#how to stop rusting under car

[calypso-rt]

the other side

corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

You don’t notice him at first.

You’re too busy swearing at your flat tire and digging through your bag with growing frustration, nails clicking against your phone as the screen flashes no signal for the third time. Your blazer’s too warm, your heels are killing you, and the corner you’re stranded on smells faintly of motor oil and something vaguely fried.

The city has never felt so uninterested in your existence.

You sigh, stepping back from your car with your arms crossed and your patience unraveling thread by thread.

That’s when you hear it, boots on pavement. The low hum of a country song bleeding from someone’s parked truck. And then a voice, casual and rough-edged, like gravel under honey:

“Looks like your Beemer didn’t get the memo she’s not built for potholes.”

You glance up.

He’s leaning against a rusted pickup parked across the street, arms folded, expression unreadable. T-shirt stained with oil, work gloves shoved in the back pocket of his jeans. Blonde hair messy, sunlit at the tips. A smear of something dark across one pretty cheekbone. Tan, toned forearms. Smirking like he knows something you don’t.

You look him over. Slowly.

Then back to your tire.

“I’m fine,” you say, like it’s a full sentence.

He doesn’t move. Just raises a brow. “Sure you are. Just figured I’d offer. But hey, maybe she’ll fix herself outta sheer respect.”

You narrow your eyes. “You work at that garage over there?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m just loitering, intimidating rich girls for fun.”

Your mouth twitches before you can help it. “How charming.”

He shrugs. “That’s what they say.”

There’s a pause. The wind picks up, ruffling the collar of your crisp, white shirt and his dirtied t-shirt in opposite directions.

Finally, you cave. Just a little.

“You know how to change a tire?”

Rafe grins like he’s been waiting for you to ask. He doesn’t ask for permission. Just tosses his rag onto the sidewalk, drops into a crouch beside your tire, and whistles low under his breath.

“Well, well. You really did a number on her.”

“She hit a pothole.”

“She hit a crater,” he says, fingers brushing the rim. “That wheel’s crying for its mother.”

You hover beside him, unsure of where to stand. You’ve never been this close to grease before, real grease. The kind that stains fingernails and smells like summer heat and sweat and long hours. The kind that doesn’t wash off easy.

He glances up at you once, just once, and grins. “Relax, corporate. I won’t bill you for breathing the same air.”

Your mouth opens. Then shuts again.

“I don’t work for you,” he adds. “I work around you. Big difference.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your silence makes him chuckle. He returns to the tire, tools out, movements fast and practiced. Like he’s done this a thousand times and could do it blindfolded with a cigarette in his mouth and still make it look easy.

You shift, arms crossed again, watching as his t-shirt rides up just a little when he reaches for the jack. His back muscles flex beneath sun-bleached cotton. His knuckles are scraped. There's a thin scar on his forearm, like a brushstroke of silver across the tan.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking.

You bristle. “I’m observing.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

“I don’t appreciate being called that.”

“Noted.”

A beat.

Then, softly, “You don’t stop me, though.”

You pretend you didn’t hear that.

He finishes fast. You blink and suddenly the car’s lowered, the spare tire’s on, and he’s wiping his hands on that tragic-looking rag again, standing upright and stretching until you hear something in his back crack.

“All good,” he says, stepping back. “Should get you home fine. Maybe don’t go joyridin' over sinkholes next time.”

You exhale. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.

He looks at you then, really looks. And for the first time, the teasing fades. Just a flicker. Just long enough for something else to settle in its place.

“You’re welcome.”

You reach into your bag automatically, but he lifts a hand.

“Don’t.”

“It’s just—”

“No charge,” he says. “Wasn’t work. Just help.”

You pause. “Still. I’d like to do something.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out. Then, with a lopsided grin, “Then do somethin’. Surprise me.”

...

You don’t even know why you’re doing it.

You tell yourself it’s gratitude. Courtesy. Basic manners. The way you were raised.

You tell yourself you’re not doing anything special when you order two sandwiches from that café your coworkers love, the one with the flaky bread and too-many adjectives on the menu. You even get lemonade. The good kind, fresh-squeezed and slightly overpriced.

It’s just a thank you. That’s all.

You keep telling yourself that as you drive fifteen minutes out of the glass-and-steel part of town (the financial district where you work), past the manicured sidewalks and into something rougher. Older. Sun-beaten and rusted. Potholes and chain link fences. Cigarette smoke curling lazily from a stoop. A teenage boy tosses a basketball toward a hoop that’s missing its net.

Your heels clack against the uneven pavement as you walk. Every step sounds too loud. Your dress is all clean lines and quiet wealth, and you feel it, the contrast. You’re a silk ribbon in a world of grit.

You find the garage easy enough. You recognize the truck parked out front. His truck. And he’s there.

Half under a car, all grease-smudged arms and rolled-up sleeves, one boot planted on the ground, the other leg bent as he slides further under.

“Rafe?” you call, voice a little uncertain.

A pause. The sound of a socket wrench stopping mid-turn.

And then, from beneath the car, a familiar voice, lazy and warm, like sunlight through old blinds.

“Well, look who’s wandered down from Olympus.”

You cross your arms. “I brought you lunch.”

A metallic clatter. Then he’s sliding out on the creeper, blinking up at you like he’s not sure you’re real. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, your hair pulled back, your heels dusted from the walk, your fingers curled around a brown paper bag like it’s something holy. Like you’re something holy.

“You get lost on the way to brunch, sweetheart?” he drawls finally, lips twitching.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I thought you might want a sandwich.”

“You thought right.”

He sits up, wiping his hands on a rag that looks even worse than the last one. You hand him the bag, and when his fingers brush yours, warm, rough, real, you pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He peeks inside. “This from one of your fancy spots?”

“God forbid,” you say dryly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your street cred.”

Rafe grins, all teeth and trouble. “You’re startin’ to sound like me, corporate. I’m a bad influence.”

“I’m aware.”

He eats sitting on the bumper of the truck, feet planted wide, watching you through his lashes between bites. You sit beside him carefully. The heat of the metal seeps through your dress. His shoulder is warm next to yours, sun-baked and solid.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” he says after a moment, voice lower now.

“I know.”

He glances sideways. “But you did.”

You don’t look at him. Instead, you trace the edge of your lemonade cup with one perfectly manicured nail. “You helped me. I was trying to be decent.”

“Mm. That what this is?” His gaze lingers, a little too long.

You finally look back. There’s something different in his eyes now...not amusement. Not laziness. Just…interest. Direct and undistracted.

“You sure ’s not curiosity?” he adds, voice barely above a hum. “Maybe you wanted to see what kinda place a guy like me crawls back to.”

You hold his gaze. “And what kind of place is that?”

He shrugs. “One where you don’t belong.”

You raise your chin, defiant. “Maybe I do.”

He laughs, low and disbelieving. “You’re wearin’ thousand-dollar shoes and talk like you’ve got an assistant named Margot.”

“She’s called Alexa, actually.”

“Of course she is.” He finishes the last bite of his sandwich. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“So are you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

And he freezes.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

But enough. A hitch in his breath. A flicker in his expression. Like maybe he’s been called a lot of things, but not that. You stand up, brushing nonexistent dust from your skirt. The moment breaks like glass under a heel.

“I should get back,” you say.

He nods once, slowly.

“Hey,” he calls just as you’re walking back to your car.

You pause, turn.

Rafe’s leaning against the truck again, arms crossed, head tilted. That same half-smile playing on his lips, but softer this time. Thoughtful.

“You ever get tired of boardrooms and bullshit, you know where to find me.”

You arch a brow. “And what would I find, exactly?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

A/N: they're my new obsession

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - physical abuse, mentions of kidnapping, themes of marking/ownership. based on this ask.

Suguru has your name tattooed just below his collarbone.

It's subtle. Black ink pressed into neat kanji, bold lettering camouflaged behind the swirls and patterns of his other designs. Yours emerges from the back of a brilliant, white and blue dragon, while Satoru's hangs below, settled into the spiraling pupil of the dragon's eye. You try not to look for it. Really, you try not to look at him at all, but he makes it difficult - always forcing your hand against his chest, always asking you to read out the only names that have or will ever matter to him. It might be a little more romantic if he didn't seem so proud, if he didn't purr out his affirmations of love with quite so much self-satisfaction. He wants evidence of his claim to you, of his right to you, and what could be more telling than carrying your name so close to his heart?

Satoru wears two wedding rings.

Technically four, if you count the engagement bands he keeps on a delicate silver chain around his neck. It's embarrassing, honestly. He'd always been the one to propose - first to Suguru, when they were fresh out of high school, then to you, on the first anniversary of your abduction. The two of you aren't actually married (no, they'd never let you stray far enough from their countryside estate for that), but Satoru likes to pretend, and Suguru likes to indulge him. He calls you by all the right terms of endearment, brings home cake and flowers every few weeks for some invented milestone, whines when he finds your rarely-worn ring stuffed under the mattress or broken into pieces on the floor. He's always wanted something domestic, something mutual. Your continued imprisonment may eliminate any hope for the latter, but he can still try to nudge you towards the former.

They've both carved their names into you.

Suguru's, first, stretching over the small of your back. The lines are jagged, the scarring ugly and only just beginning to heal around the roughest patches. He did it on impulse - as a punishment for trying to run away, as proof that you'd never really be able to get away from them. He wanted to make himself a part of you, and in a way, he did.

Satoru's had to be inflicted later on, after weeks of building jealousy and off-handed comments about how unfair it would be to leave you so lopsided. His name was handled more with more care - engraved in your shared bedroom rather than the back of Suguru's car, using a proper scalpel rather than a rusted pocket knife. Suguru held you while Satoru did the dirty work, nuzzling into your tear-streaked cheeks and promising that they were only doing this because they loved you, because they had to make sure you knew who you belonged with. That did nothing to stop the pain, of course, almost as intense as the bitter hatred you feel every time Satoru presses a line of kisses up the length of your spine or Suguru settles a hand over the ruined mess of skin and flesh that you once called your own. Satoru holds up his rings to your scars, and Suguru offers to get another line of ink, and they try to convince you that you're all on equal ground. You're not, though. Obviously, you're not.

As violently as they refuse to admit it, Satoru can take off his rings, and Suguru can cover up his tattoos. Your claims to them can be removed, or hidden, and if they ever wanted to, they could leave, separate themselves, run.

For whatever reason, you just weren't given the same choice.

[littlejoels]

you’d kissed art right there in front of everyone. just one hand curled at the back of his sweaty neck, lips brushing his cheekbone before slipping lower, a whisper of good luck, baby, warm against the hollow beneath his ear. you could feel how tight his shoulders were, barely coiled tension, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare—not when lily was clinging to your leg, babbling about something sticky she’d touched in the car.

he was always so good before matches. eyes dipping, pretty cheeks a little pink, and that desperate undercurrent vibrating in his voice like he was seconds away from crumbling under your hand, even in public. God, you loved watching him choke it down.

but you had to pee. badly.

so you took lily’s small hand, waved him off like you weren’t tracking every line of strain on his pretty face, and made your way up to the concourse. it smelled like popcorn and testosterone while the bathrooms were the usual disaster: fluorescent lights flickering, water pooling on tile like it had no drain to go to, some poor mom yelling at her kid in the next stall. lily held your phone while you peed and lectured you about not washing your hands long enough. you humored her, dried your palms on your tight jeans, and stepped back out.

and there he was. patrick zwieg.

“you’re outnumbered today,” he joked, eyes dropping to lily, “whole damn team of girls in your corner.”

you laughed, because he was right, and because he looked so tired, and sad lately. making you want to hug him without thinking, and that’s what you did—arms tight, chin over his shoulder, hands squeezing like you were trying to will your affection into his bones. and he hugged back, enjoying every second.

you had no idea art saw it. no idea that from the sidelines he froze mid-stretch, one leg up on the bench, watching your arms wrapped around patrick like you were comforting a soldier back from war. you had no idea how green he went, the flush that crawled up his throat not from exertion but from jealousy, from that choking curl of possessive panic. and he didn’t say a word about it.

he played like his life depended on it. like he was ripping the court apart piece by piece and offering it to you. he barely acknowledged the crowd, barely let anyone touch him, not even when fans tried to hug him. he just came straight for you, sweaty and heaving. he kissed lily’s head, nodded stiffly at patrick, and looped his arm around your waist with his hand low, too low for a normal art post-game pat. you felt the heat in him. the tight, cold possessiveness boiling behind his silence. he wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

you didn’t tease him about it, scared you might wake up a unfriendly beast. you were quiet the whole drive, though your palm stroked slow circles into his thigh while he white-knuckled the wheel. he dropped lily at tashi’s with a polite kiss to her cheek and a forced thank you honey for coming with me, and the second the car door slammed shut behind you two again, he snapped.

you didn’t even make it two steps in the house before he was on you, hand fisted tight in the back of your shirt, dragging you back against him like he needed you to feel how hard he was.

“what the fuck was that,” he whispered.

you blinked slow, playing dumb. “what was what?”

he let out a rough, shaky breath against your neck. “no. don’t do that.”

you turned in his grip, gripped his jaw. “do what, artie?”

his throat bobbed when he swallowed. his voice was quiet, but it trembled with rage and desperation. “that thing you do. where you act like you didn’t know. like it didn’t mean anything..like i didn’t watch you wrap your arms around him like he fucking belonged to you.”

you tilted your head, studying him. “patrick?”

he groaned and pulled away, like the name tasted like rust in his mouth. “God, stop saying his fucking name, please, i can’t—i can’t hear you say it again. not when i can’t get the hug out of my head.”

“you’re being ridiculous.”

