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whimsyfinny · 11 months ago

Text

Sexy F*cking Nerd

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Dean discovers a little secret of (Y/n)'s during a case research session he can't help but let temptation get the best of him.

Warnings: Language, Smut, Fingering, PinV, Oral (M receiving), slight angst if you squint, Dean having a glasses kink (not really a warning but not everyone wears them hahaha lucky bastards)

MDNI! 18+

Word Count: 5688

A/N: It's taken a little while but here is the second competition winner from a few weeks back, the prompt provided by the wonderful @foxyjwls007 - I hope you like it!

The motel room was stuffy to say the least - that usual aroma of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener lingering around us. There was a dripping sound coming from God knows where and the AC hummed in between the concerning clinking from deep within the vents. It was crap. So crap. But it was home for a few nights; just like all the motel rooms that came before. Dean stepped past me and over the threshold, immediately slinging his duffle and jacket onto his chosen bed. He stretched his arms above his head, the grey Henley clutching his muscular abdomen and rising enough to flaunt what lay beneath. I sighed, following him in and slumping onto the bed beside his - the musty stench from the sheets enveloping me.

“Well…” Dean started, pulling Sam's laptop out of his bag and placing it on the small table by the window.

“Well…?” My voice echoed as I focused on the ceiling fan that spun off centre.

“...This is… nice?” His statement was more of a question as he looked around with raised eyebrows. I propped myself up on my elbows, flashing him a look of speculation.

“Seriously?” A moment passed before he huffed a long-held breath and slapped his large palms on his thighs.

“No of course not, this place sucks more dick than a hooker on payday.”

“You got that right,” I flopped back down onto the bed, a small dust cloud erupting under my weight. I closed my eyes and listened as Dean pulled a chair out from under the table, slumping down into it. Then there was the familiar click of the laptop opening followed by the sound of stuttered not-quite-touch-typing, presumably he was starting work on the case that we’d come here to investigate. The tap tap tap of whatever was leaking began to drill into my brain, my patience already wearing thin with the rooms dire ambiance. I pulled myself up to sitting, criss-crossing my legs on the bed and brushing whatever that dust from the bedding was off my sweater sleeves.

“When's Sam back?” I asked, watching as Dean searched the keyboard in front of him for some long lost letter.

“Uuuh, I'm not sure. He said to work this case without him.”

“Ugghhh, I bet he's having way more fun than us right now, it's not fair,” I plopped my chin into my palm and stared past the older Winchester out the window, almost willing Sam to appear and walk in like any other day.

“It's just some dumb wedding, I doubt he's having that much fun.”

I scoffed before I could stop myself, Dean breaking eye contact with the screen to throw me a raised eyebrow.

“Look,” I collected myself, “you didn't know Sam in college. He won't admit it but he was popular. Really popular. Not the total nerd you think he is. He's absolutely having fun with these people.”

“Yeah right. So who's at this wedding anyway? Why was it so important that he just had to be there?”

I rolled my eyes, knowing full well Sam had already told him all the details. Typical Dean.

“It's for a couple of friends who he and Jess were close with back then. Pretty sure the bride was prom queen in highschool or something and the groom was a trust fund jock. Either way, not my crowd,” I sighed slightly, memories from my college days flooding my mind.

Deans eyebrows twitched into a small frown, his thoughts seeming to cloud his vision for a second before he reluctantly dismissed them. I looked down into my lap for a moment, reminiscing how I always kept my distance from Sam whilst at Stanford, but he had always been that boy that would make my heart flutter when he spoke up in class or when I'd see him on the quad with his friends. I remember seeing him with his nose in a book once at my usual desk in the library, my cheeks burning when he caught me staring. Who would've thought several years down the line I'd be sat in a bottom-rung motel room with his obscenely good looking older brother researching monster lore. At least we would be researching monster lore, if it wasn't for the small growl my empty stomach had gurgled out. I couldn't stop the small pulse of embarrassment burning into my cheeks as Dean eyed me with a grin.

“Wanna get some lunch?” He asked, standing up like he already knew my answer.

“Fuck yes. I'm feeling burgers,” I shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood up, watching as Dean shrugged on his leather jacket and headed to the door, holding it open for me.

“Now you're speaking my language.”

The diner was almost as sad and withered as the motel room, however the food was nothing short of spectacular. I watched in awe as Dean polished off his second burger, a small glob of sauce sticking to his stubble and threatening to drip off his chin. He must've felt me watching in wonder - or perhaps disgust - as when he looked up from his plate he shot me a questioning glance.

“What?” His tone was a little defensive through the mouthful of fries he'd just shovelled in. I took a second before asking, half-genuine:

“Where do you put all of that?”

“Put what?”

“The food - where does it go? Do you have hollow legs? Two stomachs? Does it just evaporate as soon as you swallow it?”

He grinned, wiping the sauce from his face with a napkin.

“Goes straight to the abs baby. It's muscle fuel,” he leant back in his chair, stretching a little before patting his stomach to punctuate his statement. I simply rolled my eyes.

“Yeah right, you're not that muscly Dean.”

“How would you know? You've never seen me with my shirt off.”

“I know, and I plan to keep it that way.”

He feigned a pout before returning to his fries. We ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, my mind absently going back to all the lore we should be trying to gather. I gripped my milkshake that had so generously been served in a thin paper cup, attempting to suck the practically solid beverage up the equally thin paper straw. Finding the nearest library would be the next task on our to-do list, despite the protesting I know I'll get from Dean.

“Hey, (Y/n)?” My train of thought was derailed at the sound of my name. The slurping of over-thickened milkshake from myself ceased.

“What's up?”

“What were you like in college?”

I eyed him with caution, wondering what part of his brain was in control right now.

“What do you wanna know?”

Catching the wariness to divulge him to such information, he smiled slightly, shrugging his shoulders.

“I'm not asking to be weird, I just-” he paused, choosing his next words tactfully, “the way you described Sam as being a totally different person - some hot-shot with the perfect grades, popular friends and a girlfriend like Jess - it just got me thinking. How would Sam have described you?”

I almost spat my dairy-goop back into the straw, my brain freezing.

“Dean,” I started before planning what I was going to say, placing my cup on the table. “Sam wouldn't be able to describe me.”

My words brought a small smirk to his lips.

“You were that hot, huh?”

“What the fuck- no- I wasn't- he didn't- Sam never- ” I stopped myself before I had an aneurysm and took a deep breath.

“I was in a totally different crowd to Sam. He was always surrounded by people and, well, I barely even had a crowd.”

“Lone wolf?”

“Bingo. But definitely not the cool, collected, stoic type. Think more, invisible to the public eye, always carrying books, and borderline selective mute because of how shy I was.”

“Oh… what changed?,” Deans tone changed entirely, genuine intrigue seeming to take the wheel. I couldn't help but laugh slightly, remembering my method to forcing myself out of my bubble.

“The only job I could get was in a bar. No one else wanted the hours and I desperately needed cash. I didn't really have a choice after that,” I paused, remembering how terrified I was on my first day and grinned slightly, grateful for the extra confidence I had now because I took that leap.

“Hey, what sort of crowd do you think I would've been in?”

I snorted, looking up into his expectant eyes - almost captivated by the glistening greens.

“What am I? A BuzzFeed quiz? I have no idea Dean, you're too much of a wildcard to predict. You probably would've fit in with anyone and everyone.”

“Even you?”

For reasons unbeknownst to even myself, my breath caught in my throat. The sudden soft sincerity of his voice contradicting his usual temperament, my heart starting to flutter in my chest. If the college version of myself had met Dean back then I just know I would have been enthralled at first glance.

“I don't think you would've noticed me. You would've been surrounded by every tall, thin blonde and brunette with perfect tits. Trust me, you would've been distracted,” I smiled an almost sad smile at the thought of him simply being on university grounds and having the time of his life - knowing it was something that he was never going to get the chance to experience in this upside down life of his. Of ours. He tapped his fingers on the table for a second, likely lost in some ludicrous thought I don't think I'd want to be privy to. I attempted another slurp of my milkshake when the paper straw gave out and flopped in half, the need to leave conversation and the diner suddenly looming over me.

“Come on, let's get to the library before it closes,” I stood and pulled my oversized sweater down so it covered my ass before reaching for my backpack. Just as my fingers touched the worn fabric of the strap it was torn away, my head snapping up to Dean who flung it over one shoulder with his signature grin on his face.

“Lead the way nerd.”

I couldn't help but beam at his playfulness. I hated the fact that he made it so easy to adore him. Hated that he completely overlooked how I was his total opposite in almost every way. How when we were talking, his eyes never left mine - how he was genuinely interested in what I was like in the past. And how, when I had his attention, he didn't even notice that the hot waitress had written her number on a napkin and left it next to him.

The trip to the library was about as eventful as it sounded. After checking out multiple books on cursed items, local lore and popular antiques from the seventies, we loaded ourselves back into the impala, made an all-important beer run before heading back to the motel.

The small table by the window was now totally smothered by a blanket of books, maps and empty beer bottles. Deans chin rested in his palms as he stared blankly at the screen in front of him, and I must've read the last sentence of the paragraph laid before me a dozen times without it even sinking in. The obnoxious dripping and humming of ancient appliances was starting to make me feel restless.

“It has to be the boots,” Dean groaned, draining the last of his beer.

“Either the boots or the disco ball. But my money is on boots as well,” I sighed, pushing the book away from me and standing slowly, gathering the quickly accumulating litter now scattered around us.

“I'm gonna make some coffee, my brain is fried over how fucking ridiculous this case is,” I ditched the trash in the bin before filling the coffee machine, listening to it whir to life whilst I headed to my bed. I could feel Deans gaze on my back as I rummaged around my bag in search of a specific item.

“What are you looking fo-” he'd started to ask the question but his voice died in his throat when I turned around. I quickly pushed my newly adorned glasses up the bridge of my nose, already feeling the oversized frame start to slip down as I tried not to make a big deal over them.

“What?” My tone was a fraction off aggressive when I realised he was staring. He seemed to snap out of his daze, quickly rubbing the back of his neck and turning back to the laptop screen. He cleared his throat

“I uh, I didn't know you wore glasses,” I could tell from the slight tremble in his voice that his mind was reeling.

“Is there a problem with that?”

“No! I mean, no, absolutely not. They look good. The glasses, I mean. The glasses look good. Not on their own, obviously. On your face. They look good on your face. You have a great fa-”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter, filling it to the brim with caffeinated goodness. I couldn't stop the grin spreading across my lips at Deans fumbling, almost finding the whole ordeal a little charming. I sat back down at the table and pulled the books back towards me, also grabbing my pen and tattered notebook.

“The guests at the club mentioned hearing footsteps - so it has to be the boots, right? A disco ball wouldn't make that sound…” my voice trailed off when I realised that, even though Dean was looking at me, he wasn't listening to a word I was saying.

“Earth to Dean?”

He flinched slightly at his name, but felt no shame delving in with a completely off-topic question.

“So how long have you worn glasses?”

“I’ve always worn them,” I slid back into my chair at the table opposite him, not sure whether to laugh at the shocked expression on his face or whether to be concerned about his observation skills.

“What?! No way, I would’ve noticed,” He opened another beer and took a sip before tracing the opening to the bottle over his bottom lip.

“ I only wear them for concentration work, and I have emergency contact lenses if I know I’m going to be around a lot of people as I don’t particularly like how they look.”

Dean made a small disagreeable expression before averting his gaze from mine back to the laptop, taking another swig of his beer. I placed my coffee mug down and settled back into the book I was reading before, and after a few moments I could feel my skin begin to prickle - as though I could feel a pair of eyes on me. I glanced up, my breath immediately catching in my throat. Deans eyes found mine, burning with an intensity that made my heart hammer in my chest. I didn’t want to look away, but under his gaze I felt like I’d been stripped bare, unable to hide my insecurities from an eye that seemed to scorch through to my very core.

“Dean-”

“(Y/n), you should really have more confidence in yourself; I think the glasses look cute as fuck. You should wear them more,” a fierce blush erupted across my face when he spoke, his assured tone leaving no room for disagreement. I tried desperately not to let on that his words held any sort of impact over my decisions so I looked down, away from his scrutiny and simply said:

“Maybe I will.”

He hummed in approval, finally looking elsewhere and I couldn’t stop myself from breathing a sigh of relief when the pressure of his stare was averted.

The evening dragged on and an hour and a half had passed since his loaded comment. I was on the third book we’d checked out of the library, now trying desperately to find the curse that would cause a pair of 1970s glam rock boots to dance for eternity and haunt anyone who tried to wear them. This case was absurd, and I could feel myself growing restless with the small amount of progress we’d made. I huffed out a sigh and leant back in my chair, the faux leather and rusted metal creaking under my weight. Pulling the hair bobble from around my wrist I scooped my hair into a bundle on the top of my head, securing it in place; the sensation of air on my neck seemed to clear some of the fog from my brain. The messy bun was comfortably enough that I could forget it was there, and I allowed myself a stretch before leaning back over the table, grasping my pen. As I began to read the next segment, I absently traced the end of the pen over my bottom lip, running it back and forth a few times before gently nibbling on the end. I heard the shuffling of Dean moving in his seat and a ragged clearing of his throat before the sound of vigorous laptop keys clicking ensued. Without looking up at him I continued reading, the pen still tapping my bottom lip, and when I neared the bottom of the paragraph, I slowly licked the pad of my index finger. My eyes never leaving the words, I turned the page swiftly with my dampened digit, the transition from one page to the next perfectly seamless. Another shuffle from the man opposite followed by a quiet groan filled the silence between us. Pen still between my teeth, I lifted only my eyes to glance at him and noted the dusting of pink across his cheeks and the furrow in his brow. Concluding that he’d had one too many beers I decided to ignore his persistent fidgeting, returning to my previous task on monotonous reading. Several sentences in and I’d almost forgotten Deans restlessness - that was until I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, deep in thought, that I earned myself a throaty groan and an exasperated sigh. I looked up just in time to watch him wipe a large hand down his face, momentarily masking his pained expression.

“Can you not do that? I can’t concentrate when you do that.”

“Do what?” Upon asking my question I absently took the pen between my teeth again, quickly glancing down at the book to place a mental bookmark.

“That.”

“What?”

“That. That thing you do with our mouth, and the pen, and your tongue and your finger. Can you please stop before it kills me.”

The heat beneath my skin was immediate at his admission, knowing my small, absent-minded actions were playing on his mind and making it hard for him to think straight. I instinctively crossed my legs, a fluttering in my lower belly instantly dragging my mind back to the deprived things I’d imagined Dean doing to me in the depths of night. The places I’d imagined his hands travelling, the areas his lips would touch and the sensations his tongue could create. These were deeply, deeply personal fantasies, and right now as Dean looked at me with a restrained hunger, I felt like I was wearing these fantasies for the world to see. For Dean to see.

“It doesn’t help that you’ve been sat over there like a sexy fucking librarian all evening, but every time you do that anything with that mouth - shit, sweetheart you’re driving me insane.” His voice was gravelly as he looked at me with desperate eyes across the table. The overly rational part of my brain had shut down completely, and now the part of my mind that had spent hours conjuring vivid scenes of Dean Winchester ravishing me in my entirety had taken the charge. I stood slowly, taking a moment to reason with myself - unsuccessfully of course - before sinking to my knees in front of my chair. I could see Deans strong thighs were spread wide beneath the table so I crawled forwards, across the cold tiles and placed myself between his legs. Resting my palms softly on his thighs I made him flinch at the unexpected contact. He immediately scooted his chair back, allowing a gap for me to poke my head through - his hand instantly acting as a barrier between the edge of the table and my skull. I got comfortable and allowed myself a moment to gaze up at him, to take in the strained furrow in his brow and the parting of his lips. I observed the way his chest rose and fell in apprehensive breaths, and the way his free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh - like he was so desperate yet so scared to touch me.

“(Y/n)-”

“Dean,” I spoke softly, slowly running my hands up his thighs - delicate palms against rough denim, “you’re a smart boy - you know I wouldn’t do something I didn’t want to do. So please, don’t say I don’t have to do this.”

Dean released a shaky breath the moment my fingers unclasped his jeans. I tugged them down slightly with his help, just enough so I could dip my hand into his boxers and wrap my fingers around his half-hard length. The moment my skin touched his, his head lolled back and his eyes fluttered closed with a breathy moan on his lips.

“Fuck…”

I gently pulled him from his confines, coming face to face with the cock I’d literally dreamt of again and again. I took the scene in, committing to memory the sharp outline of his jaw and the way his long lashes rested on his lightly-freckled cheeks. The way that, every time he breathed in, I could see his defined muscle tone through the thin fabric of his shirt; and with every small caress that my fingers made against his length, it made his fingers twitch and teeth clench. I licked my lips before leaning in and took his tip into my mouth, not giving him a chance to finish sucking in air through his teeth before I plunged his entire length down my throat.

“Oh FUCK.”

His hands flew to my hair, fingers gripping tight as they loosened strands from the messy bun, causing them to fall around my face. He’d lifted his head to look down at me, pupils blown as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He looked nothing more than enthralled. Infatuated. Entranced. I moved my head up and down, up and down, again and again to a steady rhythm, pressing my tongue to the underside of his now rock-hard cock to trace every vein and nerve-ending.

