that he feels the way he does—and you know Dean does, he’s told you and you’ve told him and it’s all been laid out before—and still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But it’s Dean, and having a piece of him you don’t see is better than having none of him at all.

“...One of these nightssss…”

The Eagles eventually seep into another band’s song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since you’re a bunch of old people, you’ll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. That’s how this always goes.

You pull your cheek from where you’d laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so you’re slow to assume, “Wanna get back to our drinks?”

When you meet eyes, Dean’s are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burnin’ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your arms—sort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.

Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs… neither of you wants to give it up.

“Yeah. Why don’t we, uh,” he clears his throat, “grab a few sips and then head back here, huh?”

Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. “Dancing is way more fun when you’re tipsy.”

Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you can’t get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you might’ve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, you’d been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then you’re back out on the dance floor.

The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. You’re at the center of his stage, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.

You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but there’s a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Police’s Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time it’d come on the radio, he’d chased you all over Bobby’s house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.

You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, “You don’t even know what this song is about, do you?”

Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. “Course’ I do. S’ about a guy who’s so into his girl that he doesn’t want to share her with anybody else.”

Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied he’s shut you up, noses your ear and sings, “...Wouldn’t talk down to ya… I have t’ tell ya just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy…”

The mushy impression he’s doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, you’ve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you don’t sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer you’re allowed to be.

And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock n’ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.

“You hate mushy music,” you tell him, even if you both know that’s not exactly true.

Dean’s warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. You’d seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Dean’s just here, and he wants you here too. For now, you’re his first choice for who he’s spending his time with tonight.

He doesn’t take the out you gave him.

“S’ not all bad,” Dean shrugs under your hands. “...I like this song.”

It’s Elvis’s Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. You’re pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and that’s exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like he’s in love with you, like it’s a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what they’d think.

The best part of this was that Dean doesn’t end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Dean’s mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, you’re halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Dean’s mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since you’re both past tipsy now, it’s unanimously decided that there’s more work to be done.

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?”

“Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby.”

You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. It’s like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but you’d always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-hand—the big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinker’s red. In the flesh. Wow.

You’re so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where you’re going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While you’re waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.

“Alright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you better—”

It’s just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.

You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Sam’s, then awkwardly release Dean’s beer from where it’d been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expanded—there are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.

You stand. “Damn. Who ordered these?”

Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. “Um… a table in the corner sent em’ over. As a gift.”

“Free drinks? Really? That rocks,” you brighten.

Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine you’re floating on drop out from under you.

“...Dean’s over there thanking them,” he clarified.

It’s a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you weren’t a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Sam’s puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Dean’s dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You should’ve been stoked.

If you were completely sober you’d probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a “modeling agent” passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Dean’s sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must look—and wow, isn’t that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. They’re just girls. It’s just talking. Still, Sam tells you, “I tried to stop him.”

“So have I,” you answer, bitterly.

The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesn’t help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that you’re overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Dean’s too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because you’re not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.

Sam raises both brows. “Maybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you home—?”

You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Sam’s question for him.

“Right,” he realizes, “I can go and—”

You’re already shaking your head. “Don’t. Let’s see how long it takes ‘im.”

As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes he’s engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Sam’s glances. Fifteen and you’re glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isn’t back, a handful of songs you know he’d kill to dance to coming and going. Past that you’re spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity that’d been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, you’re furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know you’re drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isn’t alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.

Since you’re already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Dean’s table. In the half an hour he’s been gone, he’s taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his hands—recounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesn’t tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.

Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole you’d bored into the table and stare at Dean’s profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.

…It looks like you’ve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.

Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jim—your father—had passed that summer, speared by the same thing you’d been hunting. Sam was at school. It’d just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you that’d survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He should’ve left you in Tulsa, but he’d kept you standing and fed til’ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Dean’s warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing that’d taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.

You’re strong, he’d told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. You’ll get through this, easy.

Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.

Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.

That’s about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But you’ve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knots—until this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Dean’s neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.

Dean kisses back.

You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what he’ll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shut—and it’s nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you don’t need it from Sam. You don’t need it from anybody.

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t. ‘Only make it worse.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. He’s disappointed in his brother. “Dean’s—testing you. Seeing if you’ll stick around. But you’ve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I don’t see why you’ve gotta—”

“He’s drunk and stupid,” you cut him off. “We both are. I’m gonna let it go, n’ so are you.”

Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. “...If I just talk to him—”

“Fucking don’t,” you tell him, and wow, you’re a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. “Sorry. Sorry. M’ not upset with you. M’ not upset with anybody.” Pathetically, you beg, “C’n we just go home?”

Sam gives you an uneasy nod. “Sure thing. I’ll grab Dean and pay our tab.”

Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesn’t go broke feeling bad for you.

Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, “Bathroom,” and go hide there to dust off your pride.

God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the women’s restroom still conscious. It’s mostly empty too, so you’re free to meet your reflection without courage.

When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, you’d imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, you’d complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. He’d joke and hum all the way home—and what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. You’d kiss him goodnight and Dean’s gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. You’d sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when you’d slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Dean’s stomach would slot against your back and he’d spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight, he’d say. I never could, sweetheart. Didn’t want to.

But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned he’s found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror you’d chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time you’d hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. I’m not good for you, he’d say. He’d remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straight—but that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasn’t the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, there’d always been a vague idea of something “after,” something over the horizon too far away to see.

You’d held fast to that “after” for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Dean’s eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that “after.” After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.

But this was the hundredth time you’d saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and you’d waited so, so fucking long.

Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldn’t care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. Maybe…

Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.

The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the women’s restroom. Fucking hell.

“Dean! What the hell are you—?”

“M’ savin’ our party,” Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and dares—fucking dares—to power on his doe-eyes. “Why’d’ya wanna go?” He pouts. Sam must’ve told him. “S’ not even midnight yet.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky s’ just me in here. Could’ve scared the pants off some poor girl,” you curse.

Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesn’t fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.

“Why on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!”

“Maybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,” Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. He’s not steady enough to stand in place for too long.

Any other night you’d happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second he’s propped against one wall of the little hall, you’re on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so you’re not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once he’s draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. You’re cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. He’s only ever like this when he’s drunk.

“If you even get scared,” he hums into your ear, amused. “You’re s’ tough I dunno if you even can. And y’know what? I think…” he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, “I think you’re tough enough to get back out there with me n’ show em’ how it’s done.”

You should resist. You honestly should. But you’re drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You don’t touch him or lean into it. Yet you don’t squirm away, either.

At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. “C’monnn,” he urges, “dance with me more. Party! We’re celebratin’. N’ you’re such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there n’ brag ‘bout you. Everybody was lookin’ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?”

“I did,” you swallow. “But I think m’ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Sam’s out there waiting for us…”

Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really he’s just nuzzling. “Boring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?” Dean teases. “I’ll tell the kid t’ walk back without us, he’ll be fine. C’mon. I’ll even say please.”

You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. “Just a lil’ while longer, _____. Y’know I can only flirt with you when m’ like this.”

The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath you’re holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.

You squirm out of Dean’s bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know it’s not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. C’mon! Don’t be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing you’d done with Dean.

You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter you’re supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Dean’s shouts.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Dean’s voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. “Didn’t want this t’ go this way. We wer’ havin’ fun, weren’t we? M’ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I did—”

You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.

Then you’re whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.

“Come on come on come on—you know what you did! You know! You have to know!”

Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, he’s still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo you’ve brushed up against—and why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when you’re drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. You’re so tired of carrying it. You want an out.

He drags a calloused hand down his face. “...I was just messing around, talking to them… dancing with her. Needlin’ you.”

“Well,” your breath rattles unprettily between words. “I’m needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does it—does it—” you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, “—do you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?”

You don’t get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since it’s then that Sam comes between you. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay—just—” and lays your jacket over your back.

Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But you’re coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt you’ve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.

“That didn’t involve you, Sam,” Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like he’s been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, “_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about this—!”

…And you’re thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Sam’s already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, you’re sick of waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.

You’d been right. Something was going to change tonight.

“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve thought about it,” you snarl. “Every day I think about it! Every night! So, no, I’m done thinking and—an’ watching and—”

The tank of crazed energy you’re running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so you’re forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isn’t the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Sam’s mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.

You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.

With no one between you, it’s clear in Dean’s eyes that there’s another element to this for him. He’d known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, he’d told you himself.

Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, you’ll leave too. And I won’t even blame you.

Back then, you’d laid your cheek against Dean’s sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. You’d wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Dean’s instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things he’d sacrificed and not give the same in return?

Well, you’d smiled at him, I’m not moving an inch, cowboy. You’re stuck with me.

Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Dean’s prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that he’d already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise you’d made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one that’d been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.

You had to leave.

“I love you so much, Dean,” you hiccuped. “But I can’t wait for you anymore.”

You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you weren’t going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Dean’s silhouette brand your memory.

Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.

He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldn’t be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.

Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.

By the time you’ve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, you’ve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.

Sam, who’s two blocks back helping Dean get home.

The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didn’t work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.

Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night could’ve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, you’d stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the beds’ gap. Goodnight, Sam. G’night. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. He’d smush a kiss into your temple. Night, he’d hum. Together you’d snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe you’d been overthinking this.

You’d had so much to drink. It was you who’d created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him… If he… wanted to kiss someone else…

Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. It’s too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t tell you he’s sorry, he doesn’t pick you up off the pavement, and he doesn’t tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.

These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so much—your parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.