“i know,” he said instantly, half-laughing, half on the verge of tears. “i know i am. i know you didn’t mean anything by it, but it doesn’t fucking matter because i felt like my lungs collapsed. i saw you with him and i—i couldn’t breathe. i couldn’t fucking think.”

you leaned back against the wall and crossed your arms, watching him. he was pacing now, fingers threading through his hair, talking so fast the words tripped over each other.

“it’s just—the way you looked at him. like you cared. like you missed him. i know you’re allowed to have friends, i know you’re allowed to hug whoever the fuck you want, i know that, but i just stood there watching and i swear i felt something crack'd open inside me and i—”

he stopped mid-sentence and turned to face you again, chest heaving, lips parted like he was waiting to be punished or kissed. or maybe both.

“i’m sick,” he said quietly. “i’m fucking sick with you.”

you walked toward him slowly, hands sliding up under his shirt as you went. his skin twitched under your palms like you were cold. he didn’t even move, just stared at you like a starving thing, breathing hard.

“then show me how sick you are.”

“i will..anything—i’ll do anything.” his voice broke in a way that made your core throb with lust and admiration. “i don’t want to be right about this. i want you to tell me i’m being crazy. i want you to hurt me for thinking it. i want you to remind me i’m yours because i feel so fucking lost when you look at someone else for more than a second—”

“jesus, art.”

he grabbed your wrist, pressed it hard to his chest, over his racing heart. “you don’t get it. you don’t feel like this. i—i don’t want anyone else. i don’t even look at anyone else. it’s you, it’s only you, it’s always been you, and i’ll beg on my knees if that’s what you want, just please tell me that hug didn’t mean anything. tell me you didn’t want him to touch you back.”

“of course it didn’t mean anything. it was a fucking hug, art. what, you think he can make me cum with just his arms?” you snap.

he whimpered like you’d slapped him and dropped to his knees right there on the carpet, hands clutching at your hips.

“no. no, i know. i know he can’t. no one can. just you. please, let me prove it—”

“prove it how?”

he looked up at you, eyes glassy, mouth open,“anything. let me worship you. let me fuckin’ stay down here forever. tell me i’m pathetic. tell me i’m yours. i want you to say it while i’m choking on it.”

you grinned. “you want to choke?”

he nodded violently, already mouthing at the inside of your thigh like it would make you merciful. “on you. only you. i wanna gag on your hand while you tell me you’d never let someone like him have you. i want to feel you angry. just—mark me up so i can feel it for days. make me bleed if you want, i don’t care. i need to feel you on me. in me.”

you grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, loving the whimper it dragged from his throat. “look at you. you jealous little bitch.”

his breath hitched. “yes. yes, i am. i don’t want to share you, not even your fucking hugs.”

“then maybe you should keep me too busy to touch anyone else.”

“i will. i will. i’ll be better. i’ll be your best. just—please. please, baby.”

you pushed your fingers into his mouth, watched his eyes flutter shut as he moaned around them. and this time when he begged, it wasn’t with words.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa @tinythebunni

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Grease & Rust

Fandom: Marvel (Car Mechanic AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You have an old car that constantly gives you issues, but you refuse to get a new one. If you did, that meant you wouldn't be able to see your favorite mechanic as much.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

The tow truck lowers your car on the lot of Barnes Auto Shop. Bucky stands there with his hands on his hips looking disapprovingly.

You hop out of the tow truck and give him a sheepish grin, "Heeeey, Bucky."

He groans as he approaches you, "Sweetheart, you're killin' me here! Just get a new car, please!"

"No way! Angel still has some life in her!" you pat the top of the pale blue Ford Anglia. It was your grandpa's car. He loved that thing and left it to you in his will when he passed. You couldn't give up Angel. Giving her up would mean giving up the last piece you had for your grandpa.

Bucky sighs and looks at Angel, "Looks like Angel is on her last legs, if you ask me."

You narrow your eyes and cross your arms over your chest, "Hey, I'm giving you business, Barnes."

He chuckles and steps closer to you, "What you're giving me is a headache, sweetheart," he pecks you lips, "You're taking advantage of me and my business!"

You playfully roll your eyes, "Oh please. You and I both know this is mutually beneficial. I get my car fixed and you get amazing head from me," you give him a wink and he shakes his head.

He gives another deep chuckle and pats your butt, "Go take a seat while I look under the hood."

"Can you look under my hood after?" you ask with smirk.

"If you behave!" he says with a laugh.

___________________________

You watch Bucky with interest as he leans over the hood of your car. Turns out, you ran out of oil. So nothing too bad that needed to be fixed.

"Stop eye-fucking me. It's distracting," he says with a grin.

You grin back, "Can't help it. You know how I love my men all rugged and covered in grease. Every woman's fantasy."

After your car was topped off, Bucky turned on the engine. It took a few tries, but Angel roared back to life.

You hop off the stool you occupied with glee, "She liiiiives!" You wrap your arms around Bucky and peck his stubbled cheek, "Thank you, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, but seriously, you need to get a new car. I'm not saying get rid of Angel. It's just...it'd ease my heart and mind knowing you're driving a well-trusted car."

You give him a sigh, "I know. My grandpa-"

"I know. If it makes you feel any better, we can keep Angel here. Put her on display and you can drive her around the lot just to keep her going."

"I'll think about it," you say, a part of you already coming to terms with parting from Angel.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he mumbles and kisses your lips, "Now...about that payment..." he alludes with a smirk and dark mischief in his eyes.

[yeyinde]

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

[cameronsbabydoll]

BUFFALO 66 AU — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — kidnapping, mean!rafe, psycho!rafe

the first thing rafe notices about the world outside is how loud it is.

five years gone, and everything feels too much. the sky’s too blue. the cars too fast. people moving like they’ve got somewhere to be, like they belong here.

he doesn’t.

not anymore.

the bus that dumped him on the edge of town rattles off in a cloud of exhaust, leaving him standing alone on the side of the road. one duffel bag slung over his shoulder. stale cigarettes in his pocket. no real plan except revenge and maybe a place to lay low.

and then — you.

he sees you across the street, outside some little diner that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 80s. big windows. neon signs. and there you are — standing by a payphone like you're waiting on a call that’s never coming.

soft. sweet. pretty in a way that stings.

you don't fit here either.

he clocks it instantly — the way your skirting brushes against your knees when the breeze picks up, how your eyes dart nervously down the road like you’re hoping someone shows. nobody does.

rafe watches from the shadows, chewing on the inside of his cheek, weighing the thought in his head like it’s dangerous to even think it.

he needs a girl.

not just for tonight. not just for company.

he needs a story. someone waiting for him. someone believable enough to get him through what’s coming next. family stuff. old scores. no one’s gonna question a man coming home if he’s got a girl beside him — especially a girl like you.

innocent. gentle. exactly the kind of girl a guy like him shouldn’t have.

that’s what’ll sell it.

and maybe—maybe that’s what makes him want it more.

you glance over your shoulder, nervous.

that little heart-shaped face. big doe eyes like you’ve never been scared a day in your life.

he wonders if anyone’s ever taught you to be careful.

bet they haven’t.

bet you trust too easy.

bet you wouldn’t even scream.

rafe shifts his weight, adjusting the strap of his bag, moving slow across the street like a man who’s already made up his mind.

this is happening.

he watches you tuck your phone away. watches your shoulders slump like you’ve given up waiting.

good.

you’re not going anywhere.

not without him.

it happens fast.

one second, you're staring down at your phone — thumb hovering like maybe you'll text someone — and the next?

he's on you.

big hands — rough, calloused, smelling like cigarettes and sweat — wrapping around your arm so tight it knocks the breath outta your lungs.

“hey—”

that's all you get out. just hey, small and confused, before you're hauled back — your feet sliding against cracked pavement, little shoes scraping helplessly like that’s gonna stop him.

“shh. don’t,” rafe grits low in your ear, voice dark like gravel. “don’t make this harder, baby.”

it’s not tender. it’s not careful.

it’s desperate.

he’s dragging you like luggage, like dead weight, across the empty lot — your baby blue dress twisted up in his fist, delicate straps digging into your skin. purse clattering to the ground. phone skidding under a car.

nobody sees.

nobody hears.

the diner hums quiet behind you, neon lights flickering like nothing's wrong.

he shoves you toward a beat-up car parked crooked along the curb — some old, shitty, rust-bit thing that smells like gas and leather. the door's already open. like he knew this was how it’d go.

“get in.” sharp. final.

and when you freeze — stupid, scared, heart beating outta your chest — he curses under his breath, grabs a fistful of that soft dress again and lifts you like you're nothing.

“i said get in.”

you hit the seat hard, palms scrambling against the dashboard, wide eyes glinting wet like you're about to cry — but all he does is slam the door shut behind you. the car rocks with the force.

by the time you fumble for the handle, he’s already inside, locking the doors with one rough click. trapping you there with him.

you look at him like he’s crazy.

maybe he is.

rafe glances over at you — breathing heavy, jaw tight — eyes dragging slow over the tear in your dress, the way your lip trembles like you’re still trying to understand what just happened.

pretty little thing.

way too soft for this world.

way too soft for him.

“shoulda kept walking, angel,” he mutters, starting the engine.

the car growls to life beneath you both — loud and mean — peeling away from the curb like the start of something you won't be able to come back from.

[mangooes]

Fast, Fatal, and Flirty

The ticking of the bomb was the only thing (Name) heard in that moment. Her hands moved swiftly, steady fingers dancing between wires as her mind calculated every possible detonation trigger. A drop of sweat slid down her temple as she whispered,

“Red, green, blue—definitely not yellow… unless this guy’s color blind, which—”

Snip.

The countdown froze at three seconds.

She exhaled. “Boom, you’re disarmed, sweetheart,” she muttered, brushing her fingers along the side of the explosive. “Not today.”

She straightened, only to nearly choke when a familiar voice drawled casually from behind.

“Well, well. Look what my pretty kitten’s been up to.”

(Name) spun around. “SYLUS?!”

Leaning against the rusted frame of the abandoned warehouse door, in his signature jacket and leather pants, stood her husband, grinning like he’d just stepped out of a vacation brochure titled ‘How to Look Sinisterly Sexy While Crashing Your Wife’s Job.’

He tilted his head. “You didn’t invite me to the party?”

“You—how the hell—why are you here?!”

“I was in the neighborhood.” He glanced at the disarmed bomb. “And my wife was playing with fireworks. Thought I’d stop by before you got yourself turned into confetti.”

“Pfft, confetti? I’m flattered. I had it all under control.”

Sylus shrugged, walking toward her. “You say that, but I just saw you nearly blow your face off.”

“Three seconds left! That’s called flair!”

“More like playing with death.”

Before she could throw a wrench at him, a burst of gunfire cracked through the warehouse walls.

“Oh for the love of—” (Name) grabbed Sylus’s wrist and bolted. “Not the time! Move your ass big guy!”

Outside, a sleek black getaway car idled a block away. (Name) practically threw Sylus into the passenger seat, jumped into the driver’s side, and hit the gas.

Tires screamed as the car surged forward, bullets pinging off the rear bumper. The side mirror shattered. (Name) gritted her teeth.

Sylus turned to her mid-chase, the city blurring outside the window, and smirked. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of enjoying this?”

(Name) kicked him.

“Ow? You wound me sweetie.”

“This is not a date, Sysy!”

He just laughed, the wind tousling his white hair. “Admit it, kitten. It’s fun when we do it together.”

Behind them, two black SUVs swerved in, engines roaring. (Name) cursed and jerked the wheel, drifting between narrow alleyways.

“They’re tailing us hard,” Sylus noted, tone a little too cheerful for someone in a high-speed chase.

“You think?!” She stuck her head out the window for a moment. “Damn it, I’m gonna need a better angle—“

Without a word, (Name) kicked her heel off, propped her foot onto the wheel to steer (what kind of ungodly core strength—) and climbed halfway out the window, dual pistols raised.

“Sweetie, I know you’re a badass, but this isn’t—holy shit—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Shots rang through the night. The first SUV swerved, smoke billowing from the engine. The second clipped a fire hydrant, water geysering as it spun out.

(Name) flipped her hair over her shoulder as she slid back into the seat, still steering with one leg.

Sylus stared at her, absolutely delighted. “That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all month.”

She gave him side-eye. “Oh so you think I’m not hot everyday?”

“That’s not what I meant, kitten.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him down, one hand on the steering wheel. Leaning toward him as she was about to plant him a sweet treat, Sylus immediately pulled her head toward his chest as a stray bullet brushed past them, hitting the car window.

“Oh, someone’s eager to die.” His brows furrowed, a frown on his face.

More gunfire. A third car appeared.

“I’m ending this,” Sylus muttered, cracking his knuckles.

Before (Name) could stop him, he slipped out the window—because of course he did—and vanished mid-air in a swirl of black and crimson mist.

“SYLUS!” she shouted. “I SWEAR TO—”

BOOM.

The third car suddenly flipped, landing on its roof. One heartbeat later, Sylus reappeared in the passenger seat, dusting off his jacket with all the calm of a man who just walked out of a bakery.

“Taken care of.”

“You reckless idiot!” (Name) snapped, slamming on the brakes to drift the car into a side alley.

“You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t have to teleport onto a moving car! What if you missed?! What if your timing was off by one second?!”

Sylus looked so smug. “Please. I’m offended you think I’d miss. Besides, I wasn’t about to let you hog all the fun.” Hands moving up in a surrender motion.

(Name) pressed a hand to her forehead, sighing. “I am never letting you come on my missions again.”

“Sure, kitten.” He grinned. “Right after we continue where we left off earlier. Kiss me.”