“Shit, (Y/n), I didn’t know you could suck cock, like, at all… how’re you s’fuckin’ good…” his voice was breathless as he continued to grip my hair, his head flopping to the side as pleasure started to overcome his senses. I released him with a small ‘pop’, wrapping my fingers around him and smearing the warm mixture of saliva and precum from tip to base.

“Despite everything I told you earlier, Dean, I’m not a virgin - and this certainly isn’t my first rodeo,” my voice came out more sultry than I’d expected and I could feel Dean tremble beneath my palms.

“Fuck, I wish I’d known that sooner,” I chewed on my bottom lip, quickly becoming addicted to the way he writhed at my touch. The way he moaned and gripped my hair tighter when I sucked him back into my mouth was like pure ecstasy, my insides heating up and throbbing with an ache of familiar arousal. Like a thirst that could only be satisfied by him. By tasting him, feeling him on my tongue and drinking in every sound that passed his plush parted lips. The sensation of my glasses slipping down my nose as I sped up my ministrations had me reaching to push them back up, but not before Dean beat me to it. With the rough pad of his thumb he pushed on the plastic bridge, his palm and fingers pressed to my flushed cheek in the most tender, almost heart wrenching caress. I thought my heart might stop when he tilted my face up to his; lustful eyes burning into mine with a vehemence I’d never encountered. I stopped in my tracks, all actions ceased as the spell he’d somehow put me under wouldn’t let me look away.

“If you keep going like that darlin’ this whole thing is gonna be over before you know it,” his voice was raspy, a rawness to it from the harsh breaths and ragged moans that had been pulled from his throat. He slowly pulled his cock from my spit-slick lips and grasped it loosely, giving himself a few lazy pumps whilst his other hand never left my face. He stared down at me, taking a few moments as though he was committing the sight of me, knelt between his knees with flushed cheeks and swollen lips to memory. Once it seemed that memory was locked away in the depths of his mind, he grasped me by the arm and pulled me effortlessly into his lap, his fingers almost bruising against my skin. Immediately I felt him, in his entirety, press against me with the heat and wetness seeping through my jeans and past my panties. This time when our eyes met, there was a mutual desperation; a need to consume each other and to feel every inch of his heated skin against mine. He pulled me frantically down to him and crashed his lips against mine.

Some people describe their first kiss with someone like butterflies in their stomach, or fireworks exploding all around them. That wasn’t at all what this was like. Kissing Dean Winchester was different - it was wild and untamed - and describing this experience in such a mundane way would be like adding water to a top-shelf whiskey. Kissing Dean Winchester was like driving the impala at one thirty with the roar of the engine drowning out the rest of the world. It was like trying to ride a wild mustang without a saddle, or daring to stand on the highest peak on Earth with nothing to tie you down. It was exhilarating in the most dangerous way imaginable - and I was now officially a thrill seeker.

The warm taste of the beer on his tongue and the masculine scent of old leather and cologne was pulling me under. Breathing no longer mattered as long as his mouth was on mine and his fingers were in my hair, now tugging the bobble out and throwing it to the floor. As my hair tumbled free he grabbed under my thighs and stood effortlessly, moving me from his lap to the edge of the table without his lips leaving mine. I winced slightly as the corners and several books and the laptop jabbed into my rear and I fumbled to move everything aside, failing when I refused to unlock our lips. Deans patience was non-existent and with one sweep of his strong arm everything tumbled to the floor - including the laptop. I threw the remaining books from underneath me down to join them, no longer caring for their wellbeing. Before I could pull Dean back in - to allow him to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do to me - he hastily pulled off my boots and tugged down my jeans, throwing every item to the growing pile of chaos beside us. I discarded my sweater and top, but before I let his fingers touch my bra I wanted nothing more than to return the favour.

“I guess you can forget about that whole ‘never seeing me shirtless’ thing, huh?” he smirked through the sexual fog, not waiting for a reply as his lips hungrily found mine again, his own top falling to the floor.

“Shut up Winchester. Now are you gonna fuck me or wh- OH FUCK-”

Two thick fingers crept under my panties and plunged into me with zero hesitation, curling up and stroking the sensual cushion deep within my core with skillful precision.

“Oh yeah? You want me to fuck you?” Even with my face now buried in the crook of his neck, I could hear the smirk in his voice, the tormenting tone going straight to my brain.

“Y-yes- fuck- please,” my knees twitched either side of him, squeezing at his hips with every push of his fingers. I gripped his shoulders tight, nails indenting his skin as I leant back to look at him better. Seeing the beads of sweat on his chest and brow alongside the raw, carnal desire in his eyes could have undone me there and then. He frowned in disapproval when I moved to remove my glasses, the fingers that were just inside me now wrapped forcefully around my wrist.

“What d’ya think you’re doing?” straight away I knew his growling question left no room for negotiation.

“I was just-”

“The glasses stay on.”

“To the end?”

“‘Til I say you can take them off.”

I did as I was told, moving my hand to grip the soft strands on the back of his neck, softly dragging my nails over his scalp and drawing a shiver from his spine and a groan from his lungs. He pulled me against him, crushing his lips against mine one more time. He swiftly pulled away and I leant back on my hands, both of us taking a moment to drink each other in - to bask in lascivious glory. I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and looked up at him through my lashes, the lenses of my glasses starting to fog around the edges. Another deep moan rumbled from his chest as his heated gaze stayed locked to mine.

“I can’t wait any longer now that you’ve looked at me like that. Fuck.”

With a large hand gripping the soft flesh of my thigh he pulled my underwear to one side and lined himself up, slowly sinking in. Blissful moans harmonised between us, the rawness of him stretching me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced and my quivering thighs wrapped around him, pushing him to the hilt. He secured his large hands on the soft flesh of my hips and held me in place as he slowly withdrew. I could feel him; feel every ridge and vein drag out and then in, out and in, over my most sensitive, intimate, area. The slick sounds of our intimacy began to echo around the room as he picked up speed, strong thighs working at a feverish pace. With every thrust he pushed against that one spot that made my legs jerk and eyes water, my arms almost giving out underneath me as the table rattled beneath my weight. With the ferocity of his pounding and the heightened sensitivity he’d curated between my legs only moments before, we both knew that neither of us would last long. The sounds of his ragged breaths and throaty moans alone had me clenching around him already, and I know my constricting muscles already had his hips stuttering as I sucked him in with every thrust.

“Fuck (Y/n)- You’re so fuckin’ tight-”

I chewed on my bottom lip as his desperate eyes met mine.

“Oh yeah? Well I feel like you’re cock is in my fucking ribcage- oh fuck-”

He slipped one hand between us, his large palm resting on my lower belly as his thumb drew fast circles around my clit. The immediate contact on my bundle of nerves had my whole body quivering, the knot of an impending climax already starting to twist tighter and tighter in the depths of my core. The way that Dean fucked me into the motel room table was something that I would be able to feel deep in my soul for the rest of my life - my body and entire nervous system having never been worked in such a feral way before. Dean dropped forward and crushed my body into his - one large strong arm wrapped around my trembling body and kept me pressed against him as his head dropped to the crook of my neck. Soft lips pressed hot kisses against my shoulder, teeth gently nibbling the soft flesh as the coil wound and wound, the wave of orgasmic bliss rising higher and higher as my mind emptied, leaving behind only one thought.

Dean.

He was all consuming - all I could see, taste and smell. All I could feel. Oh God could I feel him; driving me to the brink of pure bliss as he frantically sped up - desperate to seek his own undoing as well as my own. One… two… three more fervid thrusts and the peak he’d helped me ascend to shattered around me as I practically screamed his name, the white-hot euphoria scorching my insides as I clamped like a vice around him.

“Oh shit- (Y/n) I can’t- fuck-”

I grabbed the back of his head and pushed his mouth to mine as he came undone, spilling inside me as he worked through his own white-hot euphoria.

The kiss we shared evolved from hot and needy to soft and wanting - the sensation of hot cum running down the inside of my thigh and cooling against my skin being the only thing to pull me away. Dean continued to lean over me for a moment, looking down at me with an expression that told me he had so much he wanted to say. Instead, he looked down at his release now starting to pool on the floor beneath us, then to the books and laptop that had been thrown across the floor before turning back to face me with the most devilish grin on his face.

“You know that this mess is all your fault, right?”

I scoffed.

“My fault? How is it my fault?”

“Because, sweetheart…” he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and pushed lightly on the plastic bridge sitting on my nose.

“You put on on those fucking glasses.”

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urmum-lovesme · 4 months ago

Text

Bunny (P7)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: just when all you thought life couldn't get any worse for Bunny... well y'all were wrong. Also this hasn't got a lot of rafe in it ngl but I swear the next chapter will have A LOT of them together.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of drugs (smoking), throwing up, mentions of a strip club, mentions of harassment (implied assault), Bunny in distress :(, pretty angsty tbh, arguing

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15)

The soft glow of daylight pressed against the edges of the blinds, but Y/N's room remained cloaked in a sleepy dimness. The air was thick, a mix of stale perfume and forgotten laundry, clothes lay draped over the chair in the corner, an empty glass sat on her nightstand, and a few crumpled receipts peeked out from under her bed; she hadn’t had the energy to clean up. Her phone buzzed against the mattress beside her, the vibrations rattling slightly against the sheets before settling into silence. Then, a few seconds later, another buzz. And another. She already knew who it was before even glancing at the screen.

Bambi : You gon be in tonight????

Bambi : Been dead without u girl

Bambi : ??? You good?

Bambi : At least let me know you’re alive tf

Y/N let out a slow breath, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. The messages glowed on her screen, but she didn’t reach for them. Instead, she just lay there, her limbs heavy, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to answer- she just didn’t know how, she wasn't sure what to say.

Another buzz.

Bambi : If you ignore me again I’m showing up at your house.

Bambi : Ima ask tommy where you live i'm sure he’ll find out

Bambi : Don’t play with me.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it faded just as quickly as she let out a small sigh, finally grabbing the phone with sluggish fingers, her thumb hovering over the keyboard.

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bunny : I’m fine

Bunny : Just taking a little break omi

She stared at the message for a second before pressing send. It was enough to get Naomi off her back. For now, at least. She let her phone fall back onto the bed beside her, rubbing her tired eyes with the heel of her palm. A knock at the door made her heart jump. Her breath hitched, fingers curling slightly into the sheets as she pushed herself to sit up.

"Y/N?"

JJ's voice filtered through the wood, and her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, relieved it was his voice.

"Uh... can I come in?"

"Yeah."

She cleared her throat, sitting up a little. The door creaked open, and JJ stepped in, his eyes flickering around the messy room before landing on her. He hesitated, shifting awkwardly, and she could tell he wanted to say something about it, but he didn’t. "Uh..." He scratched at the back of his neck, flipping his cap backward before exhaling through his nose.

"Can I borrow some money? Jus' for gas..."

Y/N just nodded, moving robotically toward her nightstand. Dragging the draw open she pulled out a fifty and handed it to him without a word, forcing a small smile. He took it, stuffing it into his pocket, still lingering like he had more to say. He hesitated before he asked, voice softer now.

"You okay?"

"Yeah- yeah, I'm good"

She replied quickly. JJ nodded, rocking on his heels before glancing toward the door, "Me and the Pogues are doing a fire at the Chateau tonight... you wanna come?"

"Um... sure. I'll think about it."

Y/N hesitated, rubbing her fingers over the fabric of her bedsheets. A small grin tugged at his lips, and he gave her a nod.

"Well... catch ya later sis?"

"Catch you later J"

She exhaled, forcing another smile. He lingered for a second longer before slipping out, shutting the door behind him. She listened, waiting patiently before hearing the sound of the front door closing. Y/N let out a small groan, rubbing her face before finally pulling herself together up off the bed, moving toward her dresser to pull out her uniform from the top drawer, pushing it shut with her hip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time she'd stepped into the country club, she was already met with the sharp-eyed stare of her manager. He stood near the entrance, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently against the polished floor, "Maybank," he called the second he spotted her.

"You're twenty minutes late."

"I’m sorry, I— overslept."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, fighting the urge to roll her eyes as the scrawny man in front of her, Mark- was it? She wasn’t too sure he’d only joined last week but one thing she was sure of- he was a total dick. Mark scoffed, clearly unimpressed at her petty excuse as he looked her up and down.

"Well, don’t let it happen again. We’re busy today, you’re needed in the restaurant. Get to it."

"Yeah, of course"

She muttered under her breath, already walking past him. He was such a prick, thinking he was above everyone else just because he got to wear a different uniform. But at the end of the day, he was just as much of a pogue as the rest of them. The restaurant was a mess of voices and clinking cutlery, yummy mommies and uninterested fathers wrangling hyperactive kids, older couples sipping on overpriced wine. It was the busiest she’d seen it in a while. Y/N sighed, making her way near the bar where a few other servers were already scrambling around, piling margaritas and mojitos onto trays. She reached under the counter, pulling out her designated apron and securing it around her waist before grabbing her notepad and pen, just another day in paradise. As she tightened the knot on her apron, she felt a light touch on her arm and she turned to find Sofia standing beside her, brows pulled together in concern. The brunette girl greeted, her voice soft but laced with curiosity.

"Hey"

Y/N replied, offering a small smile and Sofia's frown deepened just slightly.

"Are you okay… you’re late today."

Y/N hummed, already knowing where this was going. She was never late. Not to work, not to anything really, she always made sure she was on time- well except for today. She assured her friend, forcing her voice to sound as normal as possible.

"Yeah Sof, I’m fine- I just overslept"

Sofia gave a slow nod, but she wasn’t convinced. Dropping her voice, she leaned in a little closer and she whispered.

"Is it your dad?"

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. A warmth spread in her chest, the kind that only came from knowing someone truly cared. Sofia was sweet always like that—no one else in her life really looked out for her the way she did. A soft smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she shook her head. "No," she murmured.

"He’s being… okay."

Sofia studied her for a second before giving a nod. "Alright," she said, clearly not wanting to push. Then, as if sensing the need for a subject change, Y/N asked, "So, what section am I in today?" Sofia winced, dragging out the word,

"Weeeelllll—"

Y/N groaned, "Nooo, Sof."

"I’m sorry, okay? I got the balconies, and because you were late, Bailey took the outside, so—"

"-so I got stuck with center"

Y/N finished, already dreading it. Sofia gave her a look of sympathy, but it didn’t help much. The center section was the worst. It was where all the entitled families sat- the ones with spoiled kids who flung food without a care in the world, and mothers and fathers too glued to their phones or their own conversations to notice. Y/N groaned, slumping against the counter.

"I swear you did this on purpose."

Sofia snorted, nudging the girl with her shoulder, "Yeah, totally. I plotted this entire thing just to ruin your morning."

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips. She let out one last exaggerated grunt before pushing off the counter, "Fine. But if I get mashed potatoes in my hair, you're cleaning it out for me."

"I guess it's the least I could do..." Sofia laughed.

After that she didn't see the girl once because the lunch rush was in full swing, and Y/N seemed to be drowning in it. The noise of the restaurant buzzed in her ears- cutlery clinking, bratty kids shrieking about not getting dessert, chairs scraping, and the constant hum of voices layering over each other. She barely had a second to breathe between tables, and it didn’t help that she had the worst kind of customers. She was in the middle of jotting down an order when a voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Hello? Are you even listening?”

Y/N blinked, looking up at the middle-aged woman with an unimpressed frown. She asked, forcing her best polite voice.

“Sorry, ma’am. What was that?”

The woman scoffed shaking her head, “Unbelievable. I said no onions on my salad- are you writing this down?”

“Of course, no onions.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, scribbling it onto the pad. She could feel the heat rising in her face, but she kept moving. There was no time to dwell- she had to drop off one table’s drinks, check on another’s meal, and now, grab a fresh batch of plates from the kitchen. She pushed through the kitchen doors and made a beeline for the counter, spotting the steaming plates waiting under the heat lamps. She reached out, grabbing one—

“No! Wait that's h—”

Yet Elijah’s warning came too late. The moment her fingers curled around the plate, a searing pain shot through her palm. She let out a sharp, instinctive whine, immediately jerking her hand back and waving it in the air.

“Shit!”

Elijah’s eyes widened, “Fuck, Y/N, I forgot that one just came out.”

“It’s fine. It’s okay. I should’ve checked.”

She exhaled through her teeth, shaking out her fingers and blowing on her palm. Elijah still looked guilty, but she didn't have time to listen to his apologies, so she quickly grabbed a rag to pick up the plates properly, her hand still stinging as she placed them down onto a tray and balanced it on her hand, pushing back through the doors. However, the second she stepped out, her manager was waiting, arms crossed.

“Maybank, pick up the pace. You’re falling behind.”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek so hard she almost tasted blood. She wanted to snap, to tell him that maybe if they weren’t understaffed and she wasn’t stuck serving every entitled asshole in this place, she wouldn’t be behind. But she swallowed it down, nodding stiffly instead. She walked past him, her burned hand still throbbing, head pounding, and for the first time all day, she wasn’t sure if she’d make it through her shift without completely losing it.