You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. You’d told him back then, you’re stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because he’d rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. There’d been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, he’d cupped your face—in the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. It’d felt so special, like a promise to hold out. You’d savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Dean’s grin hidden in your pillow.

You could be living every night like you’d lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. I’m not good for you, he’d say, even if you’d never had enough of him to tell.

After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didn’t have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, you’d known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.

Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that it’d officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, it’d kill you. It had been killing you.

What else could you do but leave?

The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted out—away from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldn’t you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedom—from years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight you’d once loved—was only a bus ride and one boosted car away. It’d be easy.

The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasn’t who you wanted to see.

“Come on inside. Don’t like you being out here by yourself,” Sam called.

The breath you let go of didn’t make you any more relieved. It hadn’t felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.

The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Sam’s face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you weren’t the only one who’d cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.

After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue he’d swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.

“...I need to punch something,” you confessed, just to have something to say.

Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. “I’m open,” he offered, only half-joking.

You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldn’t follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.

“I know you already know this, but it’s worth saying,” Sam murmured. “Everybody leaves him. It’s all he’s used to.” (...I know, you breathed between sobs). “Dean doesn’t… hang these other girls in front of you because he’s, y’know. Trying to play with your feelings. He’s scared. It’s wrong, but it’s his messed-up way of testing if you’ll stick around.”

You want to listen. Sam’s tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course it’s his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he can’t pick up his own mess.

“It sucks. Trust me, I’ve taken a good chunk of it myself,” Sam chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “I dunno what it is that makes em’ think he deserves it, but… he’s so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push em’ away first.”

Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, “Well. I think it worked.”

That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.

“I-I think I,” you managed. “I think I gotta go, Sammy.”

As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isn’t a light move to make. Leaving wouldn’t just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, too—it would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, you’d seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. You’d been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought there’d be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.

You thought of the girl you’d been when you’d first met them. She’d still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, that’s what Dean was: your next grand adventure.

Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; you’d seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. He’d find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. He’d hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and you’d roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. You’d mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriend—Dean lives out of town, but he swears he’s gonna visit next month—because even you weren’t sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy you’d somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.

You would miss that. You would always miss him.

Sam tamped down his panic. “Are—are you sure?” He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. “You don’t wanna talk to Dean about this…?”

You were already shaking your head. “For the hundredth time?”

Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like you’d earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When he’d told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, you’d respected his answer. I’m not good for you had translated to I’m not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassie—you started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly “it” that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument you’d ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.

And even if he’d had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurer’s spirit.

Sam goes still, conflicted. “This is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But… but just… please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.”

“You think I’m overreacting,” you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.

“No, no, I think you’re drunk,” Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. “And tired. But you’re not overreacting, ______. Dean’s done this and worse a dozen times before,” he sighed. Realizing that wasn’t exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. “...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.”

Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.

You feel the need to explain, “...Me leavin’ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam said, thickly. “But I’m pretty sure it’d break my heart if you did, so I can’t imagine what it’d do to him.”

At that, you couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he might’ve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, he’d probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, there’d be times when he’d accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes he’d miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?

Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You weren’t sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. He’d always said you put yourself last too often.

You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. “I’m sorry,” you tell Sam.

Sam laid a hand on your back. “Look at me a minute.”

Somehow, you did. Seeing Sam’s devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that you’ll be leaving him behind. “C’mon,” he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. “Let’s walk to the gas station or somethin’.”

You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: “I really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.”

Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. “Okay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with me—let’s take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, you’ll tell me if—i-if this is still what you want. Kay?”

“Sam,” you grimaced.

“Please,” he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. “My treat. C’mon.”

Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but he’d also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely work—so you steeled yourself. Sam couldn’t win. You had to leave.

It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Dean’s reminder: I’m not good for you.

You hate that he’d been right.

Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didn’t physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:

He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in… Springfield? Right? Yeah—they’d had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. It’d taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. She’s been so patient with us lately, deserves somethin’ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?

Dean groaned at himself—not only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.

He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she must’ve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.

Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever he’d been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt… gone out for drinks to celebrate… and past that things start to fuzz. There might’a been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Dean’s fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the door—he should’ve been the one to fix things.

He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. How’d he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient you’d been with him when he’d snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt your feelings being coarse, but… c’mon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. You’d talk it out. You’d forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.

You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.

The second he’s up and looking at everything, he’s pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffle’s where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but it’s like everything’s been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.

Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, that’s where your shit would be if he’s not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second he’s moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isn’t exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice… Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. There’s a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasn’t seen since high school—some ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.

These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years you’d borrowed so many clothes from them that you’d probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.

By junior year, the half you’d pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Dean’s half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and you’d comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them who’d still be there when they were gone. True to form, they’d always left and you’d always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.

A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that you’d returned everything you’d borrowed? Or was this something worse?

His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldn’t find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Sam’s is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isn’t plugged into the wall. Your shoes aren’t by the door. Even the pistol you’d duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still can’t find your bag. Maybe it’s out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.

His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this early—Sam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Dean’s full-body meltdown.

He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.

Instead, he assumes: “______’s been taken.”

Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But that’s not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.

“...Dean,” Sam manages.

Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that you’re still here.

“She was fucking taken, Sam,” his throat feels tight. “I woke up and all of her shit was packed up and gone—somebody good had to do this, s’mbody who knows what the hell they’re doing, cause’ they knew to make it look like she’d left on her own. May—maybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? N’ that’s how they took er’?”

His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresser’s track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean can’t see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isn’t already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.

After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, “She left a couple’a hours ago, Dean. On her own.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean snorted.

Something patted Dean’s shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didn’t immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.

He shrugged, swallowing thickly. “She said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just… time. Wrote you this.”

Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, you’d written Dean’s name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didn’t have the strength for, right now.

It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.

After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Dean’s duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what he’s doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, “What else? We’re gonna go find her.”

Sam avoids his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. He’d felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.

“You fucking didn’t,” Dean snarls. “Tell me you didn’t.”

There’s a flicker of rebellion on Sam’s face, but he subdues it for Dean’s sake. He shrugs, “...She wanted to leave.”

The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Dean’s close to tears, he’s so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.

“How could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? She—she can’t survive on her own—!” he lies to himself, “—she needs us—and-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?”

“What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!” Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, “It’s her life!”

“With us!” Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.

“With whoever the hell she wants! You should’ve—” Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Dean’s face. “...I can’t speak for her. Read the damn letter.”

“No,” Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. “Get your shit and get in the fucking car. We’re finding her. Where’d you drop her off?”

Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Dean’s not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit he’s messed up between last night and today.

He snarls. “Where, Sam?”

Sam still doesn’t answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that he’ll regret later, but, what’s one more thing for the pile, right?

“What?” Dean whips on his brother. “You give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckin’ rot?” Baring his teeth, he spits, “She’s not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.”

The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then he’s had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:

“Train station,” Sam’s lip curls. “But she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. She’s just like you n’ me, so she’s probably two states over by now—”

Dean slams the front door before he can finish.

It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus you’d taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83’ Mercury Capri you’d bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured you’d head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, you’d turned West, to Tulsa.

At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. It’s a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldn’t help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters would’ve never caught up with you.

The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Sam’s moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Dean’s mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesn’t want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.

But the thing was that you’d never needed time before. The only time you’d needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, you’ve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. He’d clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, I’ll never forgive myself fer hurtin’ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, you’d stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough n’ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing you’d both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing he’d feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.

You’d never needed time before. You’d never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.

It’s been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.

He’d tried. More than once, he’d steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. I’m sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.

There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isn’t really a plan at all—he’ll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give “making things right” his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.

By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.

The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.

The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.

His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Baby’s front seat or dodge hunters who’d ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Sam’s out of resolve and Dean’s alone, he presses his face into the shirts you’d borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that don’t do nothin’ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasn’t cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.

It’s like he’s lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man who’s lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Dean’s flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.

The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean must’ve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Dean’s gun started jamming inexplicably; they’re caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything they’ve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brother’s caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that it’s more than luck he’s lost.

When you were stressed or feeling stuck, you’d lay out all their weapons on the bedspread—reminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking first—and clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. You’d count under your breath, so versed in the steps you’d created that you didn’t even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Dean’s pistol landed in the pile, you’d forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Dean’s gun never jammed if you’d been the one to clean it.

You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana would’ve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdy—with you at Dean’s six, he and Sam would’ve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if there’d been trouble… well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.

When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythin’. Everythin’ goes to shit without ‘er.

Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that he’d betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you he’d broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.

It was the one detail his heart couldn’t stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.

He’d heard you sob it into Sam’s shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, you’d resisted, clutching Dean’s jacket in both hands and weeping instead, “I’ll see you.”

You’d never said goodbye to him.

This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like he’d done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.

He could get that goodbye from you. It’d kill him, but Dean wasn’t sure he could go on without it.

Five minutes into his drive to DeLancey’s Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that he’s not even sure if you’re working tonight.

The drive was long—long enough to swerve Dean’s confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness he’d gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago he’d been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore he’d seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home he’d never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you could’ve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.

Waking up, he’d sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.

Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. I’m gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckin’ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckin’ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothin’ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since that’s as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.

Along the way, I’m gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, I’m bringing her the fuck home.

Dean’s propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impala’s still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but it’s nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impala’s sitting and where you must be. DeLancey’s is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But he’d seen you under neon beer lights so often that you’d sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Dean’s ears warm.

He thinks of that image and can’t help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and that’s what gets him across the gravel and through the door.

Either this is a hunter’s bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. What’s that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows there’s only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.

Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. There’s a resonating shock that sizzles through Dean’s system, seeing you. It’s the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that you’re real, that you’re someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, you’re… Dean swallows. You’re still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Dean’s body, and standing there, he’s winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. He’s getting you home.

At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.

The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesn’t shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew he’d find you, you’re just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckin’ tank.

“Dean,” you murmured, a greeting.

He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways he’d only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but that’s not exactly his default.

Dean swings in, snapping, “Get outside. I’m telling you something whether you like it or not, n’ don’t think I won’t drag you if I have to.”

Your brows fly up your forehead. “Wow.”

Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Dean’s making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldn’t have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.

“That’s my friend you’re talkin’ to, chisel chest. If you know what’s good for you, I’d get the fuck outta’ here,” says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasn’t even landed before you’re neatly cutting through him, “—mind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy he’d rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didn’t hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Dean’s sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you round’ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.

Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Dean’s nerves crawl. He hadn’t realized how loud it’d been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs he’s forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.

Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. You’d say yes. He knew you would’ve said yes, then.

“You worried me sick,” is the first thing Dean manages to say. “Wakin’ up, finding you gone—I thought someone had fuckin’ took you, y’know that?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.

“I know what I did. I know I don’t deserve shit for it,” he chokes out, “but you could’ve at least said goodbye t’ me! I deserved to know you’d be safe! If you couldn’t… If I was hurtin’ you too much, and if I wasn’t listenin’, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But after—after bein’ with me for so, so damn long, so long I don’t even remember how we met, you couldn’t even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I don’t even ‘member the last time we fuckin’ talked to each other? Don’t even get to see my best fuckin’ friend one last time?”

“No,” you scowled. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. Because we’ve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?”

Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because he’d never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. “...I guess I don’t. But, um… I know this doesn’t mean much anymore, but…” He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. “You’re right. We’ve never really been… just plain friends, and—”

“We’ve said I love you,” you scoffed, “We’ve kissed! We’ve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still can’t even admit it to my face! Can’t even say it!”

Dean’s hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, “Yeah? And you wanna know why? Cause’ the second I do, the second it’s out of my mouth, you’re dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunter’s laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. “I’m already dead!” You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, “We’re both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldn’t you rather we use the fucking time we’ve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!”

“Of course I do!” He roars. You’re close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, “That’s all I’ve wanted!” He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, “You’re all I’ve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minute—the second they know that, Hell or—o-or whoever’s after us now, they’re gonna take advantage of that.”

The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like he’d done years ago.

“Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you,” Dean rasped. “But I’d rather have you livin’ than be with you dead, you get me?”

You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, “I’m sick of having this argument, Dean.”

Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldn’t help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. “I know, baby girl.”

Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. “If I go back with you,” you rattled out. “If I go back w’ you, sittin’ with this is gonna kill me. Can’t wait anymore. Can’t sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have t’ go. I love you, but I gotta go.”

Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.

He overspills.

“I love you too,” Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. “Love you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason I’ve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worse—the road’s too quiet and the backseat’s always cold, like everything else’s sick too. S’ made me realize that I—I-I can’t do this without you. Everythin’. Livin’ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.”

“Dean—”

“Let me finish!” Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. “I know why you left. Shit, I’d leave too if the one person I… if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatin’ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? I’d kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. I’d kill him. And I’d—”

Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral he’s throwing himself down. “You’re everything t’ me,” he gasped. “So get in the damn car and just come home.”

In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLancey’s, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Dean’s chest. There’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Dean’s eyes are only on you.

“C’mon, _____,” he pleads, one last time. Again, he’s compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. “Oooh,” Dean croons, “loneliness will blind you, in between th’ wrong and th’ right…”

Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.

Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. “... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.”

He’s not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and there’s still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. “Yeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but… I’m willing to put you before anything. I should’ve put you before anything, before.”

You nod. “...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.”

That’s good. That’s good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. You’re coming back with him. That’s what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Dean’s eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or anger—and some of it’s there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. You’re coming home.

“Just like that?” Dean asks, and he really shouldn’t be grinning, not until he’s sure and you’ve said it, but he can’t help it.

The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you don’t stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasn’t screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. You’re a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Dean’s heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket til’ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You’re here and you’re alive and you don’t fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.

“This is all I wanted, D,” you hiccup. “You never say it, n’ I-I just need to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.

“I was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,” you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. “Too scared,” you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. “I didn’t want it to be over for real. Didn’t wanna close that door forever.”

Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. “M’ glad you didn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlin’. I’m sorry too.”

You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. “Oh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makin’ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?”

Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, “Pucker up, cowboy, because you’ve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. “So come here, ass.”

It’s not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Dean’s smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. It’s a lucky thing you’re so distracted. Maybe if you weren’t you’d notice how Dean’s hands are trembling, how his mouth’s watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and he’s pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.

One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Dean’s face—his mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. You’ve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like it’s his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.

By some twist of fate, Bad Company’s Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon you’re swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.

“I love you,” he thinks he hears you say.

Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, “Can’t hear you!”

“I said,” you took in a big breath, “I LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.”

Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. You’re almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. It’s your home as much as it’s his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.

“Hm,” you say, “Maybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why I’m gone, yeah?”

“They’ll survive without you,” Dean shrugs. “You got other people who need you.”

“Need me,” you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he could’ve sworn he’d told you that more, could’ve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.

“Yeah, need you,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, you’re hooked. A beat later he’s being pushed up against the driver’s door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.

In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.

“Sweet pea,” he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. “...You sure you don’t wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove t’ you, first.”

You draw him into a deep, lingering siren’s kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.

“Can’t wait any longer,” your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, “Prove to me I’m your favorite. That m’ the only girl you’re looking at.”

There’s the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.

This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and he’s grateful that he’d lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. There’s no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment you’re out of it he’ll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths there’s no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what he’s about to give you—you want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.

Knowing your famous attitude, Dean would’ve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and he’s going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.

Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin he’s allowed. You’re making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands he’s intent on seeing what you’ll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throat’s slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long you’ve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesn’t even care about being fully naked—but you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesn’t even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.

All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condom’s on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and that’s all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.

Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. You’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He could’ve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But it’s all worth it—you’ve always been worth it.

He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words he’d been chanting the entire time.

It’s a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Dean’s motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but it’d taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. You’d commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas station’s worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.

By then it’d gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impala’s heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasn’t an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Dean’s affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passenger’s seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train a’ comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend…

Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. He’d gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.

Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Dean’s duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bed’s gap.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you told him, wiggling your fingers.

His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.

When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.

“G’night,” Dean whispered.

Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss

#dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #user uncouth #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #Spotify

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vanrouchu · 22 days

Text

stained colours

ace model au i fear

Being an ambassador for a makeup brand was something new for Ace. Despite being a highly sought-after talent in the industry, there was no denying that his refreshing vibe came from the fact that he was still fairly new when it came to modelling. Perhaps his vibe fit the brand’s image, or at least the new makeup line they were about to release in a few weeks. They asked Ace to create his interpretation of the slogan—Find your colour.

As the current ace of his agency, he was determined to create a look that would make the even camera’s shutters pause in awe. However, it was a little difficult to determine which way would be the best to go about it.

Find your colour.

That was a little subjective—Ace assumed that it would be the colour that suited him the most. In that case, it’s always been red. Although if it was the colour he liked the most, it would also be red. There’s not much of a variety when it comes to his preferences in colours. He needed to get a little bit more creative if he wanted to catch eyes.

He threw his head back and groaned, tired from all the thinking. He had a little less than 15 minutes to think of another concept he could go with than the same dull poses almost every model defaulted to whenever they modelled lipsticks. As his manager, he was relying on you to throw ideas at him—hoping that he could catch one of them and be able to use it.

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t rub your face, you’ll smudge your makeup.” You sighed, running your hand over the plethora of lipstick tubes the brand gave for Ace to use. A lot of them were unopened; Ace already told you to put them aside after looking at the swatches alone. You grabbed the lipstick Ace was planning to use and stepped in front of him, finger hooking under his chin to tilt his head.

“Isn’t this supposed to be smudge-proof?” He grumbled, parting his mouth slightly to let you apply the lipstick on him. He did a good job not letting it show but there were more than a few thoughts running inside his head with every swipe and with every touch your finger left on his jaw.

“No. Maybe you’re thinking of another brand.” You let out a hum, letting go of his chin before taking a step away and putting the lipstick tube aside. You stared at his face, trying to tell if he looked his best or if there were some changes to be made—sometimes he made this step difficult by staring right back at you and it slowly became a staring contest.

You tilted your head, your hands coming back to the stash of lipsticks thrown to the side. “Are you sure you don’t want to make use of the other colours? There’s too much red… I think. Isn’t the slogan about finding your colour? It would make more sense if you used different ones.”

“What, like, making a gradient lip colour?” He grimaced. Clearly, he wasn’t even trying to comprehend your idea despite his desire to create a unique look. He crossed his arms and thought about it carefully, trying to think of ways he could see your suggestion working.

“No, silly. Not like that.” A chuckle escaped from your lips as you picked up a random shade, uncapping the tube before applying a stroke of colour to your lips. Ace stared at you curiously, trying to figure out what you were trying to do. Were you showcasing the colours for him? If that was the case, then there was really no need to do that—

“Do you mind if I kiss you?”

That single question made him pause. Cutting off any sort of action or thought he was doing at the moment.

“Excuse me?”

You threw your hands up immediately, trying to clarify your words. “Not on your lips! I just had an idea about the sort of look you could do, so I might use the rest of your face.”