“Ugh, shut up.” But her cheeks flushed despite herself.

Sylus leaned in, voice low. “Come on now, you weren’t this shy earlier.”

“What?”

“I make a good getaway partner. I got rid of the bug disturbing us. Shouldn’t I get a reward for being such a good boy—”

Before Sylus could finish his sentence, a warm sensation washed over him as the feeling of soft lips pressed against his in a gentle manner.

As they pulled apart, she smiled at him.

“…Thank you,” she muttered.

He chuckled and slung an arm over her shoulder. “You’re always welcome, sweetie. I’ve told you to use me as you please, no?”

And as the two of them sped into the night, back toward safety and another probable argument involving hidden explosives and missed briefings, Sylus was already planning how to crash her next mission—just for the thrill of hearing her yell and the reward of that rare, breathless laugh that only she gave him.

UM HAVE U GUYS SEEN THE NEW MAIN STORY SYLUS OH MY GOD I SCREAMED IM AKJANKJENIEHBRIRBI HES SO HOT OMG SYLUS RAFGH RAFGH AAAAAAAAAA TAKE ME ON A JOYRIDE PLS SYLUS JUST ONE CHANCE MY BABY SHAYLA

[teddiesworldd]

after the world ends.

ghost finds you out in the woods during a zombie outbreak and falls in love with you. (2.6K words) read part 2 here!!!

a/n: this idea has been on my mind for a while and it was so sweet i just had to write it down and share it with you <3 also, if you'd like to be added to a taglist, let me know!

pairing: simon ghost riley x female reader

tags/warnings: nsfw, mdni!!, apocalypse au, mentions of weapons, killing (zombies), survival situation, unprotected p in v sex, cute fluffy stuff in the middle of a zombie apocalypse because why not?!, soap makes an appearance

day 17 of the apocalypse, 3 weeks after the first outbreak.

you had lasted this long purely by camping out in the back of your car, driving somewhere more remote to avoid the infected and rationing whatever you'd managed to bring in from your kitchen at the beginning of it all. but as supplies got low and you were down to your last water bottle, you were forced to venture out into the nearby woodland, gathering whatever you could forage from the streams and bushes. you knew absolutely nothing about surviving out here. you couldn’t hunt and could barely light a fire. the first day of winter was in less than a month and you had no real shelter to keep you warm. you had no idea which berries were safe to eat or how to filter water. all you had was your kitchen silverware for protection and your best winter jacket for the weather.

you’d last about 2 weeks out here at best, and that’s without the fucking zombies. 

you'd been walking for about an hour since leaving your car, and to be honest, you didn’t think you could find your way back now. everything looked the same. you had found only a pocketful of what you could only guess was edible, and a protein bar from the pocket of a dead guy’s jeans. every single noise scared the hell out of you. and the bite marks on his neck raised your adrenaline tenfold. 

thud. thud. snap.

footsteps. sticks breaking underfoot. 

“who’s there?” you called out. “i’m- i’m serious, come any closer and… and… i’ll kill you!”, shouting now, cold hand gripping your rusted kitchen knife tightly.

you saw a huge figure behind the trunk of a nearby tree, and he chuckled lowly at your brave attempt to scare him away. “you don’t scare me, sweetheart”, the voice said, deep and rough, walking out from behind the tree, “thought y'were a rabbit or something - cute lil' thing, rustling in those bushes. and if i was infected, you’d be dead by now, with a mouth on you like that.”

he was an absolute giant of a man, 6 and a half foot at least and built like a brick shithouse. he was in full military gear, skull mask over his face, armed with a rifle in hand and knives strapped to his chest and belt. he approached you slowly, palms facing you like he was trying not to spook a stray cat. part of you wondered if you were hallucinating - you'd not been sleeping well from the nightmares of the infected night after night.

“no use shouting, anyway - they’ll find you straight away making all that noise.” he continued, leaves crunching under his black boots, walking closer, “what’s a girl like you doing out 'ere, all alone?”

you were frozen in place, like a deer in headlights. he was already intimidating as fuck without the massive armoury hanging round his waist, but now he was so close you could feel his breath on your face. a thought crossed your mind that if he tried to kill you now, there would be absolutely nothing you could do to stop him. it made a shiver run down your back.

his gloved hand reached out to hold your chin. you looked up at him, eyes welling up from the pure fear that ran through you.

“lost?” he said quietly, tilting his head to get a proper look at you. 

you nodded slowly.

“well, you won’t get far with that old thing, love” he smirked through the mask, eyeing the blade in your hand. “here, i’ll take you back to camp with me, make you a proper meal, yeah? when did you eat last?”

you engaged in some light small talk on the way, finding out he was called “ghost” and he used to serve in a special operations unit for a private military company. i guess it made sense that the best survivors would be the soldiers. you mentioned how you’d been living in your car for the past two weeks, which seemed to amuse him. he probably thought you were just some dumb girl who’d somehow managed to scrape through until now.

he wasn’t wrong, really.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

his camp was much nicer than the back of your car. 

it wasn't far from where he'd found you. they had lots of weapons and food and beds. and people. there must of been about 10 men in total. the infected weren’t really an issue with their impressive arsenal. there was a large fence surrounding the camp and the men took it in turns to kill anything that tried getting inside. it was pretty clear that ghost was closest to one of the other ex-military guys called "soap". they sat together when they ate and stayed up late at night talking together around the fire - matching dog tags glinting in the dim light. you often watched them through your tent door - enjoying their company but not wanting to interrupt their conversation. you listened as they talked deeply, recounting their time serving together, telling stories of bravery and bloodshed. it became your routine to fall asleep listening to them.

after about 3 or 4 weeks, following the first snowfall, you’d adjusted to life in the camp. soap had taught you a few things and often spent the mornings taking you hunting or showing you how to use the guns - a hand on your waist as he lined you up for the kill shot. he had a sweet nature and silly charm to him, telling you ridiculous jokes that only made you laugh because they were so stupid. you would never tell him that though - he thought you found him hilarious.

however, it was ghost you’d grown closest to, giving you anything and everything you needed. he was mysterious and that drew you to him. one time, he took you down to the river to wash the cookware and yourselves, and you'd caught a glimpse of him pulling off his clothes and mask, blonde hair and muscles seeing the light of day. you couldn't deny it - he was gorgeous.

he often checked on you in the evenings, making sure you’d settled in okay. he sat next to your bed, running a gloved hand over your hair, rubbing small circles into your scalp.

“you like the boys?” he’d ask, “they treating you okay?”

and you’d nod, just like you’d do every night.

“not scared, are you, doll?”

you shook your head.

“good. just making sure.”

and with that, he’d leave, heading to his own tent to rest, or out to guard the fence.

but one night, before he got up to get some sleep, you grabbed his hand. he looked back at you, dark eyes watching yours.

“stay?” you whispered.

and he did, without a word. stripping off his heavy gear and perching next to you in bed, rough camo trousers scratching against your bare shoulder. 

and he stayed, just like you asked. watching over you like a dog and keeping you safe.

sometime in the night, you’d turned to face him where he sat, resting an arm over his thigh. but he didn’t push you off. he just let you rest - your warm breath causing a dampness throughout the tent. 

it was only when the winter sunlight streamed through the tent that you realised he really did stay - all night. you opened your eyes to see he’d settled in next to you, his sleeping body alongside yours in the small camp bed, your arm still around him. 

and when you tried to pull yourself away out of embarrassment, he pulled it back, keeping it over his chest. 

“for warmth, yeah?” he said quietly, voice all deep and sleepy.

and how could you argue with that? these were trying times, after all. 

after a moment's silence, he said “you’re a pretty thing, love. always thought so, even when i first met you and you were all scared and dirty.” he continued, heavy eyes looking down at your vulnerable form. “soap thinks so too, but you’re mine, yeah? i found you - you’re mine.”

there was something about the possessive glint in his eye that showed you he really meant it - his gaze trailing down from your face to your uncovered hips that had shuffled out the sheets in your sleep.

"cm'ere" he said, taking your arm in his grasp and pulling you towards him. "i mean it, love. do you wan' to be mine?" eyes watching your face to see how you'd react to his question. your faces were close now, closer than they'd ever been. he'd looked after you so nicely, giving you everything you needed, protecting you from harm all this time. you couldn't help but agree with him. how could anyone not fall for this attractive man who cared for you so much? and the feeling of his chest under your hand made you fall for him even harder.

"yeah," you whispered against his masked face "...yours."

your small hand reached up to reveal his lips under his mask. he pulled you in, kissing you softly. it was short but there was so much behind it. you could tell he wanted more but he was holding back. he didn't want to accidentally push you away by moving too fast. he pulled back to look at you, hands cupping your soft face, which was still clouded with sleep.

"you're so beautiful, you know that?" he spoke so softly now. it was like the walls he'd put up had fell instantly. he just wanted a moment to be yours. no one else's. not the camp's cook or the guard or the hunter. just yours and nothing else.

you pulled yourself back to his face, kissing him again but soon moving your lips down to kiss his chin, and then his neck. but you didn't get far before he stopped you.

"no, no, love. let me take care of you - you deserve it." he said, turning you around so you were on your back, head resting on your plush pillow as his touch relaxed you.

it was almost as if for just a moment, you weren't in the middle of a fucking nightmare. you were at home, in your own bed. maybe you'd met him at work or out on a date - anywhere that wasn't in a forest full of zombies. and he'd taken you out for dinner a few times and you'd decided he was sweet enough to be kissing down your body, rolling his tongue over your nipples.

but here you were, in a camp full of strangers, being transported by this man who you barely knew, covered only by the walls of a thin tent. but it just felt so right to let him take you like this. you trusted him with your life. and in return he worked your body like magic. his touch was so gentle - yet his skin was so rough compared to your own.

"you want me inside you, baby?" he spoke to you so softly, having kissed down to the top of your underwear now. his eyes watched you, waiting for your permission to carry on.

"please," you replied, "i want you."

that was all he needed to hear. he pulled off his shirt and your underwear, tossing them both to the side. he admired your body shamelessly, eyes tracing the outline of your waist and your body. you couldn't help but do the same, entranced by the way his muscles practically glowed in the light that came through the tent. he was built like a rugby player, pure muscle but with a good layer of fat on top to smooth everything out. you watched as he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his cock.

he was huge. you knew he was a big guy but you weren't expecting it to apply to all of him. it was definitely bigger than anyone you'd ever been with. his tip was an angry shade of red from how hard he was, precum running down his shaft. noticing the expression on your face, he reassured you.

"don't worry, i'll be gentle with you."

he lined himself up with your entrance, your wetness being enough to allow himself to push slowly inside. it stretched you more than you ever had been, causing you to hiss as it dipped inside you. he bent forward down to kiss you sweetly, silencing your pained noises, shushing you each time his lips left yours. he continued to move in until he bottomed out inside of you.

"you okay?" he grunted, "tell me when to move, love."

you paused for a moment, adjusting to his size before nodding to let him know he could start moving.

he didn't fuck like you expected him to. you thought a guy like him would be railing you like an animal, but no. he made love to you, his slow but deep thrusts hitting all the perfect spots in your gummy walls. it was pure bliss, and he thought so too, struggling to keep back his grunts each time he thrust into you.

"fucckkkk baby," he'd say, dog tag hanging down as he fucked you, "your pussy is so tight, gripping me so good". he hooked your legs behind his back and moved his big hands onto your hips to hold you in place. " is it good for you too, doll? you look so pretty with that fucked-out look on your face." he went on, smirking at you like he was proud of his work.

you couldn't even form words, let alone piece together a decent response. he felt amazing, pulling all the way out so only his tip was inside of you and then pushing all the way back in again, until you were an absolute drooling mess, jaw slack and whining on his cock. and just when you thought it couldn't get any better, he moved his hand between your legs and rubbed lazy circles on your clit with his thumb. almost instantly your pussy started pulsing around him - with you blubbering out incoherent swears and moans - having sent you completely over the edge in a matter of minutes. he wasn't far away either - your clenching making his hips stutter back and forth as he helped you ride through your orgasm. you could of swore you were seeing stars by the time he pulled out of you and came over your stomach with a moan, pressing his forehead to yours.

it took you both a few minutes to come back down again, giggling and kissing his lips once more. your arms found their way around his neck, holding him close to you. you were both a panting mess, clothes discarded across the tent floor and the scent of sex heavy in the air.

"my girl- you're gorgeous," he managed to huff out, catching his breath. " 'm never getting over you."

when news broke that a zombie apocalypse was spreading, you had no idea it would lead to this hunk of a man in bed with you - spoiling you and loving you like this. you weren't complaining, though. not at all. at least something good came from it.

he cleaned you up so carefully, being sure not to press too hard on your sensitive body. and when he'd made sure you were okay, he brought you something to eat and led down with you, stroking up and down on your back, drawing shapes and letters on your skin. part of you couldn't believe this was the same guy who you watched shoot a zombie in the face through the fence the other day. his hands were so gentle, always cautious not to hurt you under his touch.

and as your eyes grew heavy again, revelling in his embrace, you heard him say something into your skin.

"simon," he said quietly, face buried in your neck. "my real name's simon."

˚✧. thank you for reading!

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˚✧. dividers by @ saradika-graphics and @ si-eunnis

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[loverofoldsadlosers]

SLOW RIDE

(inspired by true events; getting turned on by sexy trucks for sale while browsing…. recommend the song “slow ride” by foghat)

Thinking about classic car collector Joel. (smut)

He’s got years on you, clearly, the tattoos inked onto his flesh have seen more birthdays than you: he has lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles, skin freckled and bronzed by decades of sun that have brought him the beauty of countless sunsets and sunrises before you even existed. It makes sense, looking so well preserved in his age, that he would seek out a career dedicated to conserving and restoring the cars he does. One’s rusted and faded and simply, old. What he didn’t expect on the dull morning of posting an advertisement for an equally dull, rusted, frankly hopeless ‘1970 Ford’ was you.