After leaving the, somewhat happy, family with their meals, she glanced around at her tables- which all seemed relatively contect. So with that sacred moment of peace she slipped behind the bar, reaching for a glass to pour herself some water, when a voice stopped her. “Maybank.” She turned to see Camilla, the head of house, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. Her expression was neutral, but there was a knowing glint in her eye.

“Just sat two guys in your section. They look like they tip well...”

Camilla said with a slight smirk. Y/N exhaled, setting the empty glass down. Guess I’ll get my water later she thought to herself as she nodded, smoothing her apron as she made her way toward the new table. As she approached, she took them in- two men, mid-forties, dressed in tailored suits with loosened ties. They had that rich look about them, one of them had slicked-back hair, his Rolex glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The other had a sharp jawline and expensive prada sunglasses perched atop his head. Y/N pulled out her pad, forcing a polite smile.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your server today—”

She glanced up, and the moment her eyes landed on the man with the sunglasses, her stomach dropped. His smirk was slow, spreading across his face like he was enjoying a private joke. His gaze dragged over her, lingering just a little too long. Y/N felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Well, well,” he murmured under his breath.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

She pretended not to hear, gripping her pen a little tighter as she asked, keeping her voice even.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?”

The man with the sunglasses let out a soft chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Whiskey on the rocks” he said lazily. His friend ordered a beer, and Y/N quickly scribbled it down, ready to get away from the table. But just as she turned, the guy hummed.

“You must really like serving people, huh?”

Her stomach twisted. She knew exactly what he was implying. She didn’t let herself pause, didn’t let him see her react. Instead, she simply nodded, keeping her face blank as her jaw ticked.

“That’s my job, sir”

She said albeit sarcastically before walking away. Yet even as she put distance between them, she could still feel his eyes on her and suddenly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed a shower. Y/N quickly typed the orders into the system, her fingers moving almost mechanically, but her mind was still focused on the two men at table 5. The words from the guy in sunglasses were still echoing in her mind, and it was hard to shake the feeling of discomfort creeping up her spine. As she was trying to center herself, she saw Sofia passing by with an empty tray in hand, Y/N practically reached out to grab her arm, making Sofia stop in her tracks.

“Hey, uh... can I ask you a favor?”

Y/N’s voice was low, almost pleading, and Sofia immediately tilted her head, looking at her with concern. “What’s up?” Sofia asked, her eyes scanning Y/N’s face, sensing the tension. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over to table 5, where the two men were now deep in conversation.

“I know I don’t usually ask, but- could you just take over table 5 for me?”

She asked, her words a little rushed trying to keep her voice as steady as she could, trying to keep the nervousness from showing. Sofia’s eyes shifted over to the table, quickly taking in the two guys who were talking and she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, uh... one of them was just being a creep, and I don’t want to serve them anymore. They’re just freaking me out, you know?” She tried to make it sound casual, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. Sofia nodded without missing a beat, her face hardening with understanding.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

Y/N let out a small sigh of relief as Sofia gave her a reassuring smile. She slipped behind the bar, and reached for a glass of water, the coolness of it a welcome distraction from the heat of the day. But as her fingers brushed the glass, her mind wandered- unsurprisingly, to the two men she just served. She’d kept her two lives separate for so long and for months, she had succeeded. But now… now she could feel them bleeding into each other. It should’ve been obvious. She should’ve known that eventually, something would snap. But Y/N had buried her head in the sand, living like this dual existence was sustainable and now it was all crashing together. Her hand tightened around the glass, maybe she should’ve expected it sooner, maybe this was just karma catching up with her. But what did she do now? With a sharp exhale, Y/N jerked her head away from the counter, pulling herself back to reality. The sound of the kitchen buzzed back to life, and she set her glass of water down with a quiet sigh, abandoning the brief moment of peace. The kitchen doors swung open as she grabbed a tray of dishes,the smell of garlic and tomatoes hit her first- rich, hearty, the kind of smell that reminded her of family dinners at Sofia's house. But then, the overpowering scent of fish and anchovies mingled with it, and Y/N felt her stomach lurch in response.

Her body instinctively recoiled, but she continued to walk with the tray, forcing herself to ignore the growing nausea that started to pool in her chest. As she placed the plates down in front of her table, the scents lingered too long, curling around her senses and twisting like a knot in her gut. She barely heard the customers thank her as she turned quickly on her heel. Her stomach churned, the tight feeling in her chest growing. It wasn’t like this normally, she had always been able to deal with the smells, even if they weren’t her favorite, but today felt different.

Without another thought, she bolted for the back, pushing past the kitchen staff with a quick “excuse me” and “sorry” she didn’t really register. The bathroom was just a few steps away, and she barely made it to the toilet before her body reacted to the smells. Her knees buckled as she knelt, gripping the sides of the porcelain toilet, dry heaving into the bowl. Nothing came up at first, just the acidic taste of bile burning the back of her throat. It wasn’t long before the contents of her stomach caught up with her, and she threw up, the sensation heavy in her chest. She breathed through it, barely able to steady herself as her body trembled. She stayed there for a few minutes, resting her forehead against the cold edge of the toilet, willing the waves of nausea to pass.

Finally, she stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and rinsing her face under the cool tap. Her reflection in the mirror didn’t look like her- not entirely. Her hair was disheveled, eyes a little more tired than usual. But she took a deep breath, splashing some more water on her face as she took a deep breath, making her way back into the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The soft buzz of the overhead lights hummed in the quiet gas station shop, the air thick with the scent of cheap coffee. Y/N walked down the narrow aisle, her eyes scanning the shelves in a daze, she needed to pick up some bread, eggs, and milk—simple things. Her hand brushed against the shelf, the cold bottles of milk sending a faint chill up her arm. She placed the bottle into her basket and moved through the next aisle but then, her gaze caught something- something tucked away on the edge of the shelf in a blue and white box. The name on it stared up at her and she couldn’t ignore it. She stood still for a moment, her fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, as if the weight of the box was too much for her to attempt to lift. She picked it up slowly, feeling the smooth cardboard beneath her fingers. Her thumb ran over the price tag, and she let out a small, exasperated huff as she read it: $13. Jesus, that was steep for something so small.

She stared at it for another moment, almost as if waiting for the price to drop but it didn’t and the shop remained empty, just the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft shuffle of her shoes against the linoleum floor. With a quick glance around the shop, ensuring no one was there to see, she shoved the box into her basket.

She needed it.

Even if it didn’t make sense, even if it was a stupid purchase, she needed to feel some semblance of control. The cashier stood behind the counter, chewing gum slowly, her eyes uninterested as she scanned each item with a mechanical precision. The click of the scanner was the only sound in the otherwise silent shop. Y/N could feel her gaze on her, a heavy, almost judgmental stare as the woman worked through the items. The cashier's eyes flicked up as she reached the box. She scanned it, then raised her eyebrows slightly, her gaze flicking from the box to Y/N, as if silently questioning her. She didn’t say anything though, just let the moment hang in the air, her gum popping softly between her teeth. Y/N bit the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she never seemed to break, and cleared her throat.

“Can I get a bag?”

Her voice came out quieter than she expected, the cashier nodded, not bothering to make a show of it, and began placing the items in the bag leisurely. The sound of the plastic crinkling felt like an eternity to Y/N, each second stretching into the next. It was torturous- like the woman was dragging it out on purpose. Finally, the woman looked up at her and said flatly,

“$20.50.”

Y/N’s hand immediately went to her pocket, fingers fumbling slightly as she pulled out the cash. She placed it on the counter without a word, almost too quickly, and the cashier took the money, handed her back the change, and Y/N took it with a muttered "thanks," her voice barely audible. She grabbed the bag, turning quickly to head for the exit, relief bubbling up at the thought of being out of there.

But as her hand reached the door, she paused.

Her gaze flicked to the small W/C sign on the wall, the letters simple and stark, and for some reason, her feet seemed to move of their own accord. Without thinking, Y/N walked towards the restroom doors and slipped through them.

She now found herself sat on the toilet, her elbow resting on her knees, her head leaning into the palm of her hand. Her other hand absently fiddled with the plastic turning it over, looking at it every few seconds waiting for some sort of sign, some hint of change. But nothing. Nothing had changed. It was just plastic- empty, meaningless plastic. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion in her body. It had been a long day, and her mind was tired, her thoughts heavy and slow. She closed her eyes for just a moment, just to breathe, to try and center herself, to stop feeling so damn overwhelmed. She let out a soft sigh, as if to release all the tension she had been carrying. When she opened her eyes again, the restroom’s faint fluorescent light made everything look almost surreal. She blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting.

But when her gaze dropped, something froze in her chest.

She was gripping the plastic now, harder than before. Her knuckles were pale from the pressure, but it didn’t matter. The small screen was glaring up at her and in that harsh, glaring light, the one thing she hadn’t wanted to see was right there. Her throat was tightening, and for a moment, it felt like the room was closing in on her. She stared at it, her mind running in circles, her breath shallow.

She hadn’t expected this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N slammed the door behind her with more force than she intended- its harsh thud reverberating through the quiet space. She rushed into her room, her heart pounding in her chest, she didn’t even notice the noise; her mind was elsewhere, racing. Panicked. The weight of the little plastic screen clung to her like a heavy, suffocating blanket. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. Her hands were a little shaky as she dropped to her knees beside her bed, reaching under it with frantic urgency. She pulled out the tattered brown shoe box that she had kept hidden, the one filled with money she’d saved. Her fingers fumbled with the box’s worn edges before opening it and pulling out the small pile of cash. She began counting quickly,

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

Her stomach twisted at the sight of it. Two hundred and fifty dollars. That was it? Barely enough to make it through the month—food, bills, gas. She knew she hadn’t been at the club for almost three weeks but she never really noticed how much of a difference it made- without it her payout at the country club, well it was practically nothing. She cursed under her breath, shoving the cash back into the box. How was she supposed to make it work? This wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t even close.

A sharp knock to her bedroom door pulled her out of the downward spiral she found herself tumbling through. “What?” she snapped irritably, blinking away the haze of frustration. She shoved the box back under the bed as the door opened. JJ walked in, a little lighter than usual. He had a joint behind his ear and a grin plastered across his face.

“You ready to get lit sis?”

Y/N paused, still kneeling on the floor, her hands clenched into fists. “What?” she asked, her tone sharp and confused. JJ spoke out, walking deeper into her room like it was his own,

“C’mon, you ready to go to the fire?”

Her mind flicked back to that morning when he had asked her if she wanted to go to the Chateau with him and the Pogues to spend the night, maybe smoke some weed, have a few beers. It felt like a lifetime ago now that they’d discussed it, and she couldn’t shake the weight in her chest. She pushed some hair out of her face, shaking her head slowly as she pushed herself off the floor.

“Look JJ... I don’t know if I can do that tonight.”

JJ, oblivious to the undercurrent of panic in her voice, walked past her and pulled open the doors of her closet already rifling through her closet causing her brows to pull down into a frown. He spoke nonchalantly, grabbing a pair of shorts and a tank top looking at them before shrugging and tossing them onto the bed close to where she stood.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah- you just need to loosen up Y/N”

“I really don’t want to JJ”

She said, her voice tight as she sat on the edge of the bed, her leg bouncing up and down nervously, but her brother had already made his way towards where she was , pulling at her shoulders shaking her lightly, trying to convince her.

“Just loosen up, Y/N. You’ll come to the chate-”

“-I’ve got bigger fucking problems than spending a shitty night getting high by some fire!”

She burst out, her chest tightening with the outburst. Something inside her snapped, and she stood up abruptly, pushing his hands off her. JJ stepped back, surprised by the force of her movement. The words hung heavy in the room and she immediately regretted saying them, feeling the lump in her throat, the guilt crawling up her neck. JJ stared at her, his expression frozen for a moment. He hadn’t expected that- neither did she. He stood still for a beat, and then, shaking his head, he mumbled,

“Should’ve guessed you didn’t want to spend time with your brother and his shitty friends, right?”

Y/N’s face softened for a moment, but the words stung, and she felt that familiar ache in her chest. She started, her voice breaking just slightly,

“JJ—”

He didn’t wait though, instead he turned on his heel, walking toward the door, his lips pursed in frustration. Before she could say anything else, he slammed the door behind him. Y/N stood there, alone, heart pounding in her ears. She tried to sit there on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes after he heard the front door slam shut to try and calm herself, but her mind was running too fast. The words she’d snapped at JJ kept echoing in her head, the way he’d walked out, the hurt in his voice when he made that comment about not wanting to spend time with him. She knew it wasn’t true. She did want to spend time with him more than anything, but everything was just... overwhelming.

Her gaze flickered over to the duffle bag sticking out from the back of her closet. The zipper was slightly open, revealing the pink sparkle of the clothes inside. She hadn’t planned to go back there tonight, but the weight of the situation was too heavy- she needed the money now. She couldn’t just let it all sit on her shoulders while she waited for something to change. Y/N sighed, dragging herself off the bed with more effort than she cared to admit.

She had no choice but to make it work.

It always worked, somehow.

The duffle bag felt heavier than it should as she pulled it out from the closet, her fingers brushing the rough fabric. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to hold it in her hands, but now, with everything else piling on top of her, she couldn’t ignore the fact that it might be her only option. She unzipped the bag slowly, pulling out the set she hadn’t touched in weeks. She stared at the two piece, at their tight fit, the heels in the bag she knew would be a bitch to walk in but would make the money flow. There was a strange sense of finality in the way she laid everything out on her bed.

Y/N quickly pulled her polo top over her head, hand reaching to her back to unclasp the bra she was wearing; trying not to think too much about the decision she was making. She pulled on the panties, feeling the familiar fabric settle against her skin, dragging on the pair of shorts and t-shirt JJ had thrown out her closet over the set. As she grabbed the duffle bag again, her stomach twisted in knots, but she pushed the feeling down. She shoved everything into the bag, and as she walked out of her room, heading for the door, her hand lingered on the handle of the front door for a second longer than it should have.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car hummed under her, tires rolling over the familiar streets, but her mind was a million miles away. She wasn’t driving fast; in fact, she was barely even looking at the road, her gaze flickering from the rearview mirror to the side window. The night stretched on like a thick fog in front of her, and all she could do was try to sort through the thoughts fighting for space in her head. She should have been heading straight to the club, her destination set, the routine of it all keeping her grounded. But she couldn’t shake the nagging pull, the thought she’d been running from for so long.

The thought of what he had said to her.

She came to a slow stop at the red light, her eyes catching the turn-off for Figure 8. She bit her lip, her mind racing. She could do it- this one night would pay for it, for all the expenses. She wouldn't need to slave away for hours at the club every night for the next two weeks. But the longer she thought about it, she didn't think she could do it, the thought being clouded in guilt and in hesitation. The light flickered green, and Y/N’s foot hovered for a second.

Her car made a slow right turn, the headlights illuminating the driveway of the house she’d never imagined stepping foot in. The driveway was empty except for the black Range Rover, parked against the stillness of the night. The lights were off inside, except for the soft glow coming from a window upstairs. Y/N’s heart was thumping, the tension coiling in her chest.

She shouldn’t be here.

She felt herself fidgeting with the steering wheel, her nails already bitten down to the skin, she was out of the car before she even had the chance to fully think the idea through. The driveway stretched in front of her, empty and lonely and her footsteps echoed in the quiet as she walked up to the door, her thoughts scattered and panicked. She raised her hand, and knocked.

Once.

Twice.

The sound was sharp against the night, the quiet too loud in her ears. She crossed her arms, staring at the door, waiting, her breath shallow as the seconds stretched on. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself now. The door creaked open, just a little, enough to see him, his silhouette framed in the darkness

Rafe stood in the doorway, a surprised expression crossing his face as his eyes slowly raked over her. His lips lifted into a smirk as his gaze lingered, reading her.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you anytime soon.”

His gaze flickered over her, narrowing slightly, processing the change. The girl who had slapped him just weeks ago, who had shot down his offer without a second thought, was standing here now, looking... different.

Vulnerable, maybe?

Her eyes never left his, the tension between them palpable in the night air. She stood there for a second, her lips pressed tight, and then, finally, she spoke.

“Does your offer still stand?”

She asked, her voice steady but her posture tense, her arms crossing over her chest, as if bracing herself for whatever would come next. Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback.

“What?”

“You said you wanted me to dance for you,” she clarified, her eyes now unwavering, “privately.”

Rafe blinked, his confusion momentarily replacing the usual smugness in his expression. He stared at her, trying to piece this together. The last time they’d spoken, she turned down the idea without a moment of hesitation and prior to that she’d slapped him across the face for suggesting something like this, practically hurling insults at him. And now, here she was, standing in front of him, asking for the very thing she had so firmly rejected. He scratched his bicep slightly as he moved to cross his arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe, his eyes flicking over her again, narrowing as he tried to make sense of her sudden shift in demeanor.

“Why now?”

He asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. Y/N's jaw tightened- was he really expecting her to explain herself? To give him a reason? She just needed this—needed him to say yes, because she didn’t have time to waste. “That’s not important,” she replied, her voice a little firmer, a little colder now.

“Does the offer still stand or not?”

Rafe’s eyes stayed locked on her, the gears turning in his head as he considered her. He couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her. The attraction had always been there, but it had grown stronger in the past few months. Seeing her again, after all this time apart, made something inside him ignite.