That made him nervous. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have faith in his reliable manager, it was just the fact that you had to be in close contact to pull that off—your lips on the skin of his face? He had to calm himself down, urging him to keep his act together. He can’t make it obvious that he was more than a little flustered.

“Go ahead.” He muttered, following up with a louder-than-he-liked “It better look good though!”

With his approval, you stepped closer and wrapped your fingers around his jaw, whispering a small “close your eyes” before pressing your coloured lips against his skin—leaving lipstick marks. Pulling away, you took a step back to take a look at your work before smiling.

“This colour suits you. Let's try other colours too, shall we?”

Before he realized, he was stained with different colours. One on his forehead, one on his cheek, one on his jaw, one his neck, and one on the corner of his lips—barely a kiss. Each one was a different shade, but Ace found himself liking the one near his lips the most. Perhaps that was the color the slogan was talking about. Maybe he found it.

Walking out like that raised some questions from the staff, mostly wondering who did the lipstick marks on him but Ace just brushed them aside. He was far too embarrassed to give a proper answer; he hoped that the flustered look on his face wasn't too visible on the photos but the final results said otherwise.

But in the end, he got what he wanted. A unique look with a little bonus—he wanted to make it a habit to ask for your help if it meant he'll get little treats in between.

#my writing #twisted wonderland #twst #twst ace #ace #ace trappola #ace x reader #twst ace x reader #ace trappola x reader

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strawhatkia · 9 months

Text

luvr boy.

INCLUDES ! izuku midoriya x black!fem!reader

GENRE ! fluff

SYNOPSIS ! general relationship headcanons with izuku !

WARNINGS ! cursing, fem!black! reader, we still in high school y’all, a little uraraka slander (read to understand), edited

WORD COUNT ! 1.6k

A/N ! another repost, i had to break it up bc it was a lot of text - izuku motherfucking midoriya. the blasian himself. isaiah niggadoriya. him with a black female? him with a melanated goddess? i think it god’s greatest gift to give izuku ‘deku’ midoriya a beautiful, melanated, healing black woman and for me to write about it.❤️🥰 also, i hate the way uraraka is written and i will not hold back

reblogs and comments are welcomed and loved, so leave some please ! i will respond ! 🤍

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— ☾⋆⁺₊ 👊🏻 📗✧

pretty boy- the prettiest

alright!! let’s start with wash day!!

…nigga did not know shit-

poor baby grew up with inko, bless her straight headed soul, so he had no clue how to probably take care of his hair

all he had was h e a t d a m a g e

“zuku, how do you do your hair?” “huh?” “like what do you do?” “uh well, nothing really, i just wash it, that’s it.” “…” “what? why are you making that face- IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY HAIR?!?”

everything…everything is wrong…

aight sis, grab yo detangler, rat-tail comb, hard brush, sulfate-free shampoo, co-wash, conditioner, deep conditioner, protein treatment, all your oils, patience, and strength

and for the love of everything that is great- throw away his 3-in-1 before he give me a fucking heart attack

chile- you couldn’t even see his fucking scalp. his hair was so matted and curled up tightly together that it hurt to look at it

don’t let him go out this house like this no mo, hear me?

but it’s nothing you can’t fix, give the lil boy head some TLC and watch them curls pop!

first wrap that towel around his shoulders, put a pillow on the floor and sit him down in between ya legs and start the marathon of old all might and black people movies you gon’ be there for a while

lil boy would not sit still and he was tender-headed pick a struggle; at this point it was either get popped by you or suffer the pain from his scalp…he chose the latter

mans almost fell asleep while you was shampooing his hair and when you put the hot oil treatment on his scalp- slumber

after everything, you twisted his hair and gave him a bonnet

“uhm...why are you giving me a hat?” you almost slapped the taste outta his damn mouth

after explaining, he put it on; little did he know it was an expect copy to yours, just a different size

“baby, we’re matching!” ”yes, izu, we are. do you wanna take pictures?” you have just made his night.

the pictures were posted all over insta and has them pinned on his account you betta bet mina was all in the damn comment section ; later, he would print them out and put them on his desk so he can look at when he sat down or went to bed

when you took his hair down the next day, he went to the mirror and baby had stars in his eyes

“it looks so cool!” “i’m glad you like it, izu”

he talks about you to all might all the fucking time to the point they both know you better than ya damn self

which is really annoying because all might be wanting them "one on one" talks and it will irk you to talk to him because everything will be "but young midoriya said..."

to be honest, he went to all might for love advice....don’t ever let him do that again. mans was using the most corniest lines but since it was izuku, he got away with- tell me you not cheesing thinking about him saying the "roses are red, violets are blue line" with the cutest blush...im waiting

golden hour, his favorite time of the day

this man will drop everything just to see you at golden hour like when the sun is just starting to set, he will rush into ya dorm room just to watch you

it's like therapy for him to see you relaxing under the setting sun and see your brown skin shining, i just feel like this time would be the time he reminds himself that he is incredibly lucky to have you and will literally do anything to keep you relaxed like this

"zuku babes, what are you looking at?" "nothing~" "whew boy you are so far gone" "hm?" "oh! uh...love you !" "hm, love you too~"

side note: ...if you hear a camera click, don't be surprised

izuku loves affection, giving and receiving

his giving love languages is acts of service and a lil bit of quality time; his receiving love language is physical touch and words of affirmation

so it’s important that you meet in the middle and give him praise, shit works like a charm

go up to him, pat and rub his curls and tell him that he did a good job and one of two things will happen

one: he'll tear up a lot and ask if you're sure or two: he'll blush really fucking hard

as for his giving love, he'll just kinda follow you now until he is told to leave. don’t do that. just don’t.

let him leave on his own, you'll make him feel like he's bothering you otherwise

ask him for cuddles, he’ll drop almost anything he is doing to do so

even if you just drop hints about it, he’ll just smile and just take you somewhere quiet before sitting down or laying down to take a nap with you (nap dates with zuku !)

i think my heart just busted outta my chest i love him so fucking much

if you wanna match his acts of service, when he’s sick or just really busy at hero work studies, take notes for him in class. he will love you forever i promise.

and best believe, that he wants your attention on him at all times

remember them head pats? let’s say you give them to todoroki or tsu for doing some reason

poor thing is definitely sitting in a corner somewhere sulking

he doesn’t want to get upset because that’s his friends and he's glad that you are getting along but he would be lying if he didn't feel a little salty about it

later on, he will ask for some and if you refuse for any reason, he’ll look at you like you just tore out his heart…cause ya did

and GOD FORBID if you give more attention to bakugo instead of him…it is now in God’s hands

he’s throwing you over his shoulder and walking away from bakugo, not before throwing him a glare which later on ensues another fight between them

he only did it because he doesn’t like you getting too close to bakugo, no matter how much he cares about him being his childhood friend

i would like to think there's always that underlying fact that yes, you can handle yourself, but he also knows just how capable bakugou is and lowkey does not want to risk it

please remind him that you do love him and that he is a good boyfriend with all the hugs, cuddles, and all that other good shit

he loves to write about you in his notes, he has AT LEAST 4 notebooks about everything about you as well as somethings he wish to say to you and a little souvenirs from moments between you two that he found special

he has a special item from the time he figured out that he loved you and wrote down in detail what happened and how he felt about it

when you find these notebooks, do not, i repeat, DO NOT tell him that you found. just take the damn notebook while you can and run

give it back and you'll never see it again.

but most definitely tell him about all the things you read and watch him turn bright red

“so, you did get jealous when I gave Sero that hug the other day?” “HUH?!?!? H- H- HOW DID YOU FIND OUT!!?” “*holds up notebook marked ‘Y/n L/n’* Maybe because wrote about it…in detail” *cue the screams of embarrassment and horror*

nah but the amount of times the boy has gone off on a tangent about the little things he loves about you in there will get you flustered-

for drama sake, let’s talk about uraraka

short story: you almost knocked that bitch teeth in

long story: yes, deku used to like her and yes, she almost got him but that did not work out and guess who got him first ! tbh, you started out good friends with uraraka apart from the dekusquad but she never told you about her lil crush until it was too damn late !

and little miss thing was not happy about it; “after all this time…he gets with her!!”

i think you noticed at first her lil sly ass actions and remarks but don’t give in, let her make a fool of herself and watch her run around in circles

be calm and stay two steps ahead, it will work out in your favor ! and it did !

the next person that noticed was tsu, however, she was on your side about this because she hates petty shit and people so what uraraka was doing was not to her liking at all !

the other two, iida and shoto, caught on to it (iida wanting uraraka to at least remain civil and shoto just watching from afar) but deku remained oblivious for a while

he just wanted to be friends with everyone so he kinda just...didn't notice or thought she was mad about something else

i feel like uraraka would get beside herself and start saying reckless ass shit to express her frustration but it would only end up with her getting her ass beat and shunned from the group until she got her act together

you can guess what she said but all imma say is….she really lost her god damn mind and paid the price

what's worse is she really did try to make it seem like you stole from her...but dum dum was the one who didn't speak up? until the very last minute? which...sounds like a personal problem? sssoooooo, stay mad?

everyone in class did figure it out and it was just lowkey sad to see her get so messy but in the end !

izuku loves you very much and would do anything for you

you are his happiness and he’s thinking about spending forever with you

©STRAWHATKIA ━ all rights reserved. all content published on this blog belongs to starsoir. please refrain from copying, stealing, profiting off my works, or using my works for asmr related work. i don’t allow my works to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

reblogs and comments are welcomed and loved, so leave some please ! i will respond ! 🤍

wanna read more ??

lip gloss, lil mama. | f. | multiple characters

boyfriend. | f. | katsuki bakugo

love you more when the day is new. | f. | multiple characters

taglist : @mypimpademia @sevvnt @cosmiles @megurulvr @miirene

izuku taglist: @cosmiles

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ratedfleur · 4 months

Text

drunk in you

↳ an excerpt to ganda and pogi’s world.

zhanghao x reader 2.2k word count genre ୭ explicit

🏷️ : written in taglish but there are translations, mirror sex, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, callsigns (baby, al, daddy, whore, good girl)

you didn’t know that fawning over your boyfriend’s blonde hair would have you standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom as he fucked you from behind.

you had hao’s hand placed under your jaw, forcing you to look directly at you and him, specifically him and his blonde hair.