Young, shiny, new — a rare commodity amongst the regular buyers of his collection, and certainly a stand-out amongst the venerable antiques in the store; including Joel himself. You stumbled across his yellowing lawn with the grace of a newborn foal. Tripping slightly over your own feet, making him question why on earth you wore those long, seemingly uncomfortable, laced-up boots. Another relic, he supposed. An inkling of your taste before you had even introduced yourself. A reasoning for you, here, at his garage, a girl chasing a past she never belonged to. “Hello!” you smile, offering a hand toward him and slightly faltering when he hesitates. He stares down at your hand. The smooth expanse of your skin, the polished manicure on your fingers, the light weight of it when he finally meets your outstretched palm with his own; soft, gentle, a direct juxtaposition to the grease under his fingernails and the rough callouses that scratch against your silky flesh. “You here for the ad?” he assumes, scanning a quick glance over your frame once before settling back on your face. “Yes, I am.” His eyebrows slightly pinch together. He’s puzzled. Looking at you, and then your satiny chest, and then your equally as velvet-looking legs, and then back at you. Wondering what the hell you would know about a car like that and staring at you without even hiding his confusion. “That Ford?” You nod, and his expression almost sours. He’s squinting at you, shielding his eyes from the burning afternoon sun and giving you a brazen look-over once again; as if he missed something in his previous examination, a physical sign to dismiss his notion that you had no business here at all. Not buying a car older than the both of you, not on an old man’s front lawn, and certainly not dressed like that. In small, honestly tiny denim shorts, leather boots that stopped at your knees, and a blouse scantily covering your collarbones from his view. Was this what the kids were wearing nowadays? Let alone to meet some facebook-marketplace-stranger? You weren’t one to be shy. Usually, you were confident, collected, cool. But with Joel - this stranger - staring you down so intensely and so obviously, you were left skittish. Frozen in place, unable to do anything but fidget with the seams of your shorts with jittering hands and wide eyes. “You know a lot about cars? That’s a tough case back there.” Is all he says. Like there hadn’t been an excruciatingly long pause of him outright scrutinizing you, leaving you close to running tail-in-tow. “Well, I drive one, hah.” You try to quip. Laughing a dry, short heave of a laugh and inhaling a shaky breath when his stoic expression doesn’t change in the slightest, no hint of amusement or playfulness. This is a business deal after all, you guess. A serious purchase garners a serious atmosphere. You suppose you’re slightly more nervous than usual not just because of how out-of-your-depths you were, or because this man in front of you was a complete stranger in a location that took you more than an hour to get to, but because you didn’t expect, well, him. Tall enough to slightly tower over you, thick mustache and greying scruff on a sharp jawline, large biceps that bulge in the crossing of his arms as he frowns at you, plush lips with a lit cigarette between them, dark brooding eyes that glare at you.

He was beautiful. Even more-so in the sunlight. Aquiline nose, furrowed brows, sliver of skin peeking from below his unbuttoned flannel, exposing tufts of chest hair to your pleasure. He was so handsome it was intimidating. “You can take a look at it…” he sighs and places a dirty cloth you hadn’t realized he was holding over his broad shoulder, walking toward his garage and lifting the door.

A delicious trail of hair trailing up the expanse of his stomach from the waistband of his weathered jeans. You follow him inside the garage. You didn’t know a lot about cars. You knew barely enough to drive one. But you knew that rust was not ideal, and that’s what the ute in front of you was entirely soiled by. Hard, corrosive rust, eating away at the beautiful cherry-red exoskeleton. “You haven’t wanted to fix her up a bit?” you ask, trying to carefully not give away that you had done more than just read the ad he had posted (you had read over his entire facebook page, and then his brothers, and then almost the entire Miller family.) You had seen his previous restorations, and they were nothing short of flawless. “No time.” You knew this too. Joel was opening a brother-owned-partnership, Miller Contracting. “Ah.” “So what’d you think?” A deep, southern drawl. Smooth like the purr of an engine, syrupy, husky, manly. “Um…” “You got skill to fix her up?” “Well…” “She ain’t gonna be easy like that Honda you’ve got parked out there.” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and pout. Underestimating just how much proficiency you would need to actually entirely restore a car. “Does she start?” “You read the ad at all?” You sigh in slight defeat and his strong, capable hand you had admired earlier comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing with you in something closer to an annoyed grunt.

“I could… I can fix her up for you—“ your eyes brighten immediately, pivoting your entire body toward him and getting close enough to him he’s sure you are about to hug him; the fifty-five-year-old stranger. “It would have to cost you, obviously.” Oh. Right. “How…how much?” Of course. It would cost a lot. That’s why you had come here in the first place, allured by the affordable price tag only to be shocked when the price matched the product. “Ain’t gonna be cheap.” For the first time since you had greeted him outside, you peer up at him; meeting his scowl with your wide-eyed gaze. Inadvertently, you flutter your lashes and slightly touch the side of his boot with your own, and his eyebrow lifts. Were you…? “And it’s not…bargain-able?” What were you doing? “Christ, what’d you think this is, kid?” You blink. Still looking at him with wide-eyes that went larger in the second. “I-“ “This ain’t how things work around here.” He gives you that same look from earlier, studying you with a downward tilt of his eyes and you were mortified. “Um…I’m sorry, I just—“ He stares at you. At your coquette bite of your lip, at your smooth skin, at your doe eyes and deer-in-headlights expression, and he sighs Low, and disappointed. Cutting you off before you could finish your apology, shaking his head as if he has no other choice, but to say: “Get on your knees.”

What?

“What?” “Well, I ain’t gonna do it for free, now am I?” You stare back at his enigmatic expression and catch a glimpse of something you missed before; the corner of his mouth lifted in a sleazy smirk. You blink.

A deer in the headlights. Now, he’s fully grinning, cigarette long forgotten beneath the crushing sole of his boot. “Well?” You should probably leave. You should probably run into your own perfectly working car and drive off, far from this secluded house and gallery of mouth-watering cars you would never have the chance of owning. Flee from the man in front of you, smirking dangerously and built: broad shoulders and a muscled back you see rippling beneath his worn flannel.

You drop to your knees, and he laughs. “You do this a lot?” you shake your head and quickly work on his large leather belt, fumbling with the clasp and trying to unbuckle it fast as if you didn’t move onto your knees yourself. “Show me how much you want that car and maybe I’ll do somethin’ bout it.” You peer back up at him and his smirk has only widened, staring down at you with what you now recognize as him ogling you; his eyes moving toward your eyes, to your lips, to your chest. And then, he pulls himself out. You gasp. He’s huge. Throbbing, curved just-so, thick in his hand and you gulp. “Well?” You replace his grip with yours, wrapping your shaking hand around him and feeling the weight of it in your palm. Hot, and heavy, and huge. You bring another hand to meet the gap and start moving, waiting for him to say something as he just stares. “You think that’s all I want from you?” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and he grunts a low heady sound when your hand grazes his tip. “C’mon,” he says lowly. “Give him a little kiss.” You bring him to your lips, your shaking hands jittering him against you as you suckle slightly, tasting the salty taste of him and he groans, his hands flying to clutch tightly at your hair. “C’mon baby, give daddy a bit more than that.” Shit. You tense your thighs together momentarily and open your mouth further, the stretch burning as you try to fit more of his girth into your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose, but he’s just too big, sending you gagging with barely half of him in your mouth and he just pushes your head down further, until you’re pressed against the salt-and-pepper trail of hair on his abdomen. “Fuck,” he growls, when you swallow. Trying to contain some of the spit that dribbles down your chin as you whine, attempting to tell him that it’s too much. But then you look up. He’s gazing down at you with beads of sweat rolling down the thick of his neck, mouth slightly a-jar and eyebrows pinched. When your eyes meet his, his expression morphs back into that wicked smirk; tugging at your hair to pull you almost off him before thrusting back into your mouth. You gag in surprise, and he laughs again. A deep, sadistic noise, cut off by his own gravelly moan. “You’re fucking nasty.” He thrusts impossibly deeper down your throat, sending you spluttering around him and you swear he just gets harder, gets bigger. When he finally pulls you off, allowing you a gift of air that you gasp loudly, he slaps the length of him against your face; smearing your spit around your cheeks with another low laugh. “This how you always get your way? Get on your knees like a slut?” You go to retaliate - wanting to whine a ‘no’, reiterate to him that you’ve never done something like this, you’d never been depraved enough to get on your knees for a stranger, let alone one old enough to be your father. But then, he just brings himself back to your mouth, grunting an “open up” before shoving his length down your throat once again. But this time, you move down the length of him unprompted, his hand only tangled in your hair to hold you there, but doing it at your own volition. Dragging your tongue down the underside of him and rubbing your thighs together when he moans, loud and raspy. “Fuckin’ eager, huh?” he slaps the side of your face sharply, and you can’t help but moan with him. You can hear the obscenity of it all echoing through his garage. It’s wet, loud, messy, and you grasp at his thighs for leverage until he pulls you off entirely; looking at you with a heaving chest and furrowed brows. You chase him with your mouth again, but he just smirks at you, and then hisses:

“Get on your hands and knees.”

A/N: hello i have never wrote full smut before …. hope it was okay i can’t even proofread it 😣😣

[siratonin]

White Noise

BuckTommy - Tommy & the 118 - Tommy & Maddie Ι WC: 5900 Ι cw: suicidal thoughts, blood and injury

Tommy never meant to chase after the call—he certainly never meant to get buried under a crumbling house with too many regrets and a body giving out beneath him. But one bad feeling led to a collapse, a broken leg, and a 9-1-1 call he almost didn’t make. With Maddie on the line and the 118 closing in, Tommy confronts more than just the pain.

[Read below or on ao3]

Tommy wasn’t the kind of guy who went looking for trouble. He went to work, clocked out, and went home. Sometimes, if the stars aligned and someone actually had time for him, he’d make plans. But most of the time, he liked his own company—muay thai practice in the garage, tinkering with the ancient car he couldn’t seem to give up on, watching cheesy rom-coms that he could quote line for line. Occasionally, he’d wander into a bar just to try something new, maybe listen to a band no one had heard of. He was curious in a quiet, careful way—but not reckless. Never reckless.

Well… not unless he was on shift. Or if someone asked him a favor. He’d flown into a hurricane once for the 118. But poking into weird call reports? That wasn’t him. He didn’t pry. He didn’t need to. Except today, something had itched at him.

They’d brought in a guy—mid-30s, unconscious, supposedly a fall. But the bruises didn’t match the story. The pattern looked wrong. Tommy had seen worse in his life, knew how to read signs. Defensive wounds. The man had a cracked rib, but no external trauma to suggest a stumble. There was something in his eyes when he woke up too—panic, the kind that wasn’t just from pain. When Tommy mentioned it in passing, his colleague waved him off with a laugh. “Don’t read into it, Kinard.” Right. And now here he was, surrounded by crumbling drywall and busted beams, realizing maybe he really shouldn’t have read into it.

But before everything came crashing down, he had found something. In the back hallway of the bungalow—walls scorched from fire damage, floorboards creaking with every step—he’d spotted an overturned medical bag. Not theirs. Older. Dried blood crusted on the edge. It was tucked beside the rusted remains of a couch, like someone had tried to hide it. Tommy crouched down, ignoring the way the air stung his lungs, and reached for it. There were bandages, a half-used roll of gauze, a name scribbled on a folded paper. He didn’t get to read it. The moment he stood, the floor groaned, deep and angry, and the ceiling above gave way with a roar.

Then everything went dark.

Darkness pressed heavy around him, not just from the rubble, but from the silence in his own mind. For a long moment, Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t remember where he was—or why. All he knew was that everything hurt. His head pounded in sync with each heartbeat, and something sharp throbbed near his ribs. He blinked slowly, vision flickering in and out of focus, catching nothing but shadows and dust.

Where…?

It was like waking up from a dream and forgetting what it was about—except this dream had weight, and blood, and pain. The wreckage above him groaned every few seconds, like it was debating whether to finish the job. He lay still, eyes open now, staring at a beam just inches above his face. His breath caught. There was blood on the corner of his lip. His own.

He didn’t move. Didn’t try. Not yet.

For a second—just a second—he thought maybe he shouldn’t.

What if he just… didn’t?

What if he stayed right here, let the silence stretch longer and longer until it was quiet forever? Would anyone even notice? Would anyone care beyond a shift or two of guilt and a few kind words at a memorial? Maybe they’d say he was brave. Or stupid. Or both.

He shut his eyes again. Stop.

It wasn’t the first time that thought had crept in. But he’d been good at burying it. Patching it over with purpose, routine, even laughter. But now, here, bleeding into the floor of a forgotten house in a forgotten part of the city… the thought whispered louder than it had in years.

Then the pain surged again, fiery and insistent, and instinct took over.

He grit his teeth and tried to move—just a little. A groan escaped his throat before he could stop it, raw and guttural. His leg was definitely pinned. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, tasting blood.

His hand twitched, fingers brushing against something. His pocket. A lump beneath the fabric. Phone.

His heart kicked up.

It took nearly everything in him to fish it out—awkward, shaking fingers, a gasping breath every time he shifted. Dust clogged his throat. His vision blurred again, then cleared just long enough for him to see the screen when it lit up.

Cracked.

One bar of signal.

But the numbers still worked.

He pressed 9, then 1, then 1.

And prayed someone answered him this time. Then, almost immediately, he wished he hadn’t.