He wanted her- and it wasn’t just about the power and control anymore.

There was something more now.

He ran a hand across his jaw, his gaze flicking over her, up and down, assessing her in a way he hadn’t before. The silence stretched, his fingers still brushing over his stubbled jaw as he thought it through. But the thought of having her all to himself, the idea of pushing this thing between them to the next level, the idea of making her his- really his- he couldn’t shake it. Finally, he dropped his hand and gave her a look that told her what she needed to know before he even said it.

“It still stands.”

Y/N’s lips parted, her eyes flickering in relief. She nodded once, a small, sharp motion, “So, can I come in?”

Rafe stepped back, the door creaking as he swung it wider to allow her through. His hand lingered on the doorframe, just for a moment, before he released it. Y/N hesitated. She was standing there, staring at the threshold, as if her feet had rooted to the floor. She had no idea what she was walking into- no idea what would happen when she crossed that line but she needed to.

She had to.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, the door shutting behind them with a soft click.

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goyardgoyangi · 4 months ago

Text

𐙚 sports car pt. 2 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⌗ pairings: sukuna x reader

⌗ summary: sukuna’s used to being in control— on the streets, in the sheets, and everywhere in between. but then you show up, watching him speed through the finish line like it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen (because, honestly, it is), and before he can smirk in your direction, you beat him to it. a simple bite turns into a steamy mess in the backseat of his car at a drive-in. sukuna wants it to be a one-night thing. but then why can’t he stop thinking about you?

⌗ word count: 1k

♥ pt. 3 ♥ masterlist ♥

Sukuna watches you disappear into your apartment building, his hands still resting loosely on the steering wheel. He stays parked at the curb longer than he should, staring up at the glowing windows.

He doesn’t know which one is yours— only that you’re somewhere inside. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

He should leave. Go home, smoke a cigarette, and forget about you like he’s done with everyone else. But he can’t. You’re the first person who’s made him want to know more— your routines, the little things no one else notices.

It’s dangerous, how fast you’re getting under his skin.

The next few days are torture.

Sukuna finds himself checking his phone more than he ever has in his life, half-expecting a text that never comes. Not that you even exchanged numbers. He grits his teeth every time the thought hits him— you left him. No promises, no clinging, no second look. Like he was just some guy you fucked and forgot.

It gnaws at him.

At first, he tells himself it’s just ego. He’s not used to being brushed off. But deep down, he knows it’s more than that. He thinks about you at the worst times— when he’s half-under the hood of a car at the shop, grease staining his fingers; when he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling at 2 am.; when he’s stuck at a red light and some girl crosses the street in front of him— but none of them ever look like you.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know how to find you again without crossing a line. He only knows your building, nothing more — no room number, no name. It’s pathetic, he thinks, the way his chest aches. And maybe it is.

But all he can do is wait— wait for the universe to give him another chance.

But sukuna’s been waiting, hoping, telling himself he’d be fine if he never saw you again. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to know your last name, or what your favorite color is, or anything at all. He’s done with it. He’s too busy. He doesn’t need this.

That’s what he tells himself as he walks into the campus library, eyes scanning the shelves for the textbook for his mechanical engineering class that he’s supposed to pick up, but in all honesty, his mind is elsewhere, namely, with you.

His head’s pounding, his patience worn thin. Days of thinking about you (of missing you) had drained him more than he wanted to admit. He told himself he’d move on. Told himself it was just sex, just a quick fuck, just nothing.

But every time he closed his eyes, it was you. Your laugh. Your scent. The way you trusted him enough to fall asleep in his car like he was something safe.

It fucking haunted him.

Sukuna grits his teeth as he scans the aisles. He’d been stupid to think he’d ever see you again. Maybe it was better this way, better to leave it as one perfect, gut-wrenching memory. He had better things to do than—

And then he sees you.

His breath catches.

His stomach flips.

You’re real. You’re right there.

You don’t see him yet, your attention on your laptop as you type, working on what he assumes to be a paper. His hands suddenly feel clammy, his heart racing for no reason at all.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Sukuna blinks rapidly, trying to push the weird feeling down. He takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. That his mind has finally broken under the weight of wanting you.

But no— there you are, sitting at a table near the back, half-hidden behind a stack of books. Your hair catching the light. The light of your laptop illuminating your face.

For a second, he just stares, feeling something loosen, then snap tight, inside his chest.

He knows he should play it cool. Walk away. Pretend he didn’t see you.

But he’s already moving before his brain catches up, textbook forgotten in his hand, making a beeline straight for you.

He forces himself to keep walking up to the table you sit at, trying to act normal, rationalizing that it’s too late to back out now. Act normal. He doesn’t know how to do that anymore.

You glance up as he nears, blinking in slow recognition. A small smile tugs at your lips, not overly excited, not distant either, and somehow, that quiet little smile knocks the air clean out of him.

It’s as if time slows.

For a second, neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. Sukuna feels like an idiot. He didn’t plan this far ahead.

"Hey," he says, voice low and rough. His usual cocky mask slips back into place out of habit. "Studying?”

You glance down at your table, then back at him with a soft laugh. "Kind of obvious, huh?"

He smirks, the cocky tilt of his mouth automatic. "You any good at it?"

Your laugh is real this time, light and musical, and it lodges somewhere in his ribs.

His mouth quirks, just a little. God, even your laugh is cute. He shifts the textbook in his arms, fighting the urge to scratch the itch on his cheek.

"Mind if I join you?"

The words come out more casual than he feels. Inside, his heart's a wreck, tight and fast, like he’s sixteen and asking someone out for the first time.

You hesitate, glancing at the empty chair across from you.

Then you smile again, a little softer this time. "Sure."

And there it is— that stupid smile of yours, the one that makes his heart fucking ache. It’s simple, nothing special, but to him, it feels like the most beautiful thing in the world.

He’s completely fucked.

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mrsbarnesblog · 6 months ago

Text

˖˚⊹ unspoken

➤ summary: after a heated argument, Rafe is terrified he’s pushed you too far and that might actually lose you

➤ w/c: 1.6k

➤ warnings: allusions to sex, hurt/comfort, insecurities, fear of loss

masterlist

The room was only lightened by the bedside lamp, casting long shadows over the bed where you and Rafe lay tangled in the sheets. The air was thick with the weight of the situation. Your small argument, just a simple misunderstanding, somehow quickly took the wrong turn, and you both said things that you didn’t mean to.

You were fighting, pouring all the pent-up energy and exhaustion from work, and Rafe’s stubbornness didn’t exactly make it easier. It felt raw and vulnerable, and then suddenly it all led to you stumbling into your bedroom and ripping your clothes off each other.

Your breathing was still heavy, and your body was still feeling hot and tingly from what had happened just a few minutes ago.

Rafe's chest rose and fell beneath the sheets, his arm thrown across his forehead as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't said a word since the argument in the kitchen, which was so unusual of him. His kisses and the way he touched your body weren’t in his typical longing and teasing way; they were angry, almost desperate. Now, there was a silence hanging between you, thick and almost suffocating.

And you knew that partly it was your fault. Blinded by the rage and hurt, you said something that you would’ve never said in the right mind. Something that you should’ve never used against Rafe, knowing his sensitiveness about this topic. But the words about you better get out of his life and you not even knowing why you were still there left your mouth before you could actually process it.

You instantly regretted it. Seeing the sudden change in his face and eyes and the way his posture became more tense, another sharp reply died on his tongue. You wanted to say something else, soften the situation, but it was too late when Rafe dealt with the problem the only way he knew—he kissed you with all he had, not allowing you to say anything else. Pulling you flush against his body, he gripped the back of your neck until you answered him with the same energy.

Your words felt like a bucket of cold water, and he panicked, knowing that it might be it. Rafe knew that sex was not a good way to solve a problem, but it was the only thing he thought he was genuinely good at. He wanted to please you, to beg you to stay, so he led you to your bedroom, even if he felt empty inside, even he couldn’t say anything out loud because of the lump in his throat.

Now, as the argument faded away, when it all seemed too stupid to even argue about, it was weirdly uncomfortable. Rafe’s mind was spiraling. He was too scared to even look at you, too afraid that the simple move or word might push you to get up and actually leave.

You slowly turned onto your side, as if afraid to make noise in the dead silence of your bedroom, your heart pounding with guilt and worry, unsure of where to even begin. You could feel the emotional distance between you two, and it stung. Rafe wasn’t usually the type to get vulnerable or emotional, yet you knew that he took everything too close to his heart. This time, something had shifted in him, and it left you unsettled because you were the reason. You could feel his presence next to you, but it was different.

Slowly, you reached out and laid your hand on his chest. He flinched, but then, after a moment, his hand covered yours, squeezing gently and letting out a shaky breath. He didn’t say anything, but the tension between you was palpable.

"I didn't mean it." You whispered, your voice thick with regret. "I didn’t mean to make you think that was the end. I just… I was angry, and I didn’t know how to say what I really felt. But I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to leave you." You stopped for a second, noticing the way he clenched his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

The words seemed to hang in the air for a beat before Rafe finally moved, turning to face you. His eyes were raw and tired, and there was a certain despair in them that made your heart ache. He reached up slowly, his hand trembling as he gently traced your cheek with his fingertips, as if trying to reassure himself that you were still here and that you weren’t slipping away from him.

“I thought… I thought you were done with me.” He murmured, his voice thick with emotions. “I thought I’d messed up too much, that I’d pushed you too far. And I couldn’t take it, I couldn't imagine not having you in my life.”

You felt his breath hitch as his thumb grazed the corner of your mouth, his gaze softening with a mix of relief and still-present fear.

“Oh, Ray…” You said gently, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve never pushed me too far. We fight, we argue, but I don’t want to lose you. I love you. I love you too much to just walk away.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he blinked them away quickly, but it was too late—you saw them, the rawness in them that he was trying so hard to hide.

His chest tightened, and he exhaled shakily, a sob escaping him before he could stop it. He pulled your still naked body close, burying his face in your neck, his hands gripping you like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out, sneaking one hand around your waist to find some comfort in the feeling of your skin on his. “For being so difficult and stubborn. I don’t know how to be better. I don’t know how to make you understand how much you mean to me.”

You held him tighter, your hand running through his hair as you soothed him. “You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe. You just have to be you. And that’s enough for me. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long while, you lay there, wrapped in each other's arms. The anger had faded, replaced with something deeper, another level of trust and vulnerability that were new for your relationship. With how hard it was for Rafe to open up and express himself, it was a big step, and you wanted to do everything in your power to make him comfortable.

Rafe still wasn’t entirely sure of himself, but you could feel him beginning to trust in your words as his body relaxed against yours, his breath slowing. His hand never left your face, his thumb still tracing the curve of your cheek like he was trying to memorize every detail of you.

“I was so scared.” Rafe murmured, his voice trembling as he buried his face in the curve of your neck. “I thought I’d lost you... and you’re my entire word.”

You felt his breath warm against your skin, and your heart ached at the tremble in his voice. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers brushing the stray hair from his forehead. “You’re not going to lose me, Rafe.” You said softly, your voice carrying all the reassurance you could muster. “Not tonight, not ever. I promise.”

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line like he was trying to hold something back. But then he shook his head, his blue eyes locked on yours, glassy with unshed tears. “You’re the only thing that makes sense in my life. I don’t know what I’d do if you—”

You didn’t let him finish. Leaning in, you kissed him deeply, your lips catching his in a way that was tender but still confident enough to show that what you said was true. His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his grip firm like he needed this connection to anchor himself. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as the weight of the moment settled around you.

“You’re stuck with me, Rafe Cameron. And don’t think that you can get rid of me this easily, even if you’re annoying me sometimes.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, shaky and uncertain, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Good.” He said, his voice barely audible. “Because I don’t think I could handle it any other way.”

You smiled, your hand smoothing over his back in slow, comforting strokes as his body began to relax against yours. He exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, the tension that had gripped him loosening with every beat of your heart.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore; it was warm and allowed you to finally fully enjoy the presence of each other. Rafe pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there as if savoring the moment. And as the hours stretched on, the night wrapped around you like a cocoon, and you both were too lost in each other to care about the outer world.

For the rest of the night, words became unnecessary. Instead, there were soft kisses, quiet touches, and the unspoken promise that no matter what, everything is going to be okay. Wrapped in his arms, you felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was peace.

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hoshifighting · 8 months ago

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WARNINGS: smut, penetrative sex, nasty messy sex so—mentions of body fluids (cum), hair pulling, cock riding, really horny reader, hoshi rolling his hips like a slut, it doesnt have an order, it's just a long drabble of how hoshi fucks.

hoshi's hip (sex) game is the topic of the night, and this a post 100% dedicated to it (and how he fucks basically). i swear, there's not a SINGLE fic of mine that doesnt mention hoshi circling his hips or going balls sack deep. DUH. he’s a dancer—body carved by god or whoever tf is up there crafting perfect models for shit like this.

but looks like all of his dancer journey have gone straight into how he fucks. and yeah, you should’ve said something earlier, should’ve prepared your damn soul for the hip game this man is packing. but nah, you were dumb. reckless. thought it’d just be another roll in the sheets.

it was not.

he’s got you laid out like a fucking masterpiece, your legs trembling before he’s even inside. his hands r steady as hell, holding your hips like they’re choreography. “you good?” he asks trying to sound cute, heartly being careful but with that stupidly hot, cocky grin curling his lips, like he already knows the answer. he does.

and when he slides in, it's game over. it’s not just the stretch (which is already enough to have your back arching like you’re tryna touch the ceiling). it’s the way he moves. hoshi doesn’t thrust. he rolls his hips, and i JUST KNOW! that it goes straight to the sweeet spot. he knows will ruin you. you’re done. wiped out.

“you feel that?” smug motherfucker. and yeah, you do. his tip’s got your g'spot on lockdown, like he mapped that shit out beforehand. every roll has his glutes flexing, you didn’t think you’d ever appreciated someone’s ass mid-fuck until hoshi, the power in them driving him deeper, balls-deep and then some. it’s like he’s tryna rewrite your anatomy.

“fuck me—” it’s the only thing you can manage because every other thought in your brain has been evicted.

“yeah, that’s what i thought.” he punctuates his words with a sharp snap of his hips. he’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other tangling in your hair. if it’s long, he’s wrapping it around his wrist, pulling your head back just enough to meet his gaze.

“look at me,” he commands, and his hips don’t. fucking. stooooop, grinding into you like he’s on heat. “c’mon, babe. lemme hear you.”

but all you can manage is this strangled suffocated moan because his pulse is fucking otherworldly. he knows it, too. his smirk deepens, his eyes dark with that predatory gleam of someone who knows he’s completely destroying you.

legs, trembling. breath, nonexistent. moans, choked af, caught in your throat because his tip is right there. massaging your cervix, hitting that spot like it owes him rent. hips circling so smoothly it feels like he’s winding you tighter and tighter, like you’re about to snap.

and when you do—because obviously you do—he doesn’t slow down. no, he leans into it, letting you ride that high while his pace stays maddeningly perfect. every roll, every grind, like he’s got this whole thing down to a science.

hoshi knows exactly what he’s doing. and he loves it. loves the way your body reacts to him, the way your thighs tremble and your back arches, the way your moans break apart like you can’t take it anymore. “told you, didn’t i?” he says, grinning as he watches you unravel. “best fuck in the world.”

you knew you were screwed the moment hoshi smiled at you during that dinner. not the polite kind of smile tho—it was the type that tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that promised chaos (very hoshi of him). you’d spent the whole night thinking, damn, he’s so sweet, so charming, falling for his jokes and the way his laugh made everything else blur. and then, that same mouth was pressed against your neck not even two hours later, and now you’re realizing that “sweet” is the last fucking word you’d ever use for him.

it’s not even just him, it’s the fact that he drags you down with him. one second, you’re gasping like some innocent disney princess; the next, you’ve got your knees digging into the mattress, heels propped up, grinding down on his cock like you’re trying to carve his name into your pussy.

“ohmygodyouresofuckingbig” you gasp, your voice wild, your hand braced against the headboard so you don’t fucking launch into orbit. his hands resting on your hips, loose as hell, like he’s just chilling, letting you take what you want.

he laughs at the sight, his chest glistening from sweat, abs flexing every time you drop down. his head tips back against the pillow, a hand running through his messy hair as he watches you like you’re putting on the show of a lifetime. “weren’t you just the sweetest little thing at dinner? now you’re grinding on me like you think i’m about to leave.”

your reply isn’t even a word. it’s a throaty, drawn-out moan, one that sounds ripped straight from a porno, because hoshi’s cock feels like it was engineered to ruin you. every time your hips roll down, you feel him, thick and impossibly deep, stretching you making your brain short-circuit. “shit, baby,” he groans when you clench around him, his hands tightening ever so slightly. “you’re so—fuck—tight.”

you’re too far gone to even be embarrassed. filthy sounds of your bodies moving together are louder than any shame you could’ve had, and when his tip drags right against your sweet spot, you lose it.