“why can’t you admit you like my hair, al?” hao whispered in your ear as he had his eyes fixated on your shy ones.

“because i..” you whispered.

hao purses his lips into a straight line before he thrusts into you hardly, angling his hips. this has you gasping, legs shaking underneath you when he does it again.

“because what, baby?” he tuts.

you whimper when his grip on your hips dig into your skin, nearly deemed painful.

“‘cause i’ll cum if i do..” you sigh when hao’s thrusts slow down, stilling inside of you. he gets you fooled into thinking he stopped fucking you, not until he thrusts rapidly inside of you, pressing fast and hard into your pussy.

“shit, oh my god!” you moan when hao pushes you further against the counter, cold marble digging into your front. hao has his hands holding onto your hips, keeping you steady against him as he fucked you.

“just admit it, hmm? if you do cum, i can make you cum again right after.” hao purrs into your ear as his hips vigorously thrusted, thighs slapping against each other as he pressed you harder against the counter.

you shake your head, “no more baby please..” you whimper whilst pushing yourself against hao’s hips, making your words and actions go into different ways.

this gets him cooing, “what do you really want? seems like your pussy is thinking for you.” he says while reaching down, fingers meeting with slick that dripped out of your hole.

he used your slick to rub your clit, making you shudder and cry when his fingers circle around your swollen clit.

“ano? eto na yung utak mo? pinaltan na ng pepe mo?” hao whispered into your ear once more, making you whimper as you dropped your head down, trying to keep yourself steady using your shaky hands on the counter.

what? is this your brain now? did it get switched out with your pussy?

he wraps his other arm around your waist to pull you even closer, not letting you pull yourself away from him as he fucked you while simultaneously rubbing your clit.

“look at me, al.. i dyed my hair just for you, i knew you’d be growing weak for me just from my hair..” he muttered while pistoning his hips into yours, making you gasp when he thrusts hardly into you.

he pouts fakely when you don’t answer, he pulls his hand away from your cunt before he reached up for you jaw with his slick covered hand, making you look right back at the mirror.

“or should i turn you around i think that’s better, hmm?” hao asked while you shook your head, just like how your legs were shaking underneath you.

“no please baby, i don’t want it..” you whimpered.

“then keep your eyes on me, whore.” hao spat from behind you before he let go of your jaw, moving back to it’s position in between your thighs.

his calloused fingers feel divine against your nub, feeling his rough fingers rubbing your clit repeatedly. to stop him from removing his fingers against you, you reached down and held onto the back of his hand, keeping him steady in between your thighs.

“that desperate to cum huh? little whore. if i tell you to cum, you cum.” hao says sternly whilst still thrusting in you, when you don’t reply, he pinches your clit which has you screaming in pain.

“what did i say?” he tuts while rubbing your clit slowly, you shake and whimper in his hands, “i’ll cum if you tell me to..” you sniffle.

“good girl.”

“now now, if you cum without my permission, i won’t stop til you’re full of my cum. but then again, i think you’ll like that better since you’re just a cum slut. if i could, i’d just cum in you whenever i like, keeping your pussy full with my cum, make you all swollen with it.” he says while fucking you deeper, fingers now reaching down for your hole that had hao deep inside you.

you cry out loud when his index and middle finger pop themselves into your hole, just teasing the opening as he fucked you. slowly, his fingers sink into you, further making you full with both his dick and fingers.

his hand slaps against your clit as he plunged his fingers into you, hissing when you clench a little too tight around him.

“shit— oh! oh my god, f-fuck me! fuck— too much!” you cried and threw your head back, landing on hao’s shoulder. this gets him smiling before taking his hand off of your waist to hold onto your jaw, keeping your head looking at him directly.

your moaning face has him grunting as he plowed into you, feeling himself near his own orgasm. “look at me baby, come on.” he purrs whilst his hand held onto your neck, fingers pressing in the right places before he applied pressure, making you gasp and open your eyes only for them to land on him and his blonde hair, making you moan just once before you came all over hao.

you whimpered his name as you came, cum immediately dripping out of you because of the fast pace that hao had as he fucked you, his pace doesn’t slow down as you came over your high.

he smiles before he grinded his hips against yours, pounding at you hardly as he pressed you harder against him.

you simply moaned in delight as hao held you tightly, pounding away. your skin glistened with a sheer layer of sweat under the lights of the bathroom as you two went on and on.

now with hao’s arms around your waist, he fucked you even faster as your legs grew weak, now only staying up from hao’s grasp.

“baby please, cum i-in me…” you cried out as your hands frantically held onto his hands when he pounded into you, through the mirror, you could see how your tits bounced at every thrust that hao made, how hair was slowly sticking to your temples from all the sweat.

“yeah? wanna be my good whore and take all my cum? but look at you taking my cock like a good girl, just makes me want to fuck you til i’m satisfied.” hao grunted while slipping himself deeper inside of you, watching as your mouth fluttered open in a silent moan.

“no, baby please..” you whined, fucking yourself against hao who’s thrusts slowed down again. through the mirror, he watched you desperately bounce on him, trying to get him to fuck you again.

“wanna feel your cum inside, wan’ your cock.. please baby please.” you begged, still fucking yourself on hao’s dick before he started thrusting again, lifting your right leg and placing it on the counter so he could reach deeper inside of you.

this got you gasping while reaching back for hao’s hair, pulling his blonde strands as he fucked you hard. your grip on him is tight, tight enough to get hao pulling out before pushing right back into in one quick thrust, balls slapping against your clit as you desperately held onto him for leverage.

“so fucking tight baby.. is this all for me? all for daddy to fuck and cum into? ugh fuck.. gonna fill you up with so much cum baby, gonna make you full with it..” hao panted in your ear as you pulled his head closer to you.

you moaned in response, “yes yes yes! all for daddy, all for daddy to fuck aah! l-love it when y-you fuck me!”

hao’s groans are continuous in your ear, feeling him place his head on your shoulder as he pounded away.

you on the otherhand were near the edge of your orgasm again, still feeling sensitive from your first orgasm.

hao pulled himself out of you again, leaving his head inside of you as he kept taking it out of your before inserting it, teasing you before he slammed right into you, making you choke on saliva at the sudden insertion.

when you felt that the pace of hao’s thrusts are slowing down, turning into hard and steady grinds, you knew he was getting near just like you were as you clenched around him repeatedly.

“baby please, want you to cum inside me.” you moaned as you held onto his nape to pull you close, the tips of your fingers touching his blonde hair.

“feels fucking incredible babe, pussy so tight a-and warm, all for me.. gonna fill you up baby, fill your pretty pussy up with my cum, g-gonna put a baby in you, gonna keep my dick warm with your pussy..” hao rambled, slowly getting pussy drunk as he pounded you.

you nodded tearfully, one hand reaching down for your clit to rub it, easing you nearer towards your orgasm.

suddenly hao’s thrusts are relentless, clearing chasing his orgasm when you squeezed around him tightly. his hips buck forward, pressing your body hard against the marble, he spreads your legs even more, placing your leg further up onto the counter.

“please— baby please, cum in me!” you gasped as you abruptly came all over hao, pussy clenching around him tightly.

your pussy clenched uncontrollably around him, clenching in a broken rhythm as your hole dripped from slick and your cum.

hao whined as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, slowly drowning in the warmth of your pussy as he felt himself nearing his own orgasm.

“you’re all mine, my pussy to f-fuck.. mine mine mine..” hao grunted against your skin as his hips pounded into yours, angling himself to press hard into your spot which has you shaking undern

hao’s hips stuttered against yours when he felt his balls tightening up, making his last thrusts hard and deep before he started cumming inside of you, feeling you milk him dry as you kept clenching around him when he came.

“jesus christ al, y-you’re too tight..” hao panted as he spurted his last few strands of cum in you, feeling his warm cum swirling inside of you.

he pulled himself out of you, his hands immediately reached for your ass and spread them apart to see how yours and his cum dripped out of you, dripping onto the ground.

“i just love fucking you, al. you take my cock like a good girl, taking all of my cum like a good whore. pretty fucking pussy, swallowing me up.” he says while sticking his fingers into you, curling them inside of you when he’s fully inside, scooping the cum up inside before pulling his fingers out, watching as globes of cum dripped out of you before he inserted his fingers once more, scooping and letting them drip onto the ground before he got on his knees, licking a long stripe from your clit and to your ass.

you sigh as you shakily held yourself up with unstable hands, feeling hao’s tongue lick your pussy up.

he licks you a few more times before he pulls away, he stood up before making you face him. he gives you a little smirk before he got back on his knees, hands holding onto the back of your knees before maneuvering them and placing them on his shoulders.

this way, he could be closer to your pussy when he would eat you out. he doesn’t waste any time and immediately dives into your pussy, licking a stripe before settling on your clit, licking and sucking on the nub.

his tongue was warm against you, tip of his tongue flicking whatever part of you that he liked. you panted above him, pushing your hips forward to meet his head.

hao groans when you do, pulling you closer as he ate you out, licking you clean.