The numbers blinked faintly on the cracked screen, but even staring at them, he wasn’t sure why he’d called. His mind still felt fogged—like he was underwater, reaching for something just out of grasp. A name, maybe. A reason. Everything was blurred at the edges.

He didn’t even remember what had brought him here. Why he was lying under splintered wood and choking on plaster dust. Why his chest burned when he tried to breathe.

His thumb trembled over the speaker icon. His lip split further when he bit down again, trying to focus.

Why am I here? What happened?

He didn’t know. But somewhere inside the ache, there was a whisper—one sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Call someone. Call someone.

So he did.

Even as doubt settled in, heavy and bitter. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe he should’ve just let the silence stretch out a little longer. No need for sirens. No lights. Just one more forgotten mistake in a forgotten building.

He almost canceled the call. Almost let his thumb slip back toward the screen.

Because what was he even going to say? He doesn't even know where he was...

He squeezed his eyes shut, the pain behind them hot and sharp. His ribs screamed when he shifted. He almost dropped the phone right there, almost let it slide from his fingers into the dust and give in to the quiet.

Just lay back. Close his eyes. Let it fade.

But then—someone picked up.

And suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore.

The voice cut through the ringing in his ears like a blade through smoke.

Soft. Professional. Familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency.”

He parted his lips but nothing came out—just a wheeze, wet and weak.

“Hello?” the voice asked again. “9-1-1, can you hear me?”

He blinked, tongue heavy in his mouth. Swallowed hard. Tried again.

“…M’phone…” he croaked. “…hurts…”

“Okay, I hear you,” the voice soothed gently, but now there was something beneath the calm—a shift. A tightening. “You're doing great. Can you tell me your name?”

He had to think about that one for a second.

His name.

Who was he again?

He licked his lips. His throat burned. Blood mixed with dust, bitter and metallic.

“…Tommy,” he rasped finally. “I think…”

A beat of silence.

Then her voice changed completely.

“Tommy?” she asked again, but this time softer—like she already knew. “Tommy Kinard?”

He swallowed, wincing. “…Y-Yeah.”

A quiet inhale on the other end. Not fear. Not yet. But recognition.

“It’s Maddie.”

His eyes slipped closed.

Maddie.

Yeah. That… made sense. That felt real.

"H-Hi Maddie"

Her voice gentled instantly, but it was laced with urgency now. “Tommy, I need you to tell me where you are. Can you look around?”

He blinked slowly, trying to make out anything in the mess around him. Smoke. Rubble. No signs. No streetlights. Just the steady creak of broken wood above his head.

“…I don’t know,” he admitted, the words like gravel scraping his throat. “Sorry. I… don’t know where I am.”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I’ve got your call. We’re pinging your location now. Just hang in there a little longer.”

Tommy coughed, winced, then sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Building… c-collapsed on.. me.”

“How bad are you hurt?” Maddie asked, keeping her voice steady, calm.

“My leg…” he breathed. “Pinned. Probably broken. Ribs too. Head’s ringing. I don’t know how long I was out.”

She was quiet a moment, typing in the background, then speaking low into her headset—coordinating everything as she talked to him.

But Tommy wasn’t done yet.

His voice cracked as he said it, “Maddie—p-please. Don’t send the 118.”

A pause.

“Please,” he rasped, more desperate this time. “Just d-don’t. Not them.”

Maddie hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice was careful. Gentle. “I’m sorry. They’re the closest. But Buck’s not on shift.”

A beat of silence stretched across the line.

Tommy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“…O-Okay. Okay,” he said. Then softer—more like a plea than a request— “Just don’t tell him. Yeah?”

“I won’t,” Maddie said firmly. “I promise. Help is on the way. Stay with me, okay?”

He tried. God, he tried.

But his breath hitched. The pain was rising fast, sharp and disorienting. A groan tore from his chest as the phone slipped slightly from his fingers, scraping against the floor.

“Are you still there?”

“Still… here. Just… tired.”

“Okay, okay Tommy talk to me.” Maddie’s voice cut sharp through the static.

Then nothing.

Dead silence.

Not even a groan.

On the other end of the line, Maddie didn’t waste a second. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, dispatching responders even as her heart pounded in her chest.

To the responding units, she typed and relayed through her headset

Be advised—victim has possibly lost consciousness. Priority one. Structural collapse, potential crush injuries. Location ping confirmed. Use extreme caution. Victim is one of ours.

She sat straighter, gripping the mic tighter, staring at the location tracker lighting up in front of her. Her fingers moved fast over the keys, updating the responders.

Then, a crackle.

A faint breath.

A shifting sound.

“Tommy?” she tried again, holding her breath. “Tommy, can you hear me?”

A faint groan.

Then his voice, distant and thick like he was dragging himself out of quicksand.

“…still here,” he muttered. “Didn’t… mean to sleep.”

Relief flooded her chest.

“You gave me a scare,” she said quietly. “Don’t do that again.”

Tommy exhaled a broken laugh. “No promises…”

Tommy's breathing was shallow, but steady. For now.

Maddie stayed with him, her voice a lifeline threaded through the line. Calm. Present. Holding him there.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, she said softly, “We should’ve talked more. When you were dating Buck.”

Tommy gave a dry, raspy laugh. It cracked in his throat. “Maybe… would’ve made things harder.”

Maddie didn’t laugh.

Silence fell again, but this one was different. Not the kind laced with fear or fading consciousness—just quiet. Waiting.

Then, almost too softly to be anything but honest, she asked, “Why did you leave him?”

Tommy didn’t answer right away.

He let the question hang there, like the dust in the air around him. Thick. Lingering.

His fingers curled slightly against the phone. The pain in his chest wasn’t just physical now.

“…Because I loved him, but… h-he didn’t.” he said at last. His voice cracked on it.

There was a pause on the other end.

Then Maddie asked, quietly, “And he told you that?”

Tommy hesitated, eyes slipping shut. “…Something like that.”

Another silence. Not cold. Just weighted. Maddie waited, like she was giving him space to keep going or pull back.

“And I knew he wasn’t done figuring himself out,” he added after a beat. “I didn’t want to be the reason he stopped.”

Maddie let out a slow breath, barely audible. “Ah… figure his feelings for Eddie, right? That’s what you thought?”

Tommy didn’t say anything right away. But she could hear it—how his breathing changed. Sharper. Shorter.

“…Yeah,” he murmured eventually. “I did.”

Maddie was quiet for a moment. Then her voice came through, low and steady, but with something harder underneath—something that trembled at the edges.

“Tommy… you don’t get to decide what Buck felt.” A beat. “I don't get to decide that either. We both need to stop doing that.”

She let out a bitter little laugh—half guilt, half something else. “God, we’re such idiots.”

Tommy didn’t have the strength to laugh back, but something in his chest tightened.

“And you don’t get to rewrite what he gave you just because it ended.”

Tommy blinked slowly. His chest ached in too many ways to count. The words hit somewhere raw. Somewhere tender.

He remembered Buck’s voice, barely awake, complaining about how cold the bed got when Tommy left it—even if it was just for water. The way Buck would bump shoulders with him on purpose just to hold his hand afterward. The quiet awe in his tone when he said, “You’re really here,” like he couldn’t believe it.

And God, that smile—wide, boyish, dimpled. It lit something in Tommy every single time, like a match striking in the dark. It didn’t matter how shitty the day had been—Evan’s smile could make it feel less heavy.

He used to laugh at the way Buck would get so worked up over the strangest things—deep diving into ancient myths or space disasters or haunted house theories until 2 a.m., rambling with wild hand gestures and eyes too bright for the hour. He argued that some objects had to be cursed, and pouted when people didn’t believe him—an exaggerated, dramatic little thing that Tommy loved more than he ever admitted. That pout had been his favorite—soft and stubborn and so easy to kiss away. It was ridiculous. It was adorable.

It was him.

It was everything.

The way it had felt like home.

And then the way he’d walked away from it.

His throat tightened, breath catching somewhere between pain and something heavier.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he whispered. “Didn’t want to ruin him.”

Maddie’s voice came through again, quieter now. Almost to herself.

“I saw how he looked at you,” she said. “Or when he talked about you. I just… didn’t understand it at the time.”

She exhaled slowly. “But I do now.”

But Tommy shook his head, even though the motion made his vision tilt.

“No,” he murmured. “He didn’t love me, Maddie. He’s just… too kind. That’s all. He-he made it feel like love because that’s who he is. But it wasn’t.” His chest heaved with effort. “This way it’s easier. For him. For me…”

Maddie didn’t respond right away.

So Tommy kept going, like the truth had claws and was digging its way out of him.

“I told myself it was the right thing. That it would hurt less this way. For him, at least.”

He exhaled slowly, and it sounded like something leaving his body.

“Didn’t work, though,” he added. “Still hurts.”

Maddie let out a sharp breath that bordered on a scoff. “He was hung up on you for months, Tommy. All the months you two didn’t talk? God, he baked for the whole city.”

Tommy blinked. “…B-baked?”

“Baked,” she confirmed with a sigh. “Cakes, scones, loaves of bread. Brought pastries to the station. Muffins to the dispatch center. I think even his neighbors got banana bread. It was like living next door to grief-flavored Martha Stewart.”

That dragged a sound from Tommy—half a wheeze, half a laugh. “That’s so stupid…”

“You two really need to talk to each other,” she said, softer now. “You’re both miserable and assuming the worst.”

His lips parted again. Breath shallow. Fragile.

“H-he’s jus’… s’kind,” Tommy murmured.

“Okay, Tommy, hey—stay with me,” Maddie said, her voice tightening again, edging toward panic.

A pause.

Then softer, barely audible:

“...Mmm maybe… jus’ tell him I did love him, ’kay?”

“Hey, hey—no,” Maddie said quickly. “You tell him yourself. They’re close, Tommy. Help is close.”

A shaky breath on the line. His voice was distant now, like it was coming from somewhere far away.

“Y-yeah?…”

“Yes,” Maddie whispered. “Hold on.”

But his lips only moved once more, forming something too slurred to catch—maybe a name. A whisper. A wish.

Then the line filled with static and silence.

He was unconscious again.

*

The world came back all at once.

Light—too bright. Sound—too loud. Everything sharp and jagged.

And pain. God, the pain.

It tore through him like fire as something shifted—no, lifted—off his chest. He couldn’t breathe for a second, couldn’t think. The pressure was gone, but the agony spread in its place like it had just been waiting for an opening.

“Tommy!”

The voice cut through it all, urgent and panicked.

“Tommy, hey—Tommy! Stay with me, man!”

He knew that voice.

Howie.

Tommy’s eyes fluttered, then squeezed shut again. Even blinking hurt.

A hand came to rest gently on his forehead—then shifted under his jaw, bracing.

“C-collar now,” Hen said sharply. “Suspected head injury. Don’t let him move.”

Cool plastic slid around his neck as firm hands held him steady. The collar locked into place with practiced ease.

He groaned, his throat raw, lungs barely keeping up.

“Easy—don’t move, don’t move,” Chimney said, crouched close beside him, gloved hands steady but shaking just slightly. “We’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Another wave of pain ripped through his leg as more debris was pulled away.

Tommy choked on a cry and tried to twist, instinctively, away from it.

“Pain’s flaring—he’s reacting to movement,” Hen’s voice came next, sharp and clinical but full of worry. “Ravi, hold that beam steady! We need to stabilize before we move him again.”

Tommy tried to say something, anything—but it came out as a hoarse mumble. Something like “Maddie” or “Evan.” Maybe both.

Chimney leaned in, one hand gently brushing Tommy’s dirt-streaked forehead. “They’re okay. Maddie’s the one who found you. And Buck’s safe, alright? You’re safe now too. Just keep breathing. We’re almost there.”

But the pain kept coming.

And Tommy—he just wanted it to stop.

“Okay, on my count,” Hen said, voice calm but urgent. “We lift and slide. Chim, you keep his airway steady. Ravi, brace the leg—don’t let it shift.”

Tommy couldn’t track what they were saying. The words blurred together, drowned under the throb in his head, the fire tearing through his leg, the crushing pressure in his chest that never quite went away. His body felt like it wasn’t his anymore. Just pain. Only pain.

Hands moved around him—professional, careful, but they had to move him.

And the moment they did—

Tommy let out a sharp, strangled cry.

His hands twitched against the board, chest heaving with shallow, uneven breaths. The collar locked his neck in place, keeping him frozen in agony.

“Ngh—stop,” he gasped, barely getting the word out. “Just—wait… hurts…”

His voice broke near the end—not loud, but raw, like he was forcing it back down and failing.

Chimney’s voice was close, steady. “I know, I know—just a few more seconds, Tommy. We’ve got you.”

Tommy blinked through the blur, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “’S too much…”

“Almost there,” Chimney said again, even as he adjusted the oxygen mask.

Tears welled in the corners of Tommy’s eyes, but he didn’t sob. He just breathed—fast, shallow, like trying to outrun the pain—“No, no, no—don’t—don’t—!” he gasped as they started moving again, slurring the words through sobs.

Chimney’s voice came fast, close to his ear. “Hey, hey, I know, I know, Tommy! I got you—just breathe for me, man, we’re almost there—”

Tommy was crying now, actually crying, which was more terrifying than the blood or the wreckage.

Chimney had known Tommy almost twenty years. He’d seen him come out of fires and wrecks and firefights with bruises and cracked ribs, but never like this. Never crying.

“Stay with me, alright? Keep your eyes open,” Chimney pleaded, shifting with him as the team carried the backboard out of the rubble. “You’re doing so good, just a little more, we’re gonna get you in the rig.”