“fuck, hoshi,” you babble, your voice cracking as you try to form coherent thoughts. “so deep, you’re so—god, you’re—you’re ruining me!”

his laugh rumbles beneath you. “ruining you?” he mocks. “baby, you’re doing all the work. look at you. riding me like you’re afraid my cock’s gonna disappear.”

you barely register his words. but when he takes one hand and tangles it in your hair again, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, you’re done for. absolutely done. “oh my god, oh my fucking god,” you cry out, your thighs burning from the effort, but you don’t stop. can’t stop. he’s too deep, too good, his cock hitting your g-spot with every grind, every roll, and it’s got you unraveling at the seams.

“listen to you,” he keeps talking, even though he's more moaning than saying anything. “such a good girl at dinner, saying please and thank you. now you’re on my cock, moaning like you’re getting paid for it.”

“you—fuck—you’re so—fucking big,” you manage to gasp, your hand sliding down his chest, fingers curling into his slick skin as if that’ll keep you steady. “so deep, hosh, i can’t—i’m gonna—oh my god.”

his hips shifting up just a fraction to meet yours. that tiny movement sends stars shooting across your vision, and agian, he fucking knows it. “yeah?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “you gonna cum for me, baby? gonna cream my cock, hm?” his words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. your thighs tremble, your moans turning into these high-pitched, incoherent whines as you chase that high, grinding down harder, faster.

“that’s it,” he groans, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your screams go silent. “fuck, you’re so good. so fucking good. take it, baby. take everything.”

and when you finally snap, your head tipping back, your moans breaking into sharp, breathless cries, he lets you ride it out. doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just watches with this half-lidded, satisfied grin as you completely lose your dignity on his cock.

AND.

he loves the mess. thrives in it, even.

it starts when he’s got his fingers buried in you, watching the way your slick coats them with every pump. his other hand’s braced against your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread so he can watch the way you clench and drip around him.

“listen to that,” grin on his face pure sin as his fingers curl. the wet, obscene sounds of your cum fill the air, and he’s eating it up, moaning slutty like it’s his favorite fucking song. “so messy, baby. you like that, huh? making such a pretty little mess on my hand.” he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until there’s a wet spot on the sheets beneath you, proof of just how far he went.

“fuck, look at that,” he groans, dragging his coated fingers along your inner thigh, leaving wet trails that make you shudder. when he slides into you, it’s like he’s in a trance. slow just enough to feel the way your walls squeeze around him, wet and hot and perfect. but then he pulls out almost entirely, glancing down to watch the way your cum clings to him, coating every inch of his cock in a slick, glistening sheen.

he does it again. until he’s buried deep, then pulls out just to watch. the slick sound of it drives him insane, makes him groan low in his throat as he watches strings of your sluick stretch between you before dripping down onto the sheets. every thrust is accompanied by the wet, obscene sound of your slick, loud enough to echo in the room, loud enough to make him grin (maybe thats why he likes to roll his hips deep inside you, because makes the sound louder??) “every time i move, i can hear you, baby. you hear that? that’s all you.”

but it’s never enough for him, hoshi’s gotta see it. so he slows down, pulls out entirely, and fuck, the sight alone is enough to make him lose it. your arousal glistens on his cock, dripping in thick, shining lines, pooling onto the bed beneath you. he runs a hand along his length, spreading it, smearing it, just so he can watch how messy you’ve made him.

and then he’s back inside, the glide impossibly smooth, wet and filthy, and he’s groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

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rafeslvbug · 2 months ago

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heyyy!!! i have been loving your nfl!rafe fics so muchhh!!! idk if you're taling requests or not but you said this in the sfw alphabet:

now he says it daily. he won’t go a day without saying it, not even if he’s in a bad mood. he needs to hear it back too, it hurts if he doesn’t.

and i was thinking what if they got into a fight or something and reader is upset and he's saying i love you but she doesn't and he gets upset too?? 🩷

the sheets were cold, your back turned to rafe as he laid facing the ceiling, incredibly restless. you could feel him shifting every few seconds, not being able to find comfort in the bed he usually melted in. lingering tension from your previous argument was still heavy in the air, and must’ve been what made sleep so uncomfortable for the both of you.

it didn’t stop you from trying, though.

sleep sounded like the perfect escape from this. you knew you shouldn’t have been trying to escape the argument, but your daughter had just taken an hour to fall asleep, and to say today had drained you was an understatement. you felt completely lifeless, except for the pounding in your head.

the argument was something you perhaps could have anticipated. rafe wanting you to attend his game this weekend. not a local one, just a big one. he only asked for you to come, suggested you leave the kids with a babysitter or a friend and you guys could make it a date. you hadn’t been to one yet this whole season, mainly because your daughter was only a few months old. it was a separation anxiety that would fade with time - but now was not the time. naturally, this compelled you to say no, to say you’d go to another one and rafe didn’t take it too lightly. he didn’t yell - he rarely does. his words were instead infused with a type of hurt you also rarely saw, and was somehow worse. while you knew he had every right to be angry, what he said you couldn’t justify. claims you didn’t love him as much, or that you didn’t care, that you were changing. it was bullshit, and untrue, when everything you did was for him.

in the silence of your thoughts, and his, you hear his quiet mutter of, “i love you sweetheart.”

you don’t return it.

rafe’s brows furrow, his head shifting to the side to stare at the back of yours. he blinks, rubbing his ear, thinking perhaps he heard wrong. because he heard nothing at all.

it’s silent in the room, the kids are asleep, you haven’t said anything. there’s no way you couldn’t have heard him, he made sure you would. he was never tentative to tell you he loved you. so why hadn’t you said it back?

he props himself up onto his forearm, switching on the lamp beside the bed.

“owh rafe, why’d you turn the light on?” you whine, shielding your eyes from the brightness.

“why’d you ignore me?” he responds, the faintest of pouts on his face while he looks down at you, still recovering from the harsh light exposure.

“ignore you?”

“yes. i said i love you an-“

“oh my god rafe,” you groan, burying your face into your pillow at his words ; you’re both deflated after arguing and too tired in general to deal with this, hoping the pillow might consume you whole as you so desperately want it to.

rafe’s frown deepens, sitting up fully in bed and crossing his arms over his chest. “sit up, i’m talkin’ here.”

you sigh, exhaling out your nose, rubbing your eyes and rolling over to look at him properly. the stubborn look on your face is enough to piss rafe off, even when he’s trying to be as patient as he can manage, it’s still slipping away from him.

“we don’t do this. we don’t ignore each other or not say ‘i love you’ back. that’s not us, never has been, never will be. d’you hear me?” he says, voice stern and allowing no room for argument.

“yeah i know,” you mutter.

silence beats between the two of you, a few fading heartbeats.

once.

twice.

then, “we ever gonna talk about it again?” his voice is low, referring to the initial argument, clearly not having given up on it.

“we will.”

“when?”

“now…?”

“now.” he sighs, like he’s about to go into a game where the odds are against him. “just come. there are a million people we trust to leave the kids with.”

you’re biting your lip, unsure and thinking of the similarly million ways it could all go wrong, forever apprehensive to leave your kids alone. “okay but-“

“no buts. it’s gonna be fine, it’s always been fine. it’ll be one day, out of hundreds. you can do that, baby.”

you’re mulling it over in your mind, thinking of how he said you didn’t care about him anymore.

as if on cue, reading you like an open book, rafe interjects your thoughts with a soft, “i know what i said, an’ i’m sorry. none of that shit’s true, i know that. i just want you to be there.”

“yeah?” you turn your head to look at him a little better, while he brushes back some hair that falls into your eyes.

“yeah.” he murmurs, tilting his head down at you.

he’s looking down at you with the same blue eyes that can do no wrong, even in the worst days of your marriage. the look is so desperate, a silent plea in them to just say yes, one you’ve always been ridiculously weak for.

“mkay, i’m sorry too an’ i’ll come,” you finally agree, leading rafe’s face to break into a grin as he leans down to you.

“you’re sure?” he hovers over you, forearms on either side of your head.

“yeah i’m sure,” you mutter, laughing when he presses his lips to yours, quickly switching to messy pecks across your whole face.

“rafe! cut it out!” you squeal, trying to keep your voice to a minimum so as not to wake up the kids next door.

he only hums, however, stopping for a brief second. “i love you,” he repeats, this time dangling the words like a warning in which a satisfactory answer might prevent his onslaught of kisses.

“i love you too,” you exhale, blowing your mess of hair out of your way.

“there we go, sweetcheeks,” he grins, causing you to laugh against his chest while his arms hold you impossibly closer.

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puffins-muffins · 5 months ago

Text

Night & Morning

Pairing: Jax Teller x Female Plus Size!Reader Word Count: 2200 Summary: Your very casual, no-strings arrangement with Jax begins to shift when he stays the night for the first time. In the morning, he wakes you with sleepy sex. Warnings: SMUT! 18+ only please, minors DNI!! hints of marijuana use, (unprotected - be responsible!) P in V sex, cursing, slight feels. A/N: I just had to come (hehe) back to these two from the What Lovers Do universe! 🥰 This little one-shot takes place before the events in WLD (huge thanks to my bestie @laurfilijames 😉) You can read them together or on their own. All feedback (comments, reblogs, likes) is very much appreciated!! 🩷 Enjoy lovers!!

The air in your bedroom is thick with the scent of sex and marijuana smoke. The window is cracked just enough to let the cool night breeze slip in. Jax is lying on his back, one arm slung over his face. His chest rises and falls in the dim light of your bedroom. You’re curled on your side, head propped on your hand, just watching him.

This is usually the part where one of you leaves.

It’s just the way things are. He never stays, you never ask him to, and vice versa.

But so far, he hasn’t moved.

His jeans are still on the floor, his kutte is draped over the back of the chair in the corner, but he hasn’t reached for either yet. Instead, he’s just… lying there, his body loose and unguarded in a way you’re not used to.

You shift slightly, dragging the sheet higher over your bare skin. “You good?”

His arm lowers just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy-lidded and unreadable. You take him in— the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his stubble frames the faint smirk that doesn't fully settle on his face. There's a moment of hesitation before he quietly says, “Yeah.”

That’s it. No explanation, no excuse for why he’s still here.

You nod, settling back against your pillow, pretending this doesn’t feel different. Pretending your heart isn’t skipping at the idea of him staying, even for just a little longer.

A few minutes pass in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward, just comfortable. Jax exhales deeply, rolling onto his side, propping his head up on his hand to face you. His other hand reaches out, his rough fingers tracing a slow path along your arm.

It’s not entirely sexual, just softer, something neither of you have ever really done before.

You swallow, your gaze locked on his. His stormy blue eyes hold something you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a flicker of hesitation, something caught between want and uncertainty, like he’s not sure if he should be here, but he doesn’t want to leave either.

“Didn’t take you for the type to linger.” You murmur, chewing on your bottom lip, immediately regretting opening your mouth and potentially ruining the entire moment.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. His fingers keep moving, light and tender. “Guess I don’t feel like leaving yet.”

The admission sits heavy between you. Jax searches your face like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. But you don’t.

“Okay,” you assure him, a lazy smile gracing your lips.

Eventually, his hand stills, his fingers lingering just a moment before he lays on his back again. His eyes shift toward the ceiling, his expression indiscernible, like he’s sorting through thoughts he’ll never say out loud.

You try to make whatever decision he’s grappling with a little easier by embracing the fact that he hasn’t left yet— something that, to your own surprise, you’re completely okay with.

You mold against him, the soft curves of your body pressing into the hard planes of his, draping the plushness of your thighs over him as you nuzzle closer. His arm wraps around you, his body relaxing against yours— like maybe he needed the silent reassurance that it’s okay, that this is okay. His lips brush over the top of your head, and he pulls you in even closer.

Your fingers trace along the ridges of old scars that are etched into his abdomen. You don’t ask where they came from, already knowing enough about his life to understand that each one carries a reminder of unsaid choices.

Your palm smooths over a particularly deep scar near his ribs, your thumb grazing over the raised skin in slow strokes. His breathing hitches for just a moment before settling, and then you feel it, the silent acceptance— the way he lets you in without any words.

For however long, you just exist together, finding an unexpected comfort in something that neither of you has tried to make sense of.

Jax is awake before the sun, dim light from the early morning barely filtering through your blinds. The warmth of your body is a quiet comfort, your breath steady and soft against his forearm.

And fuck, the way you’re nestled against him is already doing things to him.

His arm is draped lazily over your waist, fingers resting just above your navel. Your back is pressed flush to his chest— your plump, naked ass tucked right against his morning arousal. You fit beside him so perfectly it almost feels intentional.

His cock twitches at the contact, a slow throb of heat spreading through him. He lets out a breath, his lips brushing against the crook of your neck, and when you don’t stir, he lets himself indulge a little.

Jax presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder, breathing you in, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. His hand moves, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach before sliding down, fingers grazing your thick hip, then lower, over the curve of your ass.

You shift slightly, a sleepy little sigh escaping you, but you’re still lost in sleep.

Jax smirks against your skin, tilting his hips just enough to drag his cock along the crease of your ass, teasing himself more than you. His fingers trail between your thighs, skimming your dimpled skin, not quite touching where you need him, but enough to make you stir again.

A soft, breathy sound slips from you, your body instinctively pressing back into him.

His smirk spreads into a wide grin, his breath feathery against your ear, goosebumps rising across your skin. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

You hum, still half-asleep, but the shift in your breathing tells him you’re waking up now. He keeps his touches light, his kisses are unhurried, his fingers caressing between your thighs.

He feels it the moment you start to give in. The way your hips shift, how your thighs part slightly, your body already anticipating him.

Jax groans, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers grazing your slick heat. “Fuck,” he mutters, his cock jolting against you. “Already wet for me?”

Your only answer is another soft sigh, your body pressing closer— inviting him in.

Jax presses the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with it before sinking in, slowly filling you inch by inch. His forehead rests against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he bottoms out.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping the sheets as he holds himself there, savoring the way you clench around him, warm and snug.

Jax groans, pulling out just enough before pushing back in. His movements are measured, dragging out the sensation, making you feel every thick inch of him. The slow pace is intoxicating— each deep, unhurried thrust sending waves of pleasure through you, leaving you aching for more.

His arm tightens around your waist, making sure there’s no space between you. His lips never leave your skin, peppering open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck. His breath is ragged as he savors the way your body responds to him, how you let him take his time with you.

He keeps it unhurried, his arousal heightened by the consistent moans that slip from you while he moves inside you. His hand slides up, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sets a lazy rhythm. He feels every reaction— the way your back arches, the way your body tightens around him, the way you crave him.

“You like that?” he rasps against your jaw, his voice still husky from sleep.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, your hand covers his, guiding his grip tighter around your breast, silently urging him on, letting your body tell him exactly how much you do.

Jax curses under his breath, his grip on your breast tightening, giving you exactly what you’re asking for. Then, his hand begins to slide down, his fingertips dragging over the soft swell of your stomach. The heat of his palm leaves a burning trail in its wake as he moves lower.

When his fingers finally slip between your thighs, you gasp, your breath hitching as he finds your clit. He strokes it in gradual, teasing circles— his touch light and agonizing.

His fingers press down just enough to send an another shot of pleasure rippling through you, heat spreading through your limbs. Your breathing grows uneven, your pussy tightening around him with each thrust, his touch keeping you on the brink.

Your hips begin to move more frantic, more desperate, grinding against him with an urgency you can’t control, chasing the release that feels just out of reach. You need him to push you over.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he breathes out. “Keep doin’ that, grind on me just like that.”

You whimper, rolling your hips, feeling the delicious friction of his cock hitting that perfect spot. The movement rips a groan from his throat, holding you firm as he thrusts deeper, making sure you feel every drag of his thick, throbbing length.

His fingers press firmly against your clit, his low grunts hot against your neck as the pressure builds, pushing you closer. It's maddening— just enough to keep you on edge, to make your pussy flutter around his cock.

His voice is nothing but a rough whisper against your skin, “Feels so fuckin’ good, huh?”

You can’t speak, can’t form a single coherent thought. All you do is moan, letting him take what he wants while your noises beg him to give you what you need.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your shoulder, his voice filled with need— the command sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers never stop their torturous pace against your clit, until his words give you the final nudge that sends you spiraling.

Your body clenches as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, spreading outward, leaving your entire body trembling. Needy, breathless moans of his name tumble from your lips as your walls convulse around him.

The pleasure is overwhelming, your nails dig into his arm that’s wrapped around you as you fall completely apart with him buried so deep inside you.

Jax groans, low and absolutely wrecked, his hips stuttering as he feels you come undone around him. “Fuck,” he grits out, his grip on you tightening— your body milking him, dragging him toward his own breaking point.

The way you tighten around him, pussy soaked and perfect, has him thrusting into you a little harder, his pace turning more frantic. His breath is ragged against your shoulder, his lips still pressed to your flush skin as he groans your name. His grip on your hip is firm, but as the pleasure builds, his hand moves, searching— reaching for something more.

Without hesitation, you meet him halfway, your fingers sliding into his, intertwining and then gripping him just as tightly. It’s instinctive, but the moment your hands lock together, a spark ignites— new and unfamiliar.

This isn’t just sex.

It’s intimate. Deeper than just the way he’s buried inside you, it’s the way he moves— purposeful and consuming.