“baby, so close..” you moaned when hao simultaneously sucked your clit and fucked your hole with two fingers, pushing it in and out of you whilst sucking your clit in a rhythm.

hao hums against your pussy, making you sigh as you pushed your hips further down. he could feel you shake and quiver, knowing you were near when you reached and held onto his blonde hair, fisting it in your shaky hand as you maneuvered him to however you liked.

you moved his head from side to side, making hao lie his tongue flat before he shook his head as he ate you out, making you squirm before you screamed.

“cumming— baby, i’m cumming!” you wailed as you came one last time, cumming all over hao’s mouth and fingers.

he hummed, feeling you shamelessly hump his face as you were coming down your high. your thighs quivered around his head as you were rubbing yourself against hao’s mouth, moaning in delight after you finished cumming.

hao places one quick kiss on your clit before he pulled away and settled you down on your own feet before standing up, holding you in his arms.

“good girl.” he says.

#mikha’s works.#zb1 #zerobaseone #zb1 zhanghao #zb1 smut #zb1 imagines #zb1 hard hours #zb1 scenarios #zb1 x reader #kpop smut #zhanghao imagines #zhanghao hard hours #zhanghao x reader #zhanghao smut #kpop hard hours

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admirxation · 1 year

Text

I’ve missed this

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Fem Reader

Summary: The reader and Leon are in a relationship, appreciating each other's company after his recent mission to save “baby eagle”. The reader is heartbroken with how little time you guys have together, but Leon reassures her with kisses and cuddles which eventually turns into NSFW 18+ content (fluff at the start and smut in the middle and end).

Warnings: NSFW 18+ (no minors!), smut, unsafe sex, degrading, hair pulling, spanking, mentions of bruises and injuries, nipple pinching and sucking, hickies, dominance and submission.

Word Count: 1.6k

Authors note: Hey, this is my first Leon Kennedy one-shot that I have written and posted, I used to write fanfiction when I was 13-15 but stopped. But now I am a 20 year old, English Literature university student, craving to write more fanfiction because ugh I have an obsession with fictional men lmao. I hope you like this, any feedback is appreciated (be nice though haha), and you can request anything you would like or drop a message if you ever want to.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon with the remnants of the sun shining through the gaps in the curtains, you and Leon were lounging on the sofa, watching TV— enjoying each other’s company. A day to just cuddle with him was rare, and you treasured every moment you had when he was around; just being in his arms and presence made you feel safe, with every trouble and stress easing its way out of your mind’s focal point when you felt the warmth of his body against yours. While you knew the demands of his job, it was always hard to see him go and come back hurt and beaten up; you wished he could just stay with you so your lazy afternoons wouldn’t be a rare treasure. Every time you saw the cuts, bruises, or any injury you found when gazing upon his body— it just left you in pain—just imagining how close he had been to death and the living nightmares he had to endure.

Leon had recently returned from saving “baby eagle”, and when he came back, he told you about the people and events he encountered, mainly about the objective of protecting Ashley and how tiring it was. Every time he came back, there was a mixture of feelings, moving from being proud of him to having your imagination fall into the darkness where you pictured the possible fate of the mission being unsuccessful—it taking Leon’s life—the thought of it led to your heart sinking, no matter your current reality. The injuries, seeing him exhausted, and the nightmares he experienced every night—triggered your mind to dive into the abyss of dark thoughts. Of course, he had to be the hero and save the day, but still, you always yearned for him to stay every time you had to say goodbye—afraid it was your last. While these thoughts circled in your mind, you consciously tried to battle against them and focus on the afternoon you and Leon were experiencing. You tried to enjoy the moment; you didn’t know how long you had with him until he was gone again.

You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in that scent you missed; you no longer had to cuddle into the pillow and hoodies he left to remember his smell. He had his arms around you, and you were in your safe place.

“I’ve missed this,” Leon uttered, breaking the room's comfortable silence.

“Same; you know I always count the days until your return,” you answered him, giving an innocent smile to him as you cuddled into his chest more.

Leon already knew how much you anticipated his arrival; you loved him more than anything and would cross off days in the calendar and jump in his arms when you saw him again. How could your thoughts not be preoccupied with hoping for his safe return? But even though you were talking about your happiness, Leon noticed a trace of sadness lingering in your words, knowing that you were holding back some thoughts. He lifted your chin, moving your face closer to his, telling you in a soft tone: “I’m sorry I can’t be here more often. You know if it were up to me, I’d be around more,” he looked into your eyes to reassure you. You tilted your head and smiled at him, loving how cute he was with you. Leon then placed his hand on your cheek and pulled you closer to kiss you; melting into the kiss, you couldn’t think of anything else but how much you loved him.

“I always forget how much of a great kisser you are,” you giggled, “it’s always a nice surprise to enjoy everything when you get back,” you said softly and gently.

“I know you do, baby; you make it quite obvious,” he laughed.

“Wow, look at me trying to be nice, and this is what I get,” you faked a little gasp as you nudged him a little. Leon laughed with you and shook his head a little at how sweet you were being.

“Just come here. I wanna cuddle you more,” you blushed at Leon’s request, shifted your weight, and moved your leg over him, positioning yourself to straddle him. You knew Leon loved this as much as you. His eyes then wandered up and down your body: “You know what I missed (Y/N)?”

“What, Leon?”

“This. Feeling you on top of me...” you saw the smirk on his face after his flirtatious comment, and you knew what he wanted to do to you, “and what happens when you get on top.”

You locked eye contact with him, taking the hints he was giving, beginning to grind your hips down into his, circling them as his hands travelled over your body.

“This feels so good... you know exactly what I like,” Leon said under his breath as you grinded on him; he admired your beauty by looking at you up and down and biting his lip when you pushed your hips further down—you felt yourself getting wetter as you felt his cock twitch with excitement.

As Leon released heavy breaths, grabbing your hips to move further into his lap, his hands traced upwards. Holding your hair, his fingers tangled in it and pulled you closer—kissing you passionately. You melted into the kiss, it growing more passionate with continuous grinding. With his spare hand, it wandered to your ass, squeezing it until you gasped between kisses. As your kisses became wetter, he couldn’t deal with you being fully clothed anymore and needed to see what belonged to him. He tugged at the bottom of your shirt and pulled it off, throwing it across the room, slowly moving to your bra and unclasping it—admiring you as it fell and exposed you.

“Fuck, (Y/N), you’re so sexy,” he looked at you, thinking about how lucky he was.

He moved closer to your breasts, starting to suck on one of your nipples and twirled his tongue around it, pinching the other and getting harder as he felt your soft moans at his touch.

“Fuck, Fuck Leon... mmh. Keep going. Please don’t stop,” you managed to say as your bodies intertwined in intimacy, and you felt how hard he was under you, “Leon. Just fuck me already, I-I need you.”

Leon smirked at you, “Anything you want, princess.” He grabbed you, pushed you to the sofa and hovered over you, leaning in for another kiss which moved to your neck to provide a hickey—to show who you belonged to.

He pulled away, leading you to whimper for his touch again, looking at you beg for him as he grabbed your underwear and slowly dragged them down your legs—revealing your wet pussy. He traced his finger down, softly grazing over your clit. You shivered as you felt him tease you and begged for more.

“How much do you want me (Y/N)?” dominance lingering in his words.

“I-I need you, Leon, please.” He loved seeing you submit.

He positioned his cock towards your wet entrance, rubbing against it to tease you. As he did, he whispered: “you’re so wet for me, baby, fuck,” wanting to just ram and fuck the shit out of you, there and then, but not wanting to surrender to his urges—yet—he wanted to see you squirm with anticipation more.

When you were about to beg again, he leaned his cock inside you melding your bodies together. You both gasped at the entrance. Your moans became continuous as Leon started to push back and forth, whispering into your ear how sexy you were: “You’re so beautiful (Y/N). I love your b-body, mmm, god! I missed this so much.” After efforts to fragment a coherent sentence from being interrupted with pleasure, he quickened the pace. He was lifting his body as he did, positioning himself upright as he held and dug his nails into your thighs, looking at you while you were screaming his name. You were lost in each other, having the room filled with moans, having your eyes roll back as you went crazy under Leon’s control.

“Whose my dirty wore?” He looked at you and demanded an answer; he loved degrading and putting you in your place.

“Me, I, I’m your dirty whore, Leon!”

Leon looked at you and noticed how close you were to cumming. Since he loved to tease you, he pulled out, to which you pulled a disappointed face as he did.

“I’m not letting you cum yet. Turn around... Now!” you submitted to his request. You turned to all fours, arching your back and waiting for Leon to begin fucking you silly again. As you were about to look back, he rammed his cock inside, and you gasped as he did.

Leon was the type to have you cum first, but he still liked to be in control when he could. He wanted a bit of fun to see you want more, getting a kick from seeing the desperation in your eyes.

His hands grabbed your hips, spanking you often until your ass was red, fucking you at a quick pace leading to your wetness stream down your inner thighs. As he pulled your hair and squeezed your ass harder, Leon felt your pussy clenching around his cock, eventually releasing hot ropes of cum into you—meeting your release as you squeezed your eyes shut with tears brimming in the corners as you orgasmed.

As Leon pulled out, you were both breathless; both lost in ecstasy as you experienced a mutual release. Your legs were shaking, and your pussy was sore, exhaustion plastered over your face. Once you caught your breath, you told him: “You’re so good... I love having sex with you when you get back.”