Tommy’s head lolled slightly. His mouth moved again, lips trembling.

“Mmm—hurts… ‘s bad… s-sorry, I—” The rest dissolved into a groan so guttural it didn’t sound human.

Hen was at his side now. “He’s tachy, BP’s crashing. Let’s go!”

The doors of the ambulance opened, and cold air rushed in as they hoisted him inside.

Chimney climbed in after him. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said, even as his voice broke. “Just stay awake, alright? You hear me?”

Tommy whimpered again, tears still slipping down his face—despite the visible effort to hold them in. It was the kind of quiet breaking that hit harder than anything he could’ve screamed.

“Push the morphine now!” Hen’s voice cut through the air, sharp, decisive—like even she couldn’t stand seeing him like this.

Bobby’s voice cut through the chaos—steady, no room for argument.

“Hen, you drive. Chimney’s got this—I’ll ride with him.”

Hen hesitated for only a heartbeat. “Cap, I—”

“I’ve got him,” Bobby said again, already climbing in.

She looked at Tommy—at his pale face, the trembling in his hands, the streaks of blood and dust and tears—and gave a sharp nod. No more protest. She ran for the front, slamming the driver’s door behind her.

The rig rocked as the doors slammed shut behind them.

“Hang on, Tommy,” Chimney whispered.

Tommy didn’t answer.

He just let his eyes close.

Not from surrender. Just exhaustion.

Tommy’s breathing had eased—not normal, not comfortable, but manageable. The morphine had dulled the sharp edges of the pain, settled the panic in his chest, blurred the worst of it into something he could ride out.

He didn’t know how long they’d been moving, only that he wasn’t crying anymore. His voice didn’t shake. His hands had stopped clawing at the edges of the stretcher.

His eyes flicked to the side as Bobby appeared in his peripheral vision, crouched beside him with a steady presence, one hand braced near his shoulder.

Tommy blinked slowly. “You didn’t need to come, Captain Nash.”

Bobby’s brows lifted. “And let Buck kill me?”

Tommy let out a low, rasping exhale—a sound that almost passed for a laugh. A fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and crooked.

“It’s fine, kid,” Bobby added, voice gentler now. “I wouldn’t leave you alone like this.”

Tommy nodded faintly, then glanced down at his leg.

Even with the drugs in his system, the sight of it—braced, bloodied, bone clearly visible—hit him like a weight in his stomach.

“…S-shit,” he muttered.

Then, after a beat

“…Well,” he muttered, blinking slowly. “That’s not supposed to be sticking out, I think.”

Chimney let out a breath that came out more like a laugh and a sob all at once. “Thank God you’re back.”

Tommy tilted his head slightly. “Was I gone?”

Chimney didn’t answer. Bobby did.

“For a minute,” he said softly. “But it’s good to see you again.”

Chimney exhaled, then added, “You didn’t crash Tommy—you just… scared us, man.”

Tommy blinked slowly, the weight of that landing somewhere deep in his chest.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Chimney gave a small smile. “Yeah, well. Don’t do it again.”

Tommy let the silence settle for a moment, the soft beeping of the monitors a steady rhythm under it all.

Then he looked toward Bobby, voice quieter now. “Does he know?”

He nodded. “Yeah. He knows. I told him.”

Tommy’s eyes drifted slightly toward the ceiling. He didn’t say anything at first, but something shifted in his expression—just a flicker of guilt, or maybe fear.

“He’s already on his way to the hospital,” Bobby added gently. “He’ll meet us there.”

Tommy closed his eyes for a second. Not from pain this time—but to breathe.

“…Okay,” he whispered. His throat bobbed like he wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

Bobby watched Tommy for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest finally even. The worst was over—for now.

“So,” he said gently, not pressing, “what were you doing out there anyway?”

Tommy blinked slow, drugged and dazed. “Dunno. Don’t remember.”

Bobby nodded once, not surprised. “Okay. Then let me ask something easier.”

Tommy turned his head slightly.

“How’ve you been doing… in general?”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling again, like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could find a different truth up there.

Bobby didn’t fill the silence. Just waited.

Tommy’s jaw twitched. Then—quietly, almost too quiet—“There was a moment. Back in the house. Before I called.”

Bobby blinked, not moving, but his attention sharpened.

“I almost didn’t,” Tommy continued. “Thought… maybe it’d be easier if I didn’t.”

He didn’t cry, didn’t tremble. But something in his voice wavered, just slightly.

“Not because I wanted to die,” he added. “I just… I didn’t see the point. For a second.”

A heavy silence followed.

“Okay, Tommy. Thank you for telling me.” His hand rested gently on Tommy’s shoulder. “We can talk about this later—when you’re more awake, yeah?”

A quite defeated nod

“But I’m really glad you called.”

“Tommy…” Chimney’s voice came from behind him, softer now. Not judgmental—just full of feeling.

Tommy blinked, then let out a quiet, slightly slurred, “…Shit. Forgot you were here.”

It didn’t land like a joke, but there was the smallest flicker of a smile on Chimney’s face anyway. Like he understood.

After a long beat, Tommy scoffed under his breath.

“You said easier.”

Bobby let out a small huff—amused, but not surprised. “Fair enough.”

Tommy sighed, the sound long and quiet, then finally spoke—voice softer now.

“I-I thought… maybe if I left, it’d give him room to figure himself out. That it’d be easier for him if I wasn’t…”

He trailed off.

“In the way?” Bobby offered, gentle as ever.

Tommy gave the faintest nod.

Bobby sat back, letting that settle in for a breath. Then shook his head.

“Tommy, you weren’t in the way,” he said softly. “You were the way.”

Tommy blinked.

“I’ve known Buck eight years,”

“You’re like his father,” Tommy cut in, voice low but certain.

Bobby huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah… that happened.”

He let the moment settle for a beat, then he looked down, making sure Tommy was still with him.

“And I’ve seen him try—really try—to build something that felt real. Something solid.”

He glanced at Tommy, eyes gentle. “He’s always been full of heart. Brave. Loyal. But for a long time, he didn’t know where to put all of that. He was searching for something to hold onto. Something that made sense.”

A pause.

“And when he was with you… things made more sense to him. He didn’t stop being Buck. But he stopped trying to outrun himself.”

Tommy didn’t respond. His gaze stayed on the ceiling, unfocused but steady, like he was holding the words somewhere deep inside.

Bobby didn’t push.

He just reached out, resting a firm, gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“Talk to him,” Bobby said softly. “I think you both would benefit from that. No matter the outcome.”

*

The ambulance backed into the bay with a low whine and a hiss of brakes.

Even before the doors opened, he was there.

Buck.

Standing in the harsh wash of overhead light, hands clenched at his sides, eyes wide with barely restrained panic. The moment the doors swung open, he moved.

“Tommy—!”

Tommy winced as the gurney shifted, pain blooming again under the haze of meds. He grit his teeth, groaning softly as Chimney and Bobby worked around him with practiced calm.

“Careful,” Hen warned, holding the IV steady.

Buck reached the side of the gurney just as they rolled it down the ramp. His voice cracked on the first word. “What happened? Are you okay? Where is he bleeding—why didn’t anyone call me earlier—?”

“Evan,” Tommy said, breath catching as they hit a bump, “it’s okay. I’m fine. I told them not to call you.”

Buck froze.

The look on his face—just for a second—was like someone had slapped him.

But Tommy caught it. Saw it. And the pain in his leg—white-hot, throbbing, radiating with every movement—was nothing compared to the sudden, gut-deep ache in his chest.

Because he knew that look. He’d seen it before, back when he ended things. That flicker of disbelief, the quiet betrayal that Buck never said out loud, just carried with him like a second skin.

And now Tommy had put it back there.

Even for a second. Again.

He hated that.

Hated that he’d caused that expression. Hated that he was the one who made Buck’s shoulders tighten and his eyes go distant like he was trying to armor up before the next blow.

He hadn’t meant it like that. God, never like that.

So before Buck could speak, before that silence could settle too long and twist into something sharp—

“I-I just didn’t want to worry you,” Tommy said quickly, voice breaking with the effort to sound calm. “That’s all.”

Buck’s jaw clenched. His eyes didn’t move from Tommy’s face.

“Well I am worried,” he said, not yelling, but not whispering either. “Jesus, Tommy.”

Tommy’s mouth tugged into the faintest, guilty smile.

Inside, the trauma team took over. Bobby, Chimney, Hen, and Ravi stayed close but out of the way, standing just beyond the curtain line as the nurses did a fast assessment.

Vitals steady. No signs of internal bleeding, will be confirmed with imaging. He was lucid, responsive, and stable.

“He’s clear to wait for imaging,” one of the nurses called over her shoulder. “We’ll prep for CT and X-ray, then call ortho for the leg.”

Chimney exhaled in relief and bumped shoulders with Ravi. Hen gave a small nod like she didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

One by one, they each stepped in to squeeze Tommy’s shoulder or give him a quiet word. Then they left—only when they were sure he wasn’t circling the edge anymore.

The curtain drew back.

Tommy looked up. Buck hadn’t moved far. Just enough to give the nurses room.

He looked like hell. Pale and wide-eyed, fists tucked under his arms like he was holding himself together by force.

Tommy reached out—not far, just a few inches.

Buck took the hint and stepped closer.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” Buck replied gently. “But you will be.”

They looked at each other. Neither moved.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the exact same time.

A beat.

Then they both laughed—Tommy wincing through it, but still.

“Well, good to know we’re on the same page,” Buck said, shaking his head, eyes soft.

“Y-yeah…” Tommy breathed out.

A small pause. Then “…You baked?”

Buck’s eyes widened. “W-Who told you that? N-no, don’t believe it—it’s Chimney, right? You can’t trust him—”

“It’s Maddie, Evan. She told me.”

Buck stopped. Frowned. “Maddie? When?”

“She was the 9-1-1 dispatcher.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…” Tommy let the word stretch. “So.. you baked?”

Buck looked away, cheeks turning red. “Uh, I-I-, ugh, yes! E-Every time I felt the urge to call you, I-I baked, okay? It’s embarrassing. Don’t make a thing of it!”

Tommy smiled. Soft. Warm.

“It’s adorable.”

Buck gave him a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Why didn’t you just call?” Tommy asked, voice quiet now.

Buck didn’t answer right away. Then he met his eyes again.

“Tommy… y-you ended things. I didn’t want to annoy you. O-Or cling… I thought I was giving you space.”

Tommy swallowed. “Fair…” His voice cracked a little on it.

Then—suddenly—something shifted behind his eyes. His brows pinched together. A spark lit up in the fog.

“Evan.”

Buck startled. “What?? What is it? What hurts?”

“No—your phone,” Tommy said quickly, urgent now despite the pain. “Call Sergeant Grant. Now.”

“What? Tommy—what’s going on?”

“Evan, just do it! Please.”

Buck didn’t waste another second. He was already reaching for his phone as Tommy’s voice sharpened with clarity.

“I remembered why I was there.”

After around 10 minutes

Buck ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His brows were furrowed deep in confusion.

“Wait,” he said, blinking. “So the guy was what?”

Tommy leaned back against the pillow, exhaling slowly. “The one we picked up earlier today. Mid-thirties. Unconscious. Supposedly fell.”

Buck nodded. “Yeah, the victim?”

Tommy gave a slow nod. “His injuries didn’t match the story. Defensive wounds. Internal bruising in the wrong spots. I couldn’t shake it. Something just… itched.” He glanced at Buck. “I went to check it out after shift.”

Buck looked horrified. “Alone?”

Tommy gave a sheepish wince. “Yeah, okay, bad call. I didn’t think, and the house was already burnt. But I found something. Old medical bag. Dried blood. Hidden like someone didn’t want it seen.”

Buck sat on the edge of the chair now, brows still drawn. “So what was it?”

Tommy’s eyes drifted shut briefly. “Sergeant Grant was already working on the case, turns out. She confirmed the guy wasn’t just a victim—he was a witness. Might’ve been part of something bigger. She’s gonna tell me more later, but she said what I found will help to confirm some of their suspicions for now.”

Buck let that settle, then gave a small nod. “So you were right.”

Tommy nodded, lips twisting into a tired, ironic smile. “Yeah… Didn’t let it go, guess trusting my gut was good for something after all.”

Then a nurse stepped in. “We’re ready to take him up to imaging and prep for surgery.”

Buck nodded, but didn’t look away from Tommy.

Tommy blinked slowly, the meds making his limbs heavy again. Then—quietly, almost like it surprised even him—he said, “Evan, I-I need to tell you something…”

Buck’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Tommy looked at him. Then away. Then back again.

His eyes were shaky, glassy—but when he spoke, his voice didn’t waver.

“I know things are… complicated—between us right now. I don’t know what will or could happen, but Evan, I-I—” he drew in a breath, steady this time. “I love you.”

Buck sucked in a breath. Didn’t speak. The silence stretched.

Tommy fidgeted, flustered now. “Uh, y-yeah, s-so, um—I think now you tell me to fuck off and I’m too late and—”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“No!”

“What??”

“No, you’re not telling me now,” Buck said, waving a hand at the hospital bed, at the IVs and the leg brace. “Like this!”

Tommy blinked. “What?”

“No, Tommy! You’ll go, then come back, then we talk properly—no running this time—” he pointed dramatically at Tommy’s leg with a half-smirk.

Tommy winced. “Rude.”

“Then,” Buck said, leaning forward just slightly, eyes warm and alive, “you’ll tell me. Properly.”

Tommy stared at him for a beat, then softened. “Oh…”

He blinked again, his breathing beginning to slow.

“S-so… you’ll wait?”

Buck finally smiled—small, but sure. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Then he let his eyes close.