His body tenses, muscles tight, sweat glistening on both of you as his release crashes over him. “Fuck, darlin’,” he groans, plunging himself in your sensitive cunt. His cock throbs, pulsing as he spills inside you, warmth spreading as he empties himself with a shuddered exhale.

His thrusts slow, his damp forehead pressing to your shoulder. Your breaths are heavy— bodies still slick and tangled. Even as the aftershocks fade, his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen.

Jax stays wrapped around you, his body still flush against yours, his breath steadying as the glow of the morning creeps into your bedroom.

You sigh, satisfied, your body still humming from the aftermath of him, the intimacy of it all hanging between you. He presses a lazy, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his stubble scratching delicately against your skin before he rests his head there.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence is comfortable. Easy. Filled with something neither of you is willing to define but both undeniably feel.

Then, with a smirk you can hear in his voice, Jax finally breaks it.

“Ya know,” he muses, shifting just enough to nuzzle his nose against your neck, “if wakin’ up like this is what happens when I stick around, I might have to spend the night more often.”

You scoff a quiet, amused laugh, tilting your head slightly to look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?” you challenge, arching a playful brow. “You sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t want this accidentally turning into a thing.”

Jax grins, his fingers giving the generous curve of your hip a light squeeze. “Shit, babe,” he drawls, pressing another lazy kiss to your skin, “I think we passed that point the second I didn’t sneak out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips as you settle back against him, blissed out and content, letting the comfort of him sink into you.

Neither of you say it out loud, but the thought lingers between you.

Maybe this isn’t the only time he’ll stay.

#jax teller #jax teller x you #jax teller x plus size reader #jax teller x reader smut #jax teller smut #jax teller au #jax fic #jax teller x reader #jax teller fic #sons of anarchy #charlie hunnam #charlie hunnam characters

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wainawtmai · 1 month ago

Text

tags: 18+, suggestive, college setting, reader is mean and a little entitled, gojo is a freak (duh)

you and college rival!satoru cannot stand each other.

your majors are similar so you take a bunch of classes together. satoru thinks you’re insufferable because of how ‘holier than thou’ you are. You’re a perfectionist, as type A as can be. A part of him feels shitty when he hears you scoff in disgust when he flirts with a girl during class, like you were somehow better than him because you didn’t sleep around.

he relishes in your grumbles when you hear he scores just as well as you do on exams. Even making a show of letting everyone know that he didn’t even study and showed up thirty minutes late just to piss you off.

you hate how laid back he is, a textbook rich kid, and that stupid smirk that never leaves his face as he chatters and flirts his way through classes, still answering the professor’s surprise questions perfectly on the fly. It’s pathetic but sometimes you pray he gets it wrong, so the suave smart guy facade can shatter to pieces and every girl in class could stop acting like he was a god. You think he can tell, because sometimes he turns to you with that infuriating smirk and winks.

sometimes you see him in the library while you mull over flashcards, you think he does it on purpose when he sits near you, with a girl on his arm who he makes out with, as loudly as can be. It drives you insane listening to the damn near pornographic noises they make and no one ever seems to mind. Or more the library is practically empty during this time of day.

you want to get up and leave but leaving feels like defeat, feels like another 95.3 to his 97, despite the fact that he was practically dozing off the entire exam. Your cheeks might be heating from embarrassment and none of the words on your flashcards internalized, but you weren’t leaving, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

when you spare him a glance he’s already looking at you, lips latched onto the girl's neck, his eyes a mix of amusement and darkness, daring you to look away. And you can’t, you just stare, your breathing growing heavier as you can slightly hear the girl’s small pleased pants. A part of you feels disgusted, of course, you’re in the fucking library for god’s sake.

but another part, a part you want to ignore so badly, is squeezing your thighs together as you watch him peel those irresistible lips from the girl’s neck and see his pink tongue lick at the bruised skin there. You force yourself to look away, to look down at the flashcards in your shaky hands. You can hear satoru chuckle and you crumple the card in your hand, gathering your things and leaving with a grumble.

you’re not proud of it, but when you go back to your dorm you’re tossing and turning in your bed, struggling to fall asleep. You lay on your back and stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the ache between your legs, trying to ignore the fact that rubbing one out is the only way you’ll be able to fall asleep.

and so you do, rubbing fingers against your clit to a quick finish, trying to convince yourself you weren’t seeing satoru’s tempting blue eyes and pink lips in your mind as you allowed yourself a single moan, clutching your sheets.

𖤐

the next day you plan to avoid him, ignore his smug glances and irritating presence. But that quickly proves difficult. Because the professor announces a group project, and you two are in the same group.

“this’ll be fun.” gojo muses to the group, and they all respond with equally enthusiastic responses. Only you know that it was meant to be mocking as he smiled at you all nice-like. What a fucking snake. You didn’t think it was possible for you to hate anyone more.

a few days pass just like that, you’re sick of everything and need a release. So you don’t protest when your friends drag you to a house party on the weekend. You kind of needed this, needed to simultaneously reward yourself and let loose.

you’re two shots in you when you see him, dancing with a girl, a different one of course. You scoffed into your solo cup, shaking your head at his theatrics and attempts at getting into the poor girl’s pants. So fucking pathetic.

satoru could see you, of course he could. You couldn’t make your distaste for him more obvious if you were holding a speakerphone and booing. He hated how gorgeous you were, it wasn’t fair. Hated how he pretended he wasn’t attracted to you. He couldn’t be attracted to someone so snobby. You got on his nerves that’s all, so intent on his downfall, despite the fact that he didn’t think he’d ever done anything to you personally.

maybe he was drunk, he thought, smiling back down at the pretty girl latched around him. He’d had a few drinks after all. He didn’t think of you at all, it was just the alcohol talking. He didn’t get a little hard when you glared at him in disgust whenever your eyes met, didn’t fuck his fist to the thought of you sometimes, didn’t imagine that face when he was balls deep in other girls. Hell no.

he doesn’t even realize he’s walking towards you till he can see that pretty face in detail and watch your relaxed expression quickly harden as you meet his eyes. “What the hell do you want, satoru?”

“i dunno you looked a little lonely standing here.” he muses with a smirk. You don’t even grace him with a response, pushing past him and walking towards the hallway. He follows you eagerly, a little too excited at the idea of annoying you.

you make your way into a room and jump a little when you see satoru behind you, “don’t you have a girl to fuck?”

“yeah, and what are you gonna do, sit here and read?” he took a few steps towards you, “you’re at a party and still manage to act so superior.”

you roll your eyes, “oh please, who followed who? I’m sorry you can’t help but think the world revolves around you.”

he lets out a chuckle, “i could feel your glare across the room. You find me so disgusting, huh?” he relished the scoff that you let out, a sign he had the upper hand, “like you weren’t absolutely creaming your pants that day at the library.” he took another step, smiling down at you.

if looks could kill, he’d be dead and buried. Your eyes were practically aflame and he couldn’t be any fucking harder. “I’d never fuck or fantasize about a loose slut like you.”

he knew he should have been pissed, but he was so turned on that his cock hurt. “You probably went home and fucked yourself like one thinking about me—” his words were cut short by a sharp slap, a hard one as he felt the sting and redness blooming in his wake.

the two of you stare at each other, wide eyed in momentary silence, before you practically concuss one other with the quickness that your lips join together.

#jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you

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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.��

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt hbo #angst #dr jack abbot

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whateveriwant · 16 days ago

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Sharing a bed with the 141

Gaz

His sheets aren’t the fanciest or the most expensive around, but his bed is always clean and always meticulously made

What is expensive is the silk pajama set he wears to sleep. If you tease him for how bougie that is, he claims they were a gift (Yeah, a gift to himself lol)

Gaz likes to watch ASMR before bed. It started as a joke but then he realized he actually enjoyed it, and now he’s hooked

He has a checklist he goes through each night before he turns in. Retainer? Check. Bonnet? Check. Humidifier so he doesn’t dry out in the night like a raisin? Check.

Sleeping Beauty here swears on 9 hours a night minimum for optimal recharge. Anything less than that and he feels gross the next day

He doesn’t make a lot of noise in his sleep, but sometimes he’ll intake a big breath before letting out deep, blissful sounding sigh

When he was a baby, his parents definitely described him as a “good sleeper”, which is still true today. He sleeps through the night with minimal tossing and turning. Only occasionally will he get those little twitches that fat, milkdrunk puppies get 🥺

Really, the only downside (if you can call it that) to sharing a bed with him is that he doesn’t know what personal space is when he’s asleep. Don’t be surprised when you wake up the next morning to find your leg, arm, or entire torso is trapped because he’s wrapped around it like an octopus. A major clinger that one is

Ghost

He isn’t much of a sleeper, honestly (shocker, I know). He’s more of a ‘stare at the ceiling for hours until sheer exhaustion overtakes him’ kind of guy

When he does manage to fall asleep, though, it’s never very deep. Any small noise or movement in his immediate surroundings and he’s bolting wide awake

For bedding, he’s gone the pure utilitarian route – plain, white cotton bedsheets that hardly look slept in (see above points)

His pajamas are whatever’s within reach and/or whatever’s easiest to throw on, usually an old, threadbare t-shirt and some dirty sweatpants he has lying around

Ok I’ll say it. Ghost looks like a corpse when he’s sleeping. Apart from the slight rise and fall of his chest, he’s so still and silent when he’s knocked out that it’s eerie

The only “decoration” in his room is some black out curtains hanging over the window, but they’re not even for keeping the light out. Rather, they’re to prevent nosy neighbors from potentially peeking in

He has a habit of lying in bed and just watching you while you sleep. Not in a creepy Edward Cullen way, he just finds it calming to watch you so at ease

He’s usually awake before you (if he even slept at all, that is), and in the morning he likes to listen to you recount your dreams from the night prior. If you turn it around and ask him what he dreamt about, however, he’d say something like, “I don’t have dreams. Just nightmares.” (ok emo 🙄)

Soap

“You’re supposed tae wash yer sheets?” - This guy, probably. Seriously, those things have seen the inside of a washing machine maybe twice in the 10+ years he’s had them, and don’t even get me started on the state of his pillows

He’s a boxers as pajamas guy through and through. Unlike his bedsheets, these at least get washed semi-regularly, though they’ve definitely seen better days

No matter what season it is, he always has to sleep with some type of blanket over him. This only becomes a problem if you try to share one with him because he will be stealing it all for himself

Soap is a suuuper restless sleeper. He goes down easy enough, but throughout the night he’s constantly rotating like a gas station hotdog

He has to wear a mouth guard to bed because otherwise he’ll grind his teeth down to nubs in his sleep

He also snores like a chainsaw, but if you roll him onto his side it’s not as bad

This one is a big sleep talker, but between the mouth guard, the deviated septum, and the general unintelligibility of his accent, it mostly sounds like gibberish

Very occasionally does he sleep walk, and it’s usually because he went to bed hungry. You always know when he’s raided the kitchen in his sleep because the next morning you’ll wake up to a loaf of bread, a tin of cat food, and a tray of melted ice cubes in the bed (that last one is the closest he gets to washing his bedding 😭)

Price

The first thing he does before bed is take out his dentures. Ok, I’m kidding! Though I do headcanon he has a few false teeth due to the violent nature of his job, but those are permanently fixed to his skull, they’re not removable lol

His bedsheets are super soft and extremely comfortable, but he’s always wearing holes at the foot of them because they’re constantly rubbing against his 30 grit sandpaper heels 💀

Price likes to read before bed. It can be anything – a nonfiction war retelling, a fantastical sci-fi novel, a smutty booktok recommendation, whatever. He’s not picky

Because he’s got a shag rug for a back, he tends to run hot in his sleep. As such, he either has to sleep with multiple fans pointed directly at him or he keeps the room at an arctic 12°C

Relating to that last point, most of the time he likes to sleep butt naked. But in the winter, when it’s really cold outside, he might throw on a pair of underwear to make sure his willy doesn’t freeze in the night

He’s a starfisher, meaning he likes to sprawl out in his sleep. So it’s a good thing he’s got a king mattress because otherwise there’d be no room for you beside him

He snores really really bad, but he won’t admit he does which is arguably worse than the snoring itself

He also farts in his sleep. I’m so sorry

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pittsick · 29 days ago

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DEAN WINCHESTER WHEN HE... JERKS OFF.

Dean doesn’t make a habit of jerking off every day — not because he doesn’t want to, but because life on the road doesn’t always leave space for indulgence. Between monster hunts, motel walls thin as paper, and Sam always somewhere too close, he’s learned restraint. But when he does give in to it, it’s intense, lazy, and always personal.

He’s not the type to rush. Dean touches himself like a man who knows exactly what he likes — because he does. He’s had enough years, enough experience, to know his own body down to the last twitch. He likes to take his time with it when he can. The lights low. A beer half-finished on the nightstand. Classic rock humming low in the background, or the echo of a motel’s busted AC unit masking the quiet groans he doesn’t mean to let slip.

He’s visual. Always has been. Maybe it’s a woman he met at a dive bar, maybe it’s someone he can’t have, or maybe—when he’s alone and no one’s asking questions—it’s you. Your voice, your mouth, your thighs, the sound you’d make if he just—

Yeah. That gets him.

Dean starts slow. A palm dragging over the bulge in his jeans. Sometimes through denim until the friction’s too much and he’s muttering curses, popping the button open like he’s starved. He’ll tilt his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as he wraps a rough hand around himself, thumb smearing over the head. His mouth goes slack, breath heavy, jaw flexing as his rhythm builds.

There’s no performance in it. Dean doesn’t care about looking pretty. His hips shift, his abs flex, and when he moans, it’s quiet but raw. He groans your name sometimes — not even realizing it. Sometimes loud, like he’s imagining you beneath him, his hand not his own, your skin hot and tight around him.

And if he’s feeling really desperate? He’ll spit in his palm, grit his teeth, and fuck up into it like he’s chasing the memory of someone he shouldn’t miss. His eyes stay half-lidded, staring up at the ceiling, until they roll back the second he loses control. He curses when he comes, one hand over his mouth or gripping the sheets. It’s messy. Real. He never lasts long when he’s thinking of you.

Afterward, he’s quiet. Not ashamed — never that — but thoughtful. He’ll clean himself up with the nearest ragged tee or motel towel, then lie back and breathe for a while. Maybe he’ll light up a cigarette, if he’s really in his head about it. Maybe he’ll knock back the rest of his drink. Maybe, if you’re in the next room, he’ll glance at the door like he’s wondering what it’d feel like if you walked in, caught him red-handed, and decided to help him finish next time.

Because the truth is… Dean jerks off like a man who’s always half hoping you are watching.

#★ mika’s writing .ᐟ #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester blurb #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #supernatural dean winchester

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fear-is-truth · 10 months ago

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† 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑫

— charlie mayhew x f!reader. | mdni

tags: mentions of religion・allusions to sex・fem!reader・english is not author’s first language・not proofread

⟡ a/n: i wrote this while i was half asleep so…

you weren’t religious. not really. not in the way others were—those who bowed their heads and whispered their prayers like they meant it, like they believed they could be saved. you came to church every sunday, but it wasn’t to find redemption.

he must have known.

from the first time you stepped through those old, heavy doors, you’d felt his eyes on you. father charlie mayhew was a man with quiet power, a young man with eyes that saw too much, and you—well, you were the girl who was already damned.

“i’m going to hell,” you’d say, as you sat in the confessional, separated from him by a thin grate. “even if i confessed every sin i’ve ever committed, tomorrow would be the same. worse, maybe.”

it never failed to shake him, the conviction in your voice. you could feel it, even when you couldn’t see him—his quiet intake of breath, the pause before he spoke, the way his hands gripped the rosary a little tighter.

“you mustn’t say such things,” he’d murmur in response, his voice layered with something that went deeper than priestly concern. “god’s mercy—”

“doesn’t apply to me,” you’d cut him off, not harshly, but with the ease of someone who’s accepted their fate. you didn’t want mercy. you didn’t want saving.

and that, perhaps, was what drew him to you. slowly, quietly, you became his obsession. the girl who didn’t believe. the girl who begged for damnation, the girl who was convinced she was beyond salvation.

•••

more than often, you found yourself thinking of him when you lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling. body warm and restless under the sheets. fingers brushed your cunt as you moaned out his name like a prayer, and you imagined his hands instead—steady, calloused, but gentle. he’d never touch you. not like that.

but god, you wanted him to.

that thought alone should have filled you with shame, should have made you tremble at the audacity of it. a priest. a man sworn to celibacy, to god. but you weren’t the type to be shamed. you weren’t afraid of hell, after all.

•••

“what if i’m already lost?” you asked him. “what if nothing i do can change where i’m going?”

“no one is beyond saving.”

“but what if they don’t want to be saved?”

there was another long silence. you could hear his breathing, slightly uneven now, and for the first time, you felt like you’d pushed him too far. like you’d finally broken something sacred.

“why are you here?”

“because i wanted to see you.”

another pause. you imagined him on the other side, eyes closed, hands shaking just slightly.

“you’re playing with fire.”

you leaned closer to the divider, breath ghosting over the wooden grate.

“maybe i want to burn.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them, and in the silence that followed, you wondered if he would tell you to leave. if he would end it all right there.

but he didn’t.