“I love it too, baby,” he smiled at you, “Come on, let’s go get ourselves cleaned up, then I’ll give you some aftercare,” he gave you a little spank as he walked closer to the bathroom.

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topguncortez · 1 year

Text

What to Expect | Chapter 2

previous part | Masterlist | next part

synopsis: you get confirmation on the results of your at home test. Bradley's animosity towards Jake rolls over into a locker room brawl.

word count: 3.9k

warnings: pregnancy, vomiting, cursing, smut, mentions of infidelity, fighting, blood, Jake having a dick measuring contest with Bradley

The first time you had ever remember meeting Bradley Bradshaw, you were four years old. His mother had brought him out to North Island for a visit to his Uncle Maverick and your father. He was a bit older than you, closer to your only brother Dylan’s age than yours. Carole had brought Bradley by the house to have a nice afternoon with your mother Sarah and Maverick’s then girlfriend, Penny Benjamin.

You, your siblings and Bradley were playing out in the backyard, everything was fine until Gia decided to play a game of tag, except you were “it” the whole time, no matter who you tagged. And at four years old, it was hard to keep up with the older kids. You eventually got so frustrated, you sat down in the middle of the back yard and cried. Gia called you a cry baby, and Stephanie pushed her. Dylan threw his arms up in annoyance and went to go get a snack inside. The only one who seemed to care about you, was Bradley. He walked up to you, and held his hand out, helping you up off the ground. Bradley never treated you like Gia’s little sister, he always treated you like a friend. Which was probably why the two of you became such close friends later in life.

But in the span of your two decade long friendship, Bradley never thought he would be sitting next to you in the lobby of the OB/GYN’s office. He looked around nervously, his leg bouncing up and down rapidly. When you told him that you needed him to come with you for something, he was thinking it was another trip to Home Depot or Target. Sitting in a doctor’s office full of pregnant women was not on his bingo card.

“Why are we here again?” Bradley asked, whispering to you.

Your eyes never left the questionnaire you were filling out. Some of the questions made your brain swim trying to figure out how to answer them, “Just a check up,” You said looking at him briefly.

“And you can’t just go to the-”

“Just shut up, okay,” You snapped and Bradley held his hands up in defense. There was a beat of silence before you sighed and sat back in your chair, “I took a pregnancy test the other night and it came back positive.”

“Oh shit,” Bradley said, adjusting in his chair to sit up a bit straighter. He looked around the office, seeing if there were any prying eyes, before leaning in and asking, “You think its accurate? You think you’re. . .” He gestured vaguely to your stomach. You nodded and Bradley let out a sigh, “Oh wow, I didn’t think you were seeing some-”

“I’m not,” You answered shortly, “It’s complicated and I would really appreciate it if you didn’t give me an interrogation. I’m already expecting one from my parents when I tell them their only unmarried child is giving them their first grandchild.”

“Y/N?” A nurse called out, and you gave her a tight lipped smile, standing up from the chair, “Is your partner coming with you?” You looked over your shoulder at Bradley who was looking at you.

“It’s up to you, Bug,” Bradley said, using the nickname that your father had given you. You let out a shaky breath and nodded for him. He stood up from his chair, his body still clad in his flight suit and followed down the hall next to you.

You had been in a gynecologist exam room before. You always found them cold and uninviting. And now, more than ever you wished you could be anywhere in the world, but in this exam room. The nurse took your vitals and explained what they were going to do at this exam. She instructed you to go take a urine sample, and then they were going to take some blood to run more tests. Bradley held your hand as you winced when the nurse took your blood, and you kicked him for making a comment about how will you handle childbirth if you couldn’t handle a needle prick.

“Alright, Doctor Miller will be in soon with results,” The nurse said and you nodded, “I recommend you start drinking some water for the ultrasound.”

You shivered as the nurse left, sending you a smile and shutting the door behind her. Bradley handed you your water bottle from your purse, a shy smile on his features.

“If you have to go back to work, you can leave,” You said, sipping your water, “I bet there’s more important things you’d rather be doing than sitting here.”

“Not really,” Bradley said, sighing and putting his hands behind his head, “It’s just day one, and Bagman can handle it, it’s the least he can fucking do.” You scowled at the mention of your ex-boyfriend and Bradley laughed, “He came to the Hard Deck the other night. Showed up in his uniform like he’s something special. God, I can’t stand him.”

“You two are team leaders now, you need to get along, no matter how you feel about him,” You said and looked down at your lap. Bradley’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you. He knew you long enough to be able to know all the tells of your body language. He could tell when you were angry, or upset, or overwhelmed.

“You’re hiding something,” Bradley said, leaning his elbows onto his knees, “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” You said quickly. Bradley opened his mouth to argue when a woman with light brown hair wearing pink scrubs walked in. She smiled at Bradley and walked to you, hand extending in greeting.

“I’m Doctor Miller, I’m your obstetrician,” She introduced herself, “And you must be Y/N.”

“I am,” You nodded.

“Well, Y/N,” Doctor Miller took a seat on a stool across the room from you, “As you suspected, the urine and blood tests came back showing elevated hCG, which means, you are in fact, pregnant.”

“Oh my god,” You said, covering your mouth with your hand.

“The ultrasound will confirm how far along you are, and we can estimate your due date from that,” Doctor Miller announced, “I’m going to have you lay back, pull your shirt up below your breasts and pull your skirt down just below your naval please.”

You nodded and did what she said. Bradley shifted in his spot, his brown eyes going from your bare skin to the ultrasound machine.

“Alright, this gel is going to be cold,” Doctor Miller said, squirting the cold gel on your belly. You lurched a bit in your spot, and looked at Bradley.

He could feel the waves of nervousness rolling off of you, and stood up from his chair, stepping closer to you laying on the exam table. He gave you a reassuring smile, before looking back at the black and white screen as Doctor Miller moved the transducer over your abdomen. Doctor Miller looked over her shoulder briefly, seeing Bradley and you standing close and smiled softly to herself.

“Here,” She said, pushing down on your abdomen. Your eyes widened seeing the small blip on the screen. Doctor Miller’s glove hand pointed to it, “You are measuring at about seven weeks in gestation.” She clicked some buttons, taking a screenshot of the screen.

“Wow,” You said, your eyes wide in shock.

“Your estimated due date is around July 15th,” Doctor Miller said, and put the transducer down, and then grabbed a bunch of paper towels, “For now, I need to see you every four weeks, until about week twenty-six, so roughly around February.”

“They’ll have the same birthday,” Bradley said and you shot him a glare. He gave you a knowing look and you let out a shaky breath.

“These are for you,” Doctor Miller said, handing you copies of the ultrasound, “I’m also going to send you home with this packet.” She handed you a thick two pocket folder. You opened it and started looking over the various flyers and pamphlets that were inside, “There’s a lot of information in there about pregnancy, it breaks it down week by week on development, some recommendations for products to use for prenatal development, as well as go over the options that you have.”

“Options?” You asked, looking up at her.

She nodded, “Yes, you have options.”

You blinked and shook your head, “Y-Yeah, I know, it’s just weird to hear someone say that to me. I-I guess I’m still a bit in shock about all. . . this,” You gestured to your stomach. Bradley put his hand on your shoulder.

“It’ll be okay,” He said. You looked up at him, and he smiled, “Where do we make the appointment?”

“At the front desk,” Doctor Miller said, “Oh, and here’s a prescription for a good prenatal vitamin,” She scribbled some writing down on a note and then handed it to you, “If you have any questions, either one of you,” She looked between you and Bradley, “Do not hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” You said, hopping off the table. Doctor Miller nodded as Bradley opened the door to the exam room, and gently guided you out of the room. You scheduled your next appointment, and watched as Bradley put the date in his phone. The two of you walked out to the parking lot, your jeep parked next to his bronco. You suddenly wondered if the jeep was even a good car to drive a baby around in. Living in California, you almost always had the sides and top off of it, loving the way the sun hit as you drove down the road.

“Hey,” Bradley said, putting his hand on your back, “You going back to school?”

“No,” You shook your head, “I took the day off. I wasn’t sure if I could go back to teaching eight year olds simple multiplication after learning. . . what I learned.”

Bradley chuckled and leaned against the door of his Bronco, “You going to tell him?”

“How do you know it’s his?”

“Y/N. . . Bug. . . I’ve known you since you were three, you can’t hide things from me.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, “I don’t think I can.”

“Y/N,” Bradley said, standing up straight, “I don’t agree with what he did, and I am one hundred percent on your side but, you can’t keep a man from his child.”

“I know!” You groaned, “I just. . . I can’t face him. He makes me so fucking mad, Bradley. I look at him, a-and my chest gets tight and I feel small and want to hide. It’s like everything Gia ever said in my ear about not being enough and not being able to keep him satisfied all comes true.” You shook your head as you felt tears well up in your eyes. Bradley pushed off his bronco and pulled you into his strong arms.

“Shh,” Bradley said as you cried, running his hand up and down your back, “It’ll all work out, okay. If you want me to be, I’ll be there when you tell him. And you know Alyssa will be there too.”

“She’s already claimed the godmother spot,” You chuckled and felt the rumble of laughter in Bradley’s chest. You pulled back from him and wiped your tears, “Thank you for coming with me. I know that 9-1-1 message at two in the morning was probably terrifying.”

“Oh you had me on the verge of shitting myself all day,” Bradley said and you scrunch your nose, “It’ll all work out, Bug. I promise. And whatever you decide, I will be by your side.”