The bed rolled forward.

And Buck followed.

[tacobacoyeet]

love me harder | art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!art, divorced!reader

Art Donaldson stands by the rusted chain-link fence like he's guarding something no one’s tried to steal in years. His arms cross over his chest like armor, like restraint, like he’s holding himself back from crumbling—or combusting. You catch him in profile first, that cruelly perfect jaw flexing, sunburnt in gold and indifference, the light making a liar out of him. Because he looks gentle like this. Tired in a way only grief can teach. Tired in a way you know too well.

There’s a crushed juice box under his shoe. Lily’s laughter cuts across the playground, sweet and sharp as citrus, as she chases your son through the grass. She doesn’t know that her father doesn’t sleep. That he burns everything he touches and calls it parenting. She doesn’t know that the woman who promised forever left without blinking.

But you do know. You’ve felt it too—been the one left with the boxes, the questions, the quiet. The one who stayed after the door closed.

You lean against the passenger side of your car, keys cold in your palm. There’s an ache blooming low in your back, the kind that comes from a week of too many things left unsaid and too many lunches packed with shaky hands. You don’t expect him to notice you. He never does.

Not since the divorce. Not since Tashi.

You’ve heard whispers at the school gate, soft-spoken stories traded like gum wrappers between mothers waiting for the bell. Tashi left. Just walked out one morning and didn’t look back. No one talks about why. No one asks him. But everyone watches. Because when a woman leaves a man like Art Donaldson—a man with that kind of jaw, that kind of history—they all want to know what broke beneath the surface.

You know a little something about that. About breakage. About the slow, bone-deep ache of building a life only to watch it collapse under someone else’s silence.

You signed your papers last summer. After a year of pretending. After a year of trying to be everything to a man who forgot how to see you. Your ex-husband lives in another city now. He calls once a week. Your son stopped waiting by the phone months ago.

There’s a strange kind of grief in being freed from someone who made you feel invisible.

And Art—Art isn’t someone you let yourself think about too often. Not out loud. Not when you're packing lunchboxes or folding miniature socks or wiping down the bathroom sink after a long day. Not when you’re scraping peanut butter out of the jar at midnight, exhausted and aching in places love never quite reached.

You don’t let yourself think about the way he moves, even now. The stillness of him. The gravity. Like he was built from something heavier than the rest of you. Like he’s been carved out of loss and left in the sun to set.

Sometimes you wonder what his hands would feel like—if they’d be as rough as they look, if they’d hold or hurt. Sometimes you hate yourself for wondering.

Because he’s not for you. He’s not even for himself. He’s ruin walking around with a tired smile and a daughter who deserves more. Just like yours does. Just like your son does.

And yet—

There’s something about the way he looks at Lily. Like she’s the last thing anchoring him to this world. Like everything he never got right is something he’s trying to make up for in a single braid, a scraped knee, a lunchbox note.

You tell yourself that’s all it is. Empathy. A recognition of ache.

But when he looks at you—and he does, sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention—it’s not empathy you feel.

It’s fire.

But then—

His head turns. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your eyes catch.

And it holds. Just long enough for the air to shift.

He blinks. You look away first. He always makes you look away first.

It should be nothing. It should always be nothing.

But it isn’t. Not this time.

"They’re good together," you say, quietly, when he ends up near your side of the parking lot. The words land awkwardly between you, like they’re not the ones you meant to say.

Art shrugs. "Kids usually are. Before we teach them not to be."

It’s the most he’s said to you since September. And it’s mid-March now.

You glance toward the field again, where your son is climbing the jungle gym and Lily’s already halfway up behind him, fearless. Art’s watching too, but his hands are in his pockets now, fists clenched like he’s bracing for something. Or maybe fighting the urge to feel anything at all.

"Do you—" you start, but stop yourself. It’s not your place.

He glances sideways. "What?"

You shake your head. “Nothing. I just…” You bite your cheek, taste the copper of hesitation. “She seems happy. Lily.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just breathes out slow, like the admission might strangle him if it comes too fast.

"She misses her mom." He says it flat. No bitterness. No grace. Just fact.

You nod. You don’t ask if he does.

The silence after isn’t heavy. It’s honest. Raw. Something like mutual recognition. Like bruises you don’t need to compare to know they match.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, even though you don’t have to. Even though he knows you will.

Art nods once. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Yeah.”

But he stays standing there long after you’ve driven away.

The fundraiser is a month later.

It’s in the school gym, too brightly lit, with folding tables draped in dollar-store cloths and rows of cheap raffle prizes lined up like sacrifices to appease exhausted parents. You’re wearing lipstick for the first time in weeks. Not for anyone. Not for him.

And yet—

You feel it when he walks in. Like gravity has shifted. Like the air itself turns to face him.

Art looks like he’s slept less than ever. His button-down is half tucked. His jaw is dark with stubble. Lily clings to his side like a satellite, wide-eyed and unsure, her hand curled around his fingers like she’s afraid he’ll disappear too.

He scans the room and your body betrays you—straightens, stills, braces. You tell yourself he’s not looking for you. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

But he finds you anyway.

You see it in flashes.

The slow lift of his gaze across the crowd. The barest twitch of recognition when he sees you talking to another parent. The flicker in his throat as he swallows hard and looks away.

You catch him watching you twice more. Once when you kneel beside your son to fix his shoelaces, the back of your dress tugged just slightly by the movement. And again when you laugh at something—too loudly, maybe, too freely—and his eyes stay on your mouth like it’s a bruise he wants to press.

You don’t let yourself look back. Not always. But when you do, he’s there. Holding a paper cup of lemonade like it might spill if he breathes too fast.

The air between you isn’t conversation. It’s current. And every time you move, you swear you feel it break around you.

Later, when the lights dim for the slideshow, your chair ends up just a little too close to his. Neither of you speaks.

But you feel his knee brush yours once.

And he doesn’t move away.

Three days pass without a word. And then—like most things that matter—it happens softly. Without warning. It happens the way all real things do—quietly, suddenly, without warning.

You’re both walking your kids into the school, backpacks bouncing and shoes scuffing against the sidewalk. The morning light is too bright. You’re halfway through saying something to your son when Art’s voice cuts in, low and clipped.

“Hey,” he says, catching up beside you. “Would you—could you take Lily home after school today?”

You blink. Turn slightly toward him.

“I’ve got a work thing,” he adds, fast. “I wouldn’t ask, but…”

But. The rest goes unsaid. Because he knows you’ll say yes.

“Of course,” you say. “That’s fine.”

He nods once, the barest tilt of his head, jaw tense. “I’ll come by before dinner.”

The kids run ahead. He lingers a second longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

Lily slides into your car like she’s done it a thousand times. She kicks off her shoes in the back seat and starts telling your son about a video they watched in class, her voice rising and falling like birdsong. She doesn’t ask where her dad is. She doesn’t need to. She trusts he’ll come.

You make them grilled cheese. Cut the crusts off. They eat cross-legged on the floor with a movie on too loud. At some point, Lily leans her head against your shoulder like she belongs there. And for a second, you let yourself believe she does.

Art knocks just after sunset.

You open the door and he’s there, hoodie pulled low over his hair, like he’s trying to hide from something. Maybe the world. Maybe you.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low, rough. “I owe you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t.” You hesitate. Then—“Do you want to come in? Just for a minute?”

It’s said like an afterthought, like an offer you don’t expect him to take. But he does.

He steps inside like it might break him. Like your hallway is a place he's not sure he deserves to be.

The kids are still giggling in the living room, a tangle of blankets and tiny hands reaching for popcorn.

“Drink?” you ask. You already know the answer. You pour two anyway.

You sit across from each other at your kitchen table. The overhead light is too warm, too kind. He keeps looking at the glass in front of him like it holds all the things he can’t say.

He doesn’t talk about Tashi. You don’t talk about your ex. But the silence between you is full of the ghosts you’ve both buried.

At some point, your fingers brush across the table.

He doesn’t pull away.

"You’re good with her," he says after a long pause. His voice is careful, like he’s afraid the words might come out wrong.

You smile faintly. “She makes it easy.”

“No,” he says. “She doesn’t. Not lately.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t press.

You take a sip of your drink and let the warmth rise in your chest before asking, gently, “Are you okay?”

He looks at you like the question is foreign. Then lets out a slow, humorless laugh. “No. But I’m surviving. I guess that counts for something.”

You nod. “It does.”

Another silence. Softer now. Less like a wall, more like a blanket pulled over shared fatigue.

“She talks about your son a lot,” Art says, voice low. “She says he makes her laugh. Says he makes her feel safe.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “He says the same thing about her.”

Art lets out a breath. It’s almost a laugh. Not quite. “Guess they’ve got better instincts than we do.”

You look at him then. Really look.

“I think they just haven’t learned to be afraid yet,” you say. “Of being close. Of needing people.”

He looks at you like he hears that too clearly. Like he’s been thinking the same thing.

And still, he doesn’t let go of your fingers.

You don’t see each other for five days after that.

Not because of avoidance. Not because of fear. Just... life. Schedules. Exhaustion.

But when Friday comes, and the sun’s slipping low behind the trees, and your son is already asking for Lily to come over for another movie night, you find yourself reaching for your phone before you can second-guess it.

And this time, when Art shows up with Lily’s overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he doesn't just linger at the door.

He steps inside without needing an invitation.

And this time, you don’t pour the drinks to be polite.

This time, you pour them because you want to feel warm. Because you want to hear his voice soften when he talks about bedtime stories and Lily’s dreams. Because you want to know what happens when the tension doesn’t break—but bends.

Because you’re ready for something that holds, not just burns.

For hunger that lingers after it’s been fed.

The kids fall asleep in the living room again, curled beneath the same blanket, their breathing soft and even, the low hum of the credits filling the space between rooms.

Art's glass is empty. Yours is half-full. And the distance between you feels smaller now—like it’s been shrinking for weeks and you just didn’t notice until this moment.

You’re both sitting on the edge of the couch. Not touching. Not yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not... I’m not good at this.”

You don’t ask what this means. You know. You’ve lived in that uncertainty too long not to recognize it.

“Neither am I,” you murmur. “But maybe we don’t have to be good at it. Maybe we just have to... show up.”

His hand is on his knee, fingers curling in and out like he’s working through the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

“Are you afraid?” you ask.

He looks at you. Really looks. There’s something cracked open behind his eyes now, something tender and raw and real.

“I’m terrified.”

You nod. “Me too.”

And then you reach for him.

Your fingers skim along his, soft and slow, not asking, not assuming. Just offering. He takes them like a lifeline. Like if he holds tight enough, the rest of him won’t fall apart.

You shift closer. Shoulders brushing. Knees aligned. The air around you thickens, settles, holds.

He turns to you—hesitant, questioning—and you can feel the moment stretch. Stretch until it aches. Until it begs.

And still, neither of you moves to kiss.

Not yet.

Because this is the part where you wait. Where you breathe each other in.

Where you let the tension rise—not like a wave, but like a need you’re too afraid to name.

The want is there. So is the ache.

And if you let it, it could swallow you whole.

But tonight, you stay soft.

And for now, that’s enough.

The next time it happens, it’s raining.

Not the gentle kind. The kind that pounds the roof and seeps into the bones. The kind that turns the street outside your house into a blur of headlights and rushing water. The kind that makes the walls feel smaller. Closer. Warmer.

He’s late picking Lily up.

You hear the knock just after eight. When you open the door, he’s soaked to the skin, hoodie clinging to him, hair plastered against his forehead.

“I—sorry,” he says. “There was traffic. And work. And I...”

You reach for his wrist before you think about it. “Come in.”

He hesitates. But only for a second.

The moment he steps over the threshold, something shifts.

You hand him a towel. He doesn’t take it right away. His eyes linger on yours, just a second too long. Just enough to say: Are we still pretending this doesn’t mean something?

The kids are asleep again. You both check, separately. Quietly. Like ritual.

When you find each other in the hallway outside your son’s room, it’s like gravity takes over.

There’s no music. No dialogue. No soft fade-in.

Just hands—yours, gripping the front of his hoodie.

Just mouths—his, brushing yours with a hunger that feels like apology and ache and finally.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s all teeth and breath and hands under shirts and backs against walls. It’s desperation clothed in need, pulled tight by all the weeks you didn’t let yourselves ask for this.

You end up on the couch again, but it’s different this time. It’s bodies moving like they already know the rhythm. Like they’ve been aching for this song without ever hearing it played.

He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your regret—like he’s tracing every bruise, every unfinished sentence left inside your skin. Like it’s something he could carry for you, if only he could hold it right. Like he wants to taste everything you didn’t say the last time he was here.

And when it’s over—when you’re both breathing like you’ve run ten miles toward something that might not even be safe—you don’t speak.

You just lie there.

He touches your cheek.

And you let him.

But in the morning, he’s already up before the kids.

You find him in the kitchen, pouring coffee like nothing happened. Like your body wasn’t pressed against his twelve hours ago. Like he didn’t whisper your name like a confession.

You lean against the doorway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

“Thanks for the towel,” he says finally, without looking at you.

You nod. Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye. You don’t ask him to.

But that night—you both let it happen again.

And again after that.

Not because it’s love.

Because it isn’t.

Because if it were, it would be too dangerous. Too consuming. Too real.

Because it’s easier to pretend you’re both just lonely.

Because it’s easier to call it need.

But some nights—

Some nights, he holds you too long after.

And some mornings, you catch yourself saving the way he smells on your pillow.

And you both know you can’t keep pretending forever.

It starts unraveling the night you cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Just a single sound—barely a breath—that escapes your throat when his mouth is on your shoulder and the world feels too quiet for pretending.