“then may god forgive us both.”

it wasn’t a confession. it wasn’t a promise. it was something in between, something that wrapped around your heart and pulled tight, binding you to him.

•••

clothes half-buttoned, your hair a mess from his hands, you sat at the edge of the bench, fixing your skirt. he stood across from you, hastily adjusting his collar, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbled with the white tab at his throat.

“we’re going to hell,” you said softly, pulling your conservative skirt over your hips, the absurdity of the statement falling between you. there was a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe—but it didn’t stop him from stepping closer, fingers grazing your jawline before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your skin. slow and sweet, like molasses.

“we already are.”

•••

“you know this can’t continue,” he said one evening as you lay sprawled across the pews, fingers tracing patterns into the wood as he stood above you, his face tight with something between anger and lust. you didn’t look at him, only smiled lazily, hand trailing down the edge of the bench.

“that wasn’t what you were saying ten minutes ago, charlie.”

you watched as he sighed, turning his back to you as he tried to gather himself, but when you stood and stepped up behind him, pressing your lips to the base of his neck, you felt him tremble.

“stop,” his voice lacked conviction.

“do you want me to?” you asked, fingers tugging at the collar he had hastily buttoned only minutes before.

no reply. his resolve slipped away as you kissed along his jaw, hands sliding up the front of his shirt. when he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker, filled with something you had only seen glimpses of before.

“god help us,” he muttered under his breath as his lips crashed into yours, hands tugging at you with a desperation that had nothing to do with salvation.

•••

the next time, after you had tangled yourselves in the sheets again, you stood in front of the mirror, tying up your hair. the quiet hum of the rotating fan was the only sound that filled the room, broken only by his heavy breathing.

“how long can we keep pretending?” you glanced at him in the reflection, adjusting the collar of your blouse, smoothing down the wrinkles. he stood by the bed, buttoning up his shirt, eyes lingering on you in a way that was both regretful and wistful. you felt his fingers brushed the back of your neck.

“we’ll stop when you do,” but you both knew that wasn’t true.

you turned, meeting his gaze head-on. his lips were parted, collar still askew, and without thinking, you reached up to fix it. as you did, your fingers lingered, brushing against the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse quicken.

“we’re going to hell,”

he said nothing this time, only kissed you back.

masterlist

#jackie writes ⟢#dividers by pommecita #father charlie mayhew #charlie mayhew x y/n #charlie mayhew x reader #father charlie mayhew x reader #grotesquerie

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mxurelle · 5 months ago

Text

synopsis: gojo catches you masturbating to his image.

cw: dubcon, voyeurism, slight degradation (he calls u a perv). -18+ dni.

wc: 1,533.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“for fucks sake.”

you clicked your tongue, wrist and forearm completely strained from working your swollen nub as you laid sprawled out on your comforter, exhaling a heavy sigh of defeat. you looked down at yourself, blinking in rapid succession, bewildered by your stupidity. touching yourself to the image of your best friend took enough convincing within itself, weighing the pros and cons of partaking in such an explicit activity; something completely new to you. but now, your orgasm couldn’t feel farther out of reach.

“karma. must be.” you thought, leaned back against your headboard as you stared up at the ceiling, cellphone still in hand. the pad of your index finger dipped in between sleek folds, shivers shooting up your spine with a quiet sob, teasing your dripping entrance. you were aroused, more so than you’ve been in awhile, which only brought about more question marks.

your gaze lifted to scan your phone screen, nipping at your bottom lip as you shamelessly ogled. cute face, cheeky smile, pretty eyes, nice lips. simply claiming he was your type seemed unjust. after the two of you met, you’ve struggled to successfully get yourself off ever since.

a loud wham pulled you out of your mind fog, fumbling with your phone as you instantly perked up, eyes widened with a look of sheer terror. the figure of a young man now replaced with what used to be your closed door, unable to properly make out his features amidst your downward spiral into full on panic mode.

“hey! long time no—ohh.”

a wild gojo satoru stood in your doorway, clearly lost, stuck in shock with his jaw dropped. you blinked up at the intruder, also stuck; processing. maybe it was the sexual frustration, maybe the intensity of it all had finally gotten to your head, resulting in hallucinations.

you fumbled with your messy sheets, scrambling to cover up. “fuck, man?!” you exclaimed, more so a very loud whisper, tightly closing your legs. embarrassment churned at your stomach, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest, the possibility of passing out didn’t seem too unreasonable at that point. “ever heard of knocking? what the fuck is your problem?”

the two of you fell silent, gojo’s lack of a timely response sending your anxiety through the roof. he looked from side to side sporting a guilty yet not so guilty look; similar to that of a child who had wrongfully stolen a cookie. “sure, but the door was .. unlocked?” he faked a cough, taking a step forward and closing the door behind him.

“i—get out.” you raised your pointer finger, directing him towards the door with a stern look; the best you could pull off given your awkward position.

gojo pursed his lips, peering down at you beneath the rounded frames of his glasses, inching closer till his legs bumped with the edge of your bed. “i would, if that wasn’t a picture of me on your phone.” he examined, and your heart dropped. “that is me, right?”

speechless, you steadily shook your head, glancing off to peek at your phone screen; his photo displayed in full view. his head tilted to the side, your comforter dipping a bit as he welcomed himself into your space. “nah, no use in denying it. maybe if you weren’t basically naked, i would’ve bought it.” he teased, but you didn’t cower as he drew in closer, nudging himself in between your opened legs.

you licked your lips and swallowed, moving to clamp your thighs together instinctively in hopes of hiding your desire from his watchful gaze. your efforts were of no use though, not with him in your way. “well,” he started up again, eyeing you. “why’d you stop? keep going, i wanna watch.”

“you wanna wh—“

gojo raised his index finger to press against your lips, successfully cutting you off mid sentence. “ah! none of that.” he insisted, tracing the shape of your lips with the tip of his finger. you resisted the urge to open your mouth for him, leaving your curiosity to fester. “you’re masturbating to my image without my consent. it’s only fair, don’t you think?”

with your arousal at an all time high, it didn’t take much convincing for you to start back up again, swirling your clit in slow circular motions. his palms crept beneath your thighs before lifting them, earning a quiet yelp from you. “sorry, just wanna see all of you.” he explained, flat toned and casual in his words, eyes locked on your exposed cunt. he looked focused, jaw clenched as his fingers dug into your thighs, savoring each little noise you’d make.

your fingers teased your entrance, thighs trembling within his hold as you quivered, earning a satisfied hum of approval from the man above you. “do you often touch yourself with me in mind, hm?” leaning down, his breath hovered your left ear as he spoke. “must be frustrating.”

your eyes fell to a close, savoring the intoxicating sound of his voice, jolting as teeth made contact with your ear. your head fell back against the headboard as you worked your throbbing clit in slow, steady motions, picking up the pace in unison with gojo’s wandering lips. he placed open mouthed kisses beneath your jawline, his lips wrapped around the patch of skin, sucking and biting a visible mark on you.

“you must like me a lottt,” he mumbled within the crook of your neck, promptly pulling away to adjust himself to comfortably focus on your lower body. his teeth sunk into the meat of your inner thigh and you sobbed, pain briskly sparking pleasure. “your entire body is trembling, and shit, you’re so wet. i can tell this is really your thing, perv.”

“yet you’re sitting here watching me.” you bit back, lifting your head as your eyes shot open, that familiar feeling of an approaching orgasm swelling at your stomach. adding another finger you placed both digits flat on your clit, applying pressure as you moved from side to side, slurs of profanity spilling from your lips.

your muscles contracted as your hips twitched upwards, rocking into your hands in a desperate effort to cum. your gaze dropped for a moment in search for his, only to find bright blue eyes beaming with excitement, lips parted in awe as he sat entranced, completely engrossed in you. your eyes wandered further, trailing along the frame of his shoulders and upper body, the flat of his stomach and plump of his thighs.

you lingered in between his legs, suppressing a moan as his hardened cock stood out through the fabric of his pants. it looked suffocating. you wanted to help, to touch him, to really feel him. “fuck—i’m gonna cum.” you sobbed, shivering as gojo tightened his hold around you.

pleasure coursed through your veins in intense waves, invoking a fluttering sensation in your abdomen as your climax washed over you, quiet sobs filling the thick atmosphere. gojo watched in silence as you rode through the motions, his palms sliding upwards to massage the flesh of your hips. he didn’t want to say too much, or too little, neither was he really interested in redirecting his focus to speak. instead, he took the moment to behold the view of you unfolding in front of him.

you retracted your hands, letting your arms sprawl out with a sigh. gojo mirrored your actions as he removed his hands, and only then did you come back to self, realization of what just happened settling. “damn, that..was fucking hot. you good?” he asked, and to which you nodded.

“i’m cool, but..” your gaze flickered down to his erection beneath his sweats, then back up at him. “you seem to have a bit of a problem yourself.”

gojo followed your gaze, neutrality plastered across his distinctive features, chin tilted slightly upward. “you gonna solve it, or just stare?” he challenged, leaving an invitation up in the air too good to pass up. the two of you stared at one another, contemplation behind your eyes, as his clouded with lust.

you sat up to lean in, but before you could your phone rang beside you. your head snapped into the direction of the blaring sound, squinting as you read out the name of the caller; sis. “shit, that’s my older sister. you gotta go.” your hands moved to nudge gojo off of your bed, pushing with full force as he wouldn’t move fast enough, sliding off the bed to follow behind him.

“your sister?”

“yes!” you gathered a blanket within your hands, quickly wrapping it around your body as you stood up, directing gojo towards your opened window. he looked back at you, and you could’ve sworn you saw metaphorical question marks popping up around his head. “quick! damn, you’re slow.” delivering a few harsh pats to his shoulder blades, he bent down, maneuvering his body through your window the best he could.

as he squeezed through, relief weighed on your shoulders. you turned away for a moment to hurriedly close your door and return back to the window, poking your head out as you looked around, confirming gojo had successfully scurried off.

#jjk headcanons #jjk x y/n #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk gojo #jjk #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo saturo #jjk oneshot #x reader #smut

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jsbluu · 6 months ago

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pillow humping | p. jisung

req here ★

➨ pairing: park jisung x fem reader

➨ genre: smut (MDNI)

➨ word count: 939

➨ warnings: pervy jisung, sub(?) jisung, i probably used the word “mess” too many times, reader and jisung are friends and he wants her sooooo bad

jisung knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. not when you were just with him a few hours ago, sitting way too close on his bed, laughing at something he said that wasn’t even funny, stealing bites of snacks that weren’t even yours. not when your perfume still lingers in the air, the sweet scent reminding him of how intoxicatingly sweet you were.

he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling in hopes these thoughts will go away, but it’s useless. he can’t stop his body from reacting, his cock already straining against his pants; harder than it was before.

the way your lips parted when you spoke to him, the look in your eyes you’d get when you’d stare at him for a bit too long for it to be platonic, the way your fingers played with the hem of your sweater when you got shy.

his breath shudders as he squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can, hoping, praying it’ll make it stop, but it doesn’t. he can’t ignore the heat pooling in his abdomen anymore.

he knows it’s wrong and pervy, and if you found out you’d probably be disgusted. but he’s way too fucking horny to think about morals right now as he gently runs his hands down his toned chest, stopping just above his waistband.

he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop himself as his hand travels under his sweats and wraps around his rock hard cock. he lets out a small moan, bucking his hips up into his hand. he’s barely touched himself but he’s already so sensitive, so close to cumming, and that’s all because of you.

he moves his hand back and forth, using his precum as a way to slide his pump himself faster. he bites his bottom lip as he tries to stifle back a whimper, but he ultimately fails. he can’t stop your name from falling out of his lips, it rolls so smoothly off his tongue like you’re the one giving him this pleasure.

it feels good, but it’s not enough. his grip tightens, his thumb brushing over his tip and he swears under his breath, his brows furrowing and he becomes more hot and bothered by the second. still, it’s not enough. his hand is nothing to what you’d feel like. he can almost imagine it, your pussy clenching around him, your smaller hand wrapped around his dick, teasing him however you’d like.

he exhales frustratedly as he turns onto his side, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he blindly reaches for the small throw pillow on his bed. his fingers gently grasp the fabric, hesitating for a moment before pulling it closer.

he’s way too far gone at this point to feel shame, as he aligns himself with it.

“f-fuck..” he breaths out as he buries his head into the mattress as a way to ground himself. he moves his hips gently against the pillow, rocking himself against it to get any type of friction he can.

and just like that, any restraint is gone.

his fingers grip the pillow tighter as he moves, rolling his hips experimentally. his mind is a mess at this point, thinking back to earlier when you were in his room, on his bed. he sniffs the sheets, moaning out loud when he smells another whiff of your perfume.

“y/n..”

your name falls from his lips again in a breathless whisper before he even realizes he said it. but hearing it out loud makes it worse, makes it real. make his movements more desperate than before.

he ruts into the pillow harder, his precum leaking through his sweatpants making an already sticky situation worse.

he can feel himself approaching his orgasm way faster than he ever has, faster than the other times he’s made himself cum to the thought of you. maybe it’s the fact that he had you so close today, close enough to touch, but not enough to keep. maybe this was his way of filling in the gap of being close to you that he so desperately needs.

the friction is maddening, dragging over his cock just right, but it’s not enough. his body craves more, his pace becoming more frantic and messy as he becomes more desperate.

“y/n.. y/n…..” he chants your name like a mantra as he pictures you underneath him, your nails clawing and creating scratches at his back as he snaps his hips into you at an inconceivable pace. your sweet whimpers and pleads filling his ears and encouraging to go faster.

his voice is shaky and strained as his hips jerk a few more times against the pillow, approaching his orgasm. a loud whimper falls from his lips as he cums, his mouth wide open and his hands gripping the mattress so hard it starts to cramp. his cum leaks through his boxers and onto the pillow and the mattress, his white ropes coating his bedsheets and creating a dirty mess that he’ll for sure have to pay for later.

it takes a second, maybe even longer, to come back to reality. for his breathing to slow, for the haze in his mind to clear just enough to register the cold wet feeling of the fabric sticking against his body.

and then it hits him.

“shit.”

he pushes himself up on shaky arms, breath still uneven and face completely flushed as he looks down. the pillow, his fucking pillow, is completely ruined, and he can’t even begin to process what this means.

what the fuck did he just do?

a/n: omg this was so freaky of me.. this was supposed to be like 400 words max but ummm somebody got a little carried away! if you know me irl don’t read this Please .. also theme change coming soon be warned

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meiyokbf · 12 days ago

Text

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part five

author's note: took me long enough but i’m backkk! got down with a flu + writers block but now i’m better than ever, lmk what you think & i hope you guys enjoy this one. :’)

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. no smut, just megan being scared and reader trying their best. kind of a filler chapter but in the best intention possible. also, meet sophia!

word count: 4,2k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, sophia laforteza.

megan’s spotify playlist!

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you tell yourself you’re not going to text her.

and you say it out loud this time, a quiet promise to your ceiling fan, to the wrinkles in your sheets, to the ghost of her hand that still lingers somewhere near your ribs. you won’t do it. not again.

but, oh well. you open your phone anyway.

it’s muscle memory at this point: swipe, tap, check. still no new message. nothing since the one she sent at 2:17am.

megan: can’t sleep.

megan: thinking about the way you said my name.

you had read it twice. then again. then again until the words felt like they weren’t in english anymore. you didn’t know how to respond. or if she even wanted you to.

you think about replying now. type something. delete it. type again. delete.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

and leave it there.

it was wednesday now; three days since the last time you’ve seen her. but honestly, at this point, it kinda felt like three years. you couldn’t even focus on your uni work without thinking about her voice or her eyes, and the way she purposefully seemed to take hours to text you back was driving you insane. you needed to take a breather before going to class, in which you already knew you would doze off the entire lecture because you would much rather be around her instead.

so, you dress slowly. batman & robin tee, jacket, sneakers that squeak when you walk too fast. you grab your bag and ignore the pile of laundry in the corner, the coffee mug on your nightstand still full of yesterday’s tea. before leaving, you decided to grab something to eat on the way, already listening manon’s voice in your head about how you always forget to eat while studying and how your blood pressure is shit. so you decide to steal one of her granola bars. which, of course, had a heart-shaped post-it on it.

“these are technically for me, but i know your sad little raccoon hands will find them.

fine. take one.

ONE.

(ily though. please hydrate.)

- manz”

you laughed slightly and took one bar. this was your guys’ thing; you both knew that you could always talk to each other over text messages, but ever since you moved in together, post-its were the main mean of communication between you two. there were some things that could only be said on a paper, you thought. and you cherished that a lot.

you’ve got class in less than an hour, but your brain isn’t ready for structure. it feels like soup. or static.

you take the long way. the sun hasn’t fully committed to the sky yet and everything is washed in that early kind of light; soft and blue, like it doesn’t want to wake you up too quickly. birds chirp like they don’t know what day it is.

you pass three dogs, one crying baby, a couple making out against a bike rack. the world is still moving. it always is.

and then you think about her again.

the way she laughed back at her place last weekend. her hand pressed to your chest like she was checking for signs of life. the way she looked at you; half-there, half-running.

you stop by the café before class. it’s not your usual morning haunt, but you can’t sit still. you need something warm to hold.

you open the door. the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso. the low hum of other people’s lives. this place always feels like a sigh.

you look up to the counter. you’ve seen her before —the barista with the glossy lips and flower name tag. sophia.

you’ve seen her smile at other people. never you. not because she’s mean. just because you’ve never given her a reason to.

you stand in line, staring at the drinks menu like it might give you a sign.

when it’s your turn, you step forward too fast, nearly bump into the display case. she glances up and smiles like she doesn’t notice your awkwardness. like she’s known you all along.