“I love you, Buckles,” You said, using the nickname you gave him when you were younger. You couldn’t pronounce Bradley until you were about six, so you named him ‘Buckles’ and it stuck, “Now, get back to work.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bradley said, giving you a mock salute. You giggled as you opened your driver's door and got in. Bradley waited until you pulled out of the parking lot to get into his bronco. He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. This was not at all how he thought his morning was going to go. Bradley reached into the chest pocket of his flight suit and pulled out the ultrasound picture, and smiled down at it.

— — —

Jake was nervous. The morning had gone well, it was his first morning as a TopGun instructor. He explained the history of the program, the risk and rewards that come with it. He smiled as he saw his name on the plaque for the best pilot from his class. Jake was getting ready to go head to the sky when Admiral Kazansky called his name in the hallway.

It was as if cement was poured down Jake’s back as he walked down the hall towards his office. In all the years Jake had been a pilot, he had never been called into the Admiral’s office. Being called into the Admiral's office was like being called to the principal. You didn’t want to be there, nothing good ever came from being called or sent to their office.

Jake’s green eyes looked at the various pictures and awards the Iceman had hanging up. The most noticeable was one that Jake was all too familiar with. He had seen the exact same copy on your bedside table just weeks ago. Jake felt himself relax a bit, but it was only for a second, then the door opened. He quickly stood up from his seat, standing at attention as Ice walked in.

“At ease, kid,” Iceman said, walking to his desk. Jake sighed, and stood at parade rest, until Ice sat down. Even though Jake was once on a first name basis with the man in front of him, he still treated him with the utmost respect, “Take a seat.”

“Sir,” Jake greeted and sat down in the leather chair across from him.

“I didn’t get a chance to meet with Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw this morning, but I wanted to see where you think we stand with this class,” Iceman said, pulling up the newest class of recruits onto the projector. Jake closed his eyes for a second and let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, Jake thought that Ice was going to fire him after day one, or worse, tell him that he knew he was in his daughter’s bedroom the other night. But Jake relaxed in his chair, and gave Ice the run down of the class.

“I think we have a very eager group,” Jake said, after explaining a bit about each of the pilots.

Ice looked from the screen to Jake and nodded, “Well, I expect them to be better than the best. You and Rooster have a lot to prove. You two have a lot of work on your plates. It’s the first time that TopGun instructors are also members of an active squadron at the same time. I hope there are no distractions.”

“None sir,” Jake said.

“Good,” Ice said, and sat back in his chair, “I know things ended between you and Y/N,” Jake closed his eyes and let out a sigh, “But, if you need help with anything, my door is always open. You have my number, you are free to stop by the house if you need to.”

Jake stood up from his chair, “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Ice said, “I see you as a son. If you’re with my daughter or not. You’re dismissed.”

Jake nodded and left the office as quickly as he could. He didn’t even notice, but he had started sweating as he sat there under Ice’s cold stare.

When he first met you, he had no idea who your father was. In fact, you kept it a secret for nearly the first three months of being together. Your father was famous when it came to Jake’s world. So the moment you said that you were a Kazansky, Jake felt like he had been hit by a train. He thought you were messing with him at first, but you pulled out your driver's license and Jake nearly passed out. The first time he had met your father, Jake was sweating bullets the whole time. He almost showed up at your front door in his dress uniform, because whatever was in his closet wasn’t good enough to meet Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky. But, Ice made a comment about Texas Football, and Jake fell into an instant conversation with the Admiral.

He was worried that post break-up things would be awkward or tense, but Jake was surprised to find that it wasn’t. It was also probably because Ice ran a tight ship around here. He wasn’t one to bring in outside problems into the workplace. Ice hadn’t once brought up the break-up until today, and Jake was even surprised that he had mentioned something.

Jake smiled to himself as he walked down the hallway towards the locker room to get dressed for his flight. He was whistling some tune when he walked in, seeing Bradley lost in thought while looking at some photograph.

“Where ya been Bradshaw!” Jake said loudly, causing the pilot to startle and drop the picture. Bradley scrambled to get the picture as it soared down under Jake’s boot. He bent down to grab it. He was going to give it back, but then he saw the disheveled look of his wingman, “What’s going on?”

“Give it back,” Bradley said, reaching for the picture, but Jake took a step away from him.

“Oh shit. . .” Jake smirked, “Is this what I think it is,” He wiggled the picture in his fingers, “Were you about to whack-”

“Give me the picture, Bagman,” Bradley said, stepping over the bench and reaching for it. Jake took another step back.

“Nah, I wanna see what got Rooster Bradshaw so flustered that he has to. . . wait,” Jake said, looking at the picture. He was expecting to see some scantily dressed woman or even a man on the front of it, but he was met with the sight of black and white sonogram. Jake had two older sisters who had kids, and he knew exactly what this was. Bradley held his breath as Jake’s green eyes looked over the information on the side of it.

“Is this a joke?” Jake asked, looking up at Bradley. Bradley looked down at his boots and scratched the back of his neck, “I can’t fucking believer her. We’ve been broken up for less than-”

“Wait a damn minute,” Bradley said, lifting his head, “You think she was sneaking around?”

“Well,” Jake shrugged, “What do you expect me to think!?”

Bradley chuckled humorlessly, “She’s not you, Bagman. She’d never even think to cheat on you or to do something behind your back. She was so loyal to you, and still is. Can’t say the same about you.”

“So. . . it’s mine,” Jake said, looking back at the sonogram, and Bradley nodded, “Fuck,” Jake groaned running a hand down his face and sat on the bench. His stomach felt like it was in his chest, and the longer he looked at the sonogram, the sicker he felt. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He thought all the years that he was with you about having kids. About one day being able to start a family, and have three or four little ones who looked just like you, running to him as he came home from deployments or missions. But he kissed that dream goodbye the second he walked out the door.

“This is all wrong,” Jake mumbled.

“Tell me about it,” Bradley said, leaning against the lockers, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Does Ice know?” Jake looked at his wingman.

“Not yet,” Bradley sighed, “She found out for sure this morning. I went with her. She’s due on your birthday.” Bradley saw the corners of Jake’s mouth tick up at that, “She doesn’t want you knowing.”

“Why?”

“Why the fuck do you think? You cheated on her and left her.”

Jake sighed and shook his head, “I didn’t cheat on her.”

“What?” Bradley asked, “What the fuck do you mean you didn’t cheat on her?”

“I lied,” Jake gulped and looked straight ahead, “I couldn’t just. . . break up with her, so I came up with a lie to help me. I never cheated on her.”

Bradley saw red, as he grabbed the pilot by the collar and slammed him up against the lockers. Jake grunted as his back hit the metal and pushed Bradley’s arms off of him. Bradley was only off of Jake for a split second, before he charged forward, wrapping his arms around the blonde man and tackling him to the floor.

“Fucking get off of me!” Jake yelled, trying to fight against him. Bradley had about three inches and fifty pounds on Jake.

“You fucking lied to her!” Bradley yelled, straddling the blonde’s waist, and delivering a punch to his jaw,“For weeks she didn’t leave my fucking couch cause she thought you cheating was her fucking fault!”

“It’s none of your fucking business!” Jake yelled, and pushed Bradley off of him. Jake managed to knock Bradley onto his back. He reeled his arm back and punched Bradley in the nose.

“Fuck it is!” Bradley spat, trying to regain the upper hand.

“Whoa!” Fanboy said, seeing the two pilots wrestling on the ground.

“Yo! Break it up!” Payback yelled, pushing through the door to get to Bradley and Jake. Fanboy wrapped his arms around Jake’s torso as he pulled the blonde pilot away. Bob and Coyote had come running in when they heard the commotion, and got their way in between the two pilots.

“The hell is going on?!” Maverick yelled, walking into the locker room. He took in the sight of the two bloodied pilots and the group of aviators in between them, “Well? Explain, or you are all grounded.”

“Jake’s a fucking liar and a cheat!” Bradley yelled, pointing at him.

“And Bradley needs to mind his damn business!” Jake yelled back, lunging forward, but Coyote pushed him back.

“That’s enough!” Maverick said, “Whatever personal stuff between you two ends here. Today. If you can’t handle it, then it’ll go to Ice.” Bradley clenched his jaw and pushed Payback and Bob’s hands off of him, “Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Bradley and Jake said at the same time.

“Good,” Maverick nodded, “Be ready to take the air in twenty.” Maverick left the locker room and headed back to his office.

The other male aviators slowly released Bradley and Jake, but still kept a watchful eye on them in case chaos were to ensue again. Coyote asked Jake if he was alright and the blonde nodded, turning back to his locker. Bob noticed that during the scuffle, a picture had fallen from Jake’s grasp. The WSO gently picked it up, his eyes widening a bit at the sight of the sonogram. He looked between the two pilots, the tension in the locker room thick and awkward, before turning to hand the sonogram to Bradley.

“This fell,” Bob said softly, tapping Rooster on the shoulder. He turned around and looked at the sonogram in Bob’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” Rooster said, taking the picture. Bob gave him a tight lipped smile before going to his own locker and getting his gear. Jake saw the interaction and it made his blood boil even more. He grabbed his gear and slammed his locker shut, and made his way towards the door.

“Oh, Bradshaw,” Jake said, stopping and turning around to face the mustached pilot. Bradley looked at Jake, his eyes narrowed on him. Jake smirked and grabbed a tooth pick from inside his flight suit,

“You’ll never be that kid’s father, no matter how hard you try and act like it.” Jake popped the toothpick in his mouth and left the locker room.

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