— hey. you’re usually here on fridays, right?

you blink. startled that she noticed. your mouth is slower than your brain.

— yeah, uh… i guess i just needed caffeine sooner this week.

she smiles, warm and easy.

— well, don’t we all? — she laughs. not mockingly. not like she’s uncomfortable. just warm. you look up at the menu like it might offer guidance. she tilts her head. — want me to surprise you?

— what would you recommend?

— hmm… maybe a dirty chai with oat milk and a side of emotional clarity.

you almost laugh. it comes out soft.

— can you do that?

— only the chai. emotional clarity’s a seasonal special. — she smiles to you like she just came out of a disney movie, then grabs a cup, scribbles something on the side.

you think you’ll leave it there; just a weird, slightly too-honest exchange with a stranger. but your chest is buzzing, and your mouth is tired of keeping secrets.

— can i tell you something insane?

she looks at you, curious. elbows on the counter, chin in her hand. she doesn’t look bored.

— always.

— i’m… losing my mind a little over this girl.

the words tumble out before you can pull them back.

— she… she did these things. and they’re not even big stuff. just… things that made me feel seen. and then she disappeared. not like, forever. for like a day or two. just enough to make me feel crazy. and then she’s back like nothing happened. it’s hot and then cold, you know?

you exhale. glance down. your fingers tap against the wood of the counter.

— and i believe i’ll keep letting her do it. because when she’s here, it’s… really good. and i think she’s trying. i want to believe she’s trying. but sometimes it feels like she’s just…

you don’t finish. sophia watches you for a second, then gently replies.

— you think she’s afraid?

you nod. a little too fast.

— yeah. i think she’s afraid of being loved.

— and you’re not?

— maybe. — you pause. — i think i’m more afraid of not trying.

she starts the espresso machine. the hiss and churn of it fills the silence between you.

— you know… — she says eventually. — when i was sixteen, i fell in love with someone who only called me when it rained.

you glance at her. — what?

— seriously. it would pour, and they’d text. every time. for almost a year. — she smiles, but there’s something sad behind it.

— i used to think it meant something. like maybe i reminded them of safety. or lightning. or the sound of thunder in someone else’s bed. — she shrugs. — turns out, they just didn’t like being alone when it stormed.

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. she hands you the drink. your name’s not on it; instead, she’s drawn a small sun and the words “this is a hug in a cup. :)”

— look, i don’t think your girl’s trying to hurt you. — she smiles at you sympathetically. — but sometimes people like that… they don’t know they’re pulling you under until you’ve already drowned.

your throat feels tight.

— yeah… i’m just terrified, you know?

— i know, truly. — she adds. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care.

you swallow hard. grip the cup. feel the warmth press against your palms like a second heartbeat. give her the money and don’t even bother about asking for the change. she definitely deserves it.

— thank you.

she nods, her smile making you believe for a second that she might be right. — i hope she figures it out.

you almost ask her name. then remember you already know it. so you leave the café with a little more silence in your body.

not emptiness, just space.

and of course, megan hasn’t texted back.

but you check anyway.

the studio walls on the velvet room’s backstage are mirror-lined and unforgiving. overhead, the lights buzz faintly, the kind of sound that feels like it’s echoing inside your teeth. the floor is a little sticky from last week’s sweat and glitter. it always is.

megan leans back against the barre, gum in her mouth, legs crossed at the ankle. she’s supposed to be warming up, stretching, something. instead, she watches lara in the mirror; ponytail sharp, eyeliner sharper, heels already on. lara looks like someone who bites when she loves you.

they’re rehearsing a shared number. or at least, they were supposed to be. it’s for friday’s late set: something femme fatale-coded, high energy, choreography that flirts with the edge of violence. lara had chosen the song. megan had said fine. she really didn’t care.

but her head’s not in it. not today.

she’s been messing up small things all afternoon; missing beats, forgetting transitions, zoning out mid-chorus. it’s pissing lara off. megan can feel it in the way she keeps clicking her nails against her thigh, like she’s trying not to scream.

— megan. — the indian scoffed, annoyed. — you’re two beats behind. again.

— i know.

— jesus christ, then fix it.

megan doesn’t move. she just shifts her jaw slightly, biting down harder on her gum, staring at her own reflection like it might offer her a better version of herself. it doesn’t.

lara exhales, sharp, just like her makeup.

— what the hell is going on with you today?

megan shrugs. doesn’t answer.

they’ve danced together a hundred times. shared sets, shared shots, shared nights curled into each other on lara’s couch when the world got too loud. this shouldn’t feel like a battle, but it does. today it does.

lara crosses the floor, heels clicking.

— i’m not going to babysit you through this, meg. if you can’t do the number-

— i can. — megan says it too fast. defensive. like she’s been caught bleeding.

— then act like it, god damn it. — lara counters.

— you’re off, you’re distracted, you’re… — she continues, then trails off, dragging her hands down her face. — is this about them?

silence. megan looks away. fixes her gaze on the smudge on the mirror near her hip. says nothing. lara sighs.

— okay, yeah. that’s what i thought.

megan still doesn’t speak. her throat is tight in a way she doesn’t like. lara softens, just slightly.

— you’ve been weird all week.

— no, i haven’t.

— megan.

that tone again; not angry, not pitying. worse. the one lara uses when she’s worried. and god knows how megan hates it.

she shrugs again. sits down on the floor, stretching her legs out, arms behind her for balance. her body feels too heavy. her chest even more so.

— i don’t know what i’m fucking doing. — she says, eventually.

— with them?

— with anything.

lara doesn’t laugh. doesn’t scoff. just sits next to her, their shoulders not quite touching.

— then do what you know.

megan chews her gum slower. the peppermint tastes like regret.

— it’s not that simple.

— yeah, it is.

they sit there in the silence for a beat. outside the studio, someone’s blasting music from the dressing rooms. something with too much bass, too much bravado. probably other girls who were rehearsing too. and the world keeps spinning. megan picks at her fishnets, nails chipping.

— it was supposed to be a hookup. — she says quietly. — that’s what i wanted. easy. clean. fun.

— and? — megan doesn’t answer. lara studies her, then sighs again. louder this time. more tired than angry. — ok, fine. do you wanna know what scares me?

— isn’t it, like, everything?

— cute. — lara smiled sarcastically. — but no. what scares me is watching you do what i did.

megan blinks, looking up. lara rarely goes here. not out loud. so, she paid attention.

— i felt something too, after that night with manon. — lara reluctantly said, almost swallowing her own words. — just for a second. one fucking second. like maybe i wasn’t alone in the world; maybe someone actually wanted me, not the performance. not dallas. then i ran. because that was easier. safer. and now? i keep thinking about the way she fucking caressed my hair when she thought i was asleep.

that’s the most she’s said about it since that night.

— you… really liked her? — megan stares.

— that’s not the point.

— it feels like the point.

— shut the fuck up, my point is… — she raised her voice for a second, then lowered it back again. — don’t do what i did. don’t pretend you don’t care just because you’re afraid they’ll stop.

— but what if they do?

— then at least you were honest. and you’ll survive it. like we always do.

— yeah, but that’s the point, lara. i don’t wanna survive it. — megan sighed. — i don’t know how to do it right. okay? i don’t know what they want from me. i don’t know if i can give it. i’m trying and i still fuck it up. i say something nice and then i hate myself for saying it. i feel soft and then i feel stupid. and they keep being… them. they’re so fucking kind it hurts. i hate it.

she buries her face in her hands.

— i fucking hate it.

lara watches her. eyes narrowed. something like protectiveness crests beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden.

— you don’t hate it. — she says.

megan doesn’t look up.

— you hate that it makes you want to be good.

megan scoffs. — fuck you.

— yeah, yeah.

they sit in it for a moment. the ruin of what megan isn’t saying. lara reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone.

— i’m putting something on. you’re going to breathe for five seconds and stop being a nightmare.

megan groans into her hands.

— don’t send me another thirst trap compilation.

— shut up, you love those.

— i don’t.

lara scrolls through her feed, thumb flicking fast. trying to find something dumb and distracting: a dog in pajamas, a couple falling off a paddleboard, something with sparkles. something easy.

but instead; there she is.

manon. on her screen. lips glossy, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head; the lighting is shit. but her voice is bright. and her smile’s too real. “thrift haul! let’s see how many gay crimes i can commit in one outfit!”

the screen shakes slightly as she flips the camera around. mirror shot. oversized leather trench coat. chain belt. cropped tee with a vintage graphic of the moon.

lara’s breath catches in her throat.

it’s stupid. it’s not even a hot video. she’s not dancing. not even trying.

but she looks so damn good. effortless. sharp and funny and alive. the way she talks to the camera like it’s an old friend. then lara’s hand freezes on the screen, her eyes trying their best not to roll.

— fuck.

megan glances over.

— what?

lara doesn’t answer. the video keeps playing. manon holds up a faux-fur coat with rhinestones on the collar and says “this is either a blessing or a curse and honestly i’m fine with both.”

megan snorts softly.

— you’re watching her tiktoks now?

lara swipes out of the app. shoves her phone face-down.

— it came up.

— sure.

— whatever.

megan leans back, grin small but alive now.

— do you miss her?

lara’s jaw flexes. — i miss not thinking about her.

— same.

a beat.

— so when you’re gonna tell her you left your favorite earring there?

— jesus christ, i don’t know.

— just saying. — megan shrugs, looking at the indian girl. — you’ve been debating this for three days.

— shut up. — megan just raises her brows. — i can’t just show up. it’ll look like i care.

— you do care.

— i don’t want to.

— doesn’t make it less true.

lara picks at her nail polish. chips it off in angry flakes.

— what would you do then, smart-ass?

— me?

— yeah. if it were you. if you left something in (y/n)’s bed and didn’t know how to go back for it without handing them your heart on a plate.

megan thinks for a moment. then shrugs.

— i’d probably pretend i came for the earring, then make some excuse about how i didn’t even like it that much. but really i’d just want to see them again.

lara goes still.

— well, that’s fucking stupid.

— it is.

— but also maybe i’ll do it. not like you, though. that shit’s way too emotional for me.

megan leans back on her palms. the sweat cooling on her collarbones.

— tomorrow?

— yeah. maybe.

— want me to come?

— no. — then, quieter. — i think i have to do it alone.

— well… — megan stands. brushes dust off her thighs. — you’ll be fine.

— you say that like you believe it.

— i don’t. but i say it anyway.

lara watches her stretch, watches the way her muscles flex and settle. she wonders if (y/n) notices that too. she bets they do.

this room doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a cracked glass door above a laundromat. the buzzer always broken, the hallway always smelling faintly of bleach and cheap incense. the kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what it was.

but to megan, it’s one of the only places in the city that doesn’t ask her to be anything.

the studio is warm when she steps in. humid from bodies, from movement, from the echo of whatever song was just playing. the floor is a little warped near the mirrors. the ceiling fan clicks. someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the barre like it lives there.

there are ten, maybe twelve students tonight. all kinds: a bartender with a buzzcut, two nursing students who come on their off weeks, someone who teaches yoga and always wears too many bracelets. none of them look like the girls at the velvet room. no glitter. no lashes. no faking.

here, sweat is just sweat. not spectacle.

the instructor plays a low-tempo r&b track and starts calling out warmups, but it’s loose. no one’s here to impress anyone. just to move. to let their bodies be something besides currency.

megan sheds her hoodie and finds a spot near the corner. she ties her hair up in a quick knot and lets her shoulders roll back, the ache of the day bleeding slowly down her spine. there’s no choreography yet, just a long stretch of breath and flow. hips shifting, ankles loosening, torsos bending with the music. she lets herself get lost in it. or she tries to.

but her head’s still full of you.

still looping back to the texts, the silences between them. still thinking about the way you looked that first night in your apartment; nervous, knees bouncing, wearing that one jacket and trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding. the way you listened. the way you didn’t run.

she hates that she keeps thinking about you like this. like she’s seventeen again and still thinks crushes are a kind of religion.

but she does. and it’s starting to show.

— hey, stranger. you’re late.

sophia’s voice breaks the loop. megan turns, and there she is: perched near the windows, stretching her legs in her usual half-graceful way, hair braided tight down her back, tank top tucked into carefully chosen leggings. she always looks like she walked out of a painting and into a dance class. megan hates how comforting that is.

— wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.

— fair enough.

they fall into their usual rhythm, stretching near each other, no real pressure to talk, just syncing up. sophia’s already glancing at her in that quiet, knowing way, like she’s waiting for the admission she knows is coming.

megan stalls for a while. bends. breathes. watches her reflection in the mirror and tries not to think about whether you’d still look at her the same if you saw her here.

the instructor cues up a guided improv drill. everyone’s scattered around the room now, moving to the rhythm without mirrors, facing inward. it’s not about precision. it’s about emotion. presence. release.

megan dances like she’s trying to remember what her body is for. not performance. not seduction. not survival.

just hers.

soft shoulders. open arms. eyes half-closed. but she still feels off, even after her conversation with lara. like something’s humming wrong in her ribcage.

when the exercise ends, everyone collapses to the floor or leans on the barre. the lights are dimmed now. the window’s cracked, letting in the smell of street food and summer sweat.

she and sophia drift to the corner together. they sit, legs sprawled, water bottles pressed to their necks. and after a long pause, megan decided to, for once, take the first step.

— i met someone.

sophia doesn’t flinch. just raises a brow. megan fidgets with the label on her bottle, eyes on her fingers.

— i didn’t mean to. it was supposed to be… nothing. or fun. or whatever. but they’re… — she shakes her head. — they’re soft. and sharp. like, smart but quiet about it. and they made me feel like i mattered. not just… existed.

sophia watches her. not judging, never. just absorbing.

— well, that sounds terrifying. — she says, soft smile tugging at her lips.

— it is.

— and?

— and i don’t know what to do with it.

megan leans back on her elbows, the floor still warm beneath her. the ceiling above her spins gently. her voice drops.

— they’re a college student, sophia. good kid, the kind of person who plays those weird medieval games with dices on their mom’s basement. and i’m… me. a girl who strips three nights a week because her life didn’t turned out the way she planned.

megan stopped for a second; sophia just listened.

— and i keep thinking they’re gonna wake up and realize what this is. what i am. and they’ll go tell their friends “oh yeah, remember when i hooked up with that stripper?” — she scoffed. — like i’m gonna be their edgy college rebellion they survived.

after a couple of seconds, sophia said softly, the only way she knew how.

— you know, i met someone at work today. — she says, voice warm, then megan looks over.

— just a customer. we barely talked. i made them some chai, poor thing looked like they were carrying the weight of the world in a canvas tote bag. didn’t even realize how much they were spilling until they were halfway through their order. said something about someone being distant, magnetic and scary in a beautiful way.

megan goes still. then sophia smiles, small.

— i gave them this exact advice. so i’m giving it to you too. — sophia held megan’s hand and squeezed it slightly. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care. and if they care, they’ll stay. not because you made it easy. but because you were real.

megan exhales through her nose. the kind of breath that’s half-sob, half-surrender. — but what if i ruin it?

— then you learn. and try again. and live. — sophia said, as if the solution to this problem was simple and easy. — but maybe; just maybe, you don’t ruin it. maybe you get it right this time around.

megan doesn’t answer. she picks at her knee. there’s a scar there from rollerblading in sixth grade. her skin’s always trying to remind her of who she was. sophia speaks again, quieter now.

— i know you think being seen is dangerous. but maybe this time it’s just being loved.

megan feels something lodge in her throat. her heart hiccups. she bites the inside of her cheek.

— i keep waiting for them to change their mind.

— have they given you any reason to think they will?

— no.

— then stop making yourself suffer in advance. go a little easier on yourself, huh?

megan’s quiet for a long time. just the sound of music switching again in the background, bodies stretching, someone cracking their back.

— should i text them?

sophia gives her a look.

— you already know the answer, honey.

megan pulls out her phone. the screen glows too bright. your last text is still there, soft and patient.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

she stares at it like it might respond if she waits long enough.

— i want to see them. — she says, mostly to herself. sophia smiles, almost proudly.

— so ask them out.

megan types. deletes. types again. tries a hundred different combinations of words.

megan: wanna get food tomorrow?

megan: not a date. don’t be weird about it.

she shows sophia.

— pathetic?

— very. — sophia grins. — they’re gonna love it.

megan stares a moment longer. then hits send.

the message floats away like a dare.

she locks her phone. presses it to her chest. breathes deep.

— fuck, i’m gonna hate myself if this goes bad.

— no, you won’t.

— why?

— because this time you’re not disappearing first.

megan doesn’t answer. just stares at the ceiling, where the fan keeps spinning, and lets the soft ache of hope settle into her sternum like something earned.

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