He stills. His hand against your hip stops moving. You brace for distance, for retreat.

But instead, he lifts his head and whispers, “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, eyes glassy in the dark. “No. That’s the problem.”

The silence after that is a different kind of heavy. Not awkward. Not cold.

Just full.

You should get up. You should make coffee. You should do anything but what you do next.

But instead, you say it.

“I don’t know how to do this without wanting more.”

Art doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you like you’ve just opened a door he’s been too scared to knock on.

“I don’t know how to give more,” he says quietly. “But I keep trying to anyway.”

You shift, knees brushing, fingers curling together on instinct.

And then he’s kissing you. Not like before. Not like escape.

This one is slower. Deeper. It trembles.

You sink into him like it’s the only way to stay whole. You move together like it’s the only language left. No frenzy. No rush. Just a slow exhale of everything that’s been buried too long.

He traces his thumb along your jaw like a question. Like a promise.

You whisper his name like it means something again.

And when your bodies find each other, it’s not about release.

It’s about staying.

It’s about letting go without leaving.

It’s about letting yourself be held.

His hands are everywhere. Gentle at first, reverent even—like he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you this way. Like he’s afraid if he pushes too far, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay.

You let his mouth trail down your collarbone, open-mouthed and aching. You let him press into the softest parts of you with a care that feels almost unbearable. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You gasp when he finally settles between your thighs. Not from the sensation—but from the intimacy. From the way his eyes stay locked on yours like he needs your permission over and over again.

When he’s inside you, it’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s felt.

Every inch. Every thrust. Every breath.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your forehead pressing to his, and it’s not about rhythm—it’s about anchoring.

He murmurs your name like it’s holy. Like it’s the only word that still fits in his mouth.

You’re crying again by the time you come.

But this time it’s not pain. It’s not fear.

It’s release. It’s being seen.

And when he follows after you, body trembling, breath scattered, he doesn’t let go.

He just wraps himself around you like he wants to stay there. Like he needs to.

Like he’s finally figured out how.

After, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t fix his hoodie or check the time.

He just breathes with you.

And you, for the first time in what feels like forever, don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You just breathe too.

And for once—it feels like maybe something is beginning.

Even if you’re both still scared of the name.

The morning is quieter than usual.

You wake before him. Not because you meant to, but because some part of you—some feral, frightened part—doesn’t know how to sleep through softness.

His arm is still around your waist. His breath brushes the back of your neck. You let yourself lie there for a moment longer, eyes wide open, heart fluttering too close to your throat.

You want to stay in this. You want to let it be enough.

But your mind’s already racing.

What happens next? What if this is the only time it ever feels like this? What if it doesn’t survive the daylight?

When he stirs, it’s slow. Heavy with sleep. He presses closer, almost unconsciously, murmurs something against your skin that might be your name.

You turn to face him.

His eyes open, slow and unsure. But then they land on yours.

And he smiles.

It’s small. Sleep-warm. Unpolished.

But it’s real.

“Morning,” he says, voice like gravel and honey.

You could say a hundred things.

But instead, you just whisper back, “Hi.”

And somehow, that’s enough—for now.

But it doesn’t stay enough.

Because when he’s getting dressed, there’s a pause. A flicker. A moment where he holds his hoodie in his hands and doesn’t move.

You watch him from the edge of the bed, blanket gathered around your waist, trying not to speak first.

He glances at you. Then away. Then back.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

It’s not sarcastic. It’s not resigned.

It’s scared.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

He sits on the bed again, elbows on knees. Doesn’t look at you yet.

“I’ve been pretending this is just... easy,” he says. “Casual. But it’s not. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me either,” you admit. “I didn’t think I had room for anything real. But then you kept showing up.”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he says. “But I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

He finally looks at you then, and it’s the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“You. All of it. Even the hard parts.”

You blink, trying not to let it spill too fast. But it does anyway.

“I want that too.”

He breathes in like he’s afraid to believe it.

But when you reach for his hand again—he doesn’t hesitate.

There’s no big decision that morning. No promises made. No declarations hung like picture frames on blank walls.

Just coffee. And dishes clinking in the sink. And the sound of Lily and your son laughing in the other room like the world has never broken them.

And maybe that’s what starts to feel like enough.

Because it’s not about defining it. Not yet. It’s about the space that opens up between you when he smiles without flinching, when you touch his wrist and he leans into it without looking for an exit.

The morning spills out quietly. He stays too long. You don’t ask him to go. No one says what this is—but neither of you tries to pretend it’s nothing anymore.

You walk him to the door.

He pauses there like he might say something. Doesn’t.

Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Grounded. Like it’s a start, not an end.

And when the door closes, it doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like something unfolding.

Later, when you’re alone, you sit in the stillness he left behind and realize you’re not afraid.

Not in the way you were.

You know it’ll be hard. That there will be nights when he pulls away before he means to, mornings when your fear outweighs your hope.

But you also know this: he reached back.

You both did.

And maybe that’s what love starts as—not fireworks. Not certainty.

Just two people reaching, again and again, across the soft terror of vulnerability—quietly. Like the children do. Before the world teaches them not to.

You look out the window and watch the light shift across the street, pale gold pouring over sidewalks like something sacred. Like a promise waiting to be kept.

You don’t know what comes next.

But for the first time, you want to find out.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s everything.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Pretty boy, natural blood-stained blond⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: teenage angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. underage drinking. fluff. 4.6k

You sit on the roof again, clay tiles pressing on your bare thighs, their warmth just as comforting now at the edge of seventeen as when you were a child.

Nothing has changed, and somehow everything has. 

You haven’t seen Dean since he skipped school on Monday, and then on Tuesday, and then again on Wednesday. It is Thursday afternoon now, and you’re getting worried. It is always hard to watch him go, but now his absence is real. Because he isn’t just the guy you observe from a distance anymore, no longer just the face of a fantasy you’ve created in your head. This time, you’re going to miss the real him.

Your lip is about to break from your teeth’s abuse when screaming reaches your ears. It comes from Bobby’s house, and the voice screaming back is the same one you heard that first time. Then, suddenly, a figure stumbles into the salvage yard. Teared up camo jacket and bloody knees, Dean Winchester struggles to hold himself together for the first time since you met him.

You don’t think twice. You quickly get up, almost tripping and slipping off the roof, and crawl back inside your room. You tug your boots on before running down the stairs and rushing toward the salvage yard.

You evade the house itself, from where screaming is still audible. IInstead, you sneak around the rusting carcasses of old cars until you catch sight of Dean sitting on a long piece of metal that serves as a bench.

He’s bleeding, just like the first day you saw him. His honey-colored hair—which was slowly darkening as the burning summer sun transitioned into something softer—is stained with crimson speckles, and it feels like that’s how it was always meant to be. His lip is busted, his shirt and jeans also torn apart, and he is holding his side like something else is hurting, a wound hidden far away where you can’t see it.

But his expression, that’s what makes you feel sick. His eyes—which always look either angry or amused—are red. Glossed over, but stubbornly not shedding a single tear. His hands are trembling, his mouth downturned, his shoulders slouched. He looks vulnerable. Scared, almost. And you finally catch a sight of the broken boy who hides under all those sharp weapons and lazy smirks. 

You take a careful step forward, then another, sliding out of the shadows and into the intensified sunlight of the last warm days of the year. Gravel crunches beneath the soles of your boots, and Dean snaps his head toward you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He spits out, his eyes burning holes into your skin. 

Like a wounded animal, baring its teeth when you get too close—one last attempt at self-preservation before it gives in to the bleeding.

But danger has never really put you off, so you walk into the wolf’s snarling mouth—willing, docile, unflinching.

Dean’s gaze stays on you as you approach him slowly, poisonous and heavy like lead. You don’t say anything, you wouldn’t know what to say even if you wanted to. You just will your feet to take you to him, sitting down on the metal bench in perfect silence.

For a moment, the screaming inside the house quiets down, and the insects roaming around stop buzzing, and the sky itself seems to freeze. It is only you and Dean, looking at each other, your eyes holding an eerie softness that Dean is just so unfamiliar with.

“You should go.” His words are sharp, but not smooth and shiny like a dagger—they’re ragged and raw, like a broken piece of glass someone clutches as a last resort. But then he mutters your name, and it comes out gentler. “This is not a good time.”

You keep your mouth shut, words still escaping you. You study Dean’s state as your brain scrambles for something to say, for a way to give comfort, for the right thing that will make it all better. 

Instead, your eyes find a piece of fabric tightly wrapped inside Dean’s fist. It is stained red but otherwise clean. Someone probably handed it to him so he could clean up, but now it is just stopping Dean’s nails from piercing the skin of his palm.

With gentle, careful movements, you pull the fabric from his grasp. He lets you, confused but clearly too tired to question you. He is getting used to your quiet weirdness.

You find a patch of the rag that isn’t stained, and then bring it to Dean’s face.

This time, his eyes do widen. He looks ready to push you away, to bite like a dog who’s learned not to trust the hand that closes in. But his eyes meet yours—poisoned forest clashing with ghostly fog—unreadable, but oh so soft.

You press the fabric over his bleeding lip as tenderly as you can. It must hurt, just like it hurts when you take care of your own bloody lip, but Dean doesn’t hisses. He doesn’t move, not even when you press harder and wipe away. 

You lean forward just to make sure you’ve gotten rid of all the blood, wiping the last drop with your thumb. Then your eyes drift up and you find Dean’s.

And fuck, the beast inside of you claws at your chest with a rabid desperation to crawl out of you and into Dean. 

His eyes are still glossed over, but the anger has melted. He’s… surprised. He looks so utterly shocked by your soothing touch. His shoulders have relaxed a bit, his fists aren’t clenched anymore, and when he talks, his voice is devoid of all the venom.

“Thank you, I guess,” he whispers, turning to stare at the ground. He grimaces then, when the shifting pulls at what you assume is a gash on his side.

You wish you could tell him to show you, to let you see every wound and every scar that mars his skin. You want him to show you where it hurts, and you want to lick it all better.

“What happened?” The words are rusty, whispered as they leave your mouth.

Without Dean around for the last few days, you haven’t used your voice much—maybe not at all. But you need to ask, because how did Dean even get this hurt?

Dean licks his lips, his tongue brushing over the still open cut. He’s probably tasting that sweet metallic tang right now, and you wish you could taste it too.

His mouth parts, you get ready to hear the tragedy that might have led up to this, and then steps are heard from behind you two. They are heavy and determined, definitely not Sam’s.

They don’t sound threatening, but Dean might as well have been electrocuted. His posture changes immediately—not nonchalant and confident like he is at school, nor firm and controlled like when Sam gets hurt. No, this time his shoulders are rigid, perfect form that would make the best military trainee jealous. His face hardens like rock, his hands twitching with something between anger and fear. Somehow, he manages to make himself seem both bigger and smaller at the same time.

For a second, you think he’s about to jump up and salute his general.

But instead of the dictator you’re expecting, it’s Bobby who walks out from between the junk.

His eyes widen when he spots you, but the two of you had exchanged enough casual words when you stumbled across each other in the mythology and occult section of the library for the encounter not to be terribly awkward.

“Hey there, kid,” Bobby nods toward you. “It’s nice seein’ you here and not perched up on that roof.”

“Hi, Bobby,” you chuckle lowly, still nervously glancing between Dean—who looks less scared but just as tense—and him. “It’s nice seeing you, too.”

Then his eyes drift to Dean, and the air thickens with something unlabeled but palpable. 

“Sam’s inside. He was out like a light…” Bobby scratches the back of his neck, seemingly trying to find the right words. “Your daddy just left, boy.”

Oh.

So the man dropping off the boys is their father. He’s also apparently the general you were expecting a second ago, because Dean’s face crumbles just before he glues it back together so fast you would’ve missed it if you weren’t studying him like a hawk.

Once again, your words fail you as you desperately wish you could comfort Dean. 

You try taking a step forward, because soft touches seemed to work before, but then Dean kicks an aluminum scrap so hard it crashes against a windshield, sending the glass flying and scattering shards everywhere.

The sound of glass shattering makes you flinch—too many memories of liquor bottles falling off tables and being thrown across rooms.

Dean doesn’t notice, since he’s across the salvage yard and a few steps away from the house in seconds. Bobby does, though, and he looks at you with a kind of empathy you know only comes from shared experiences.

“Go home, kiddo,” he suggests, his gruff voice comforting even in its somberness. “The boy will need some time to…” He gestures toward the broken pieces left in Dean’s wake. “Calm down, or whatever.”

You nod, small and almost imperceptible.

“I’ll see you later, Bobby,” you whisper before turning around and finding your way back home through the maze of dismantled machines.

“See ya, sweetheart.” The nickname brings a small smile to your lips. It’s been a long time since anyone called you something sweet.

Once you’re lying on your bed, your mind swirls with the newfound information. You had noticed that Dean never spoke about his family—no mention of his mom or his dad, and he only talked about Sam if it was about something recent, never mentioning anything from before they lived with Bobby—but you never talked about your mother, so you never questioned it.

But now, you know the reason. It’s clear that Dean has never been shown gentleness, and that his father is someone to be wary of. Dean is violent and unpredictable, a soldier trained for war.

It should scare you, make you walk away. But your fucked-up brain absorbs the information and twists it into something else. Something warm that curls around your softest parts.

Fuck, you want him so bad.

The next day, when you and Dean are quietly walking back home from school, you decide it is time to take action.

For the first time in your life, silence is off-putting instead of comforting.

But it’s because it comes with the scab on Dean’s lip and the slight tilt to the right, where you’re sure a bandage is wrapped around his middle. The silence is off-putting because Dean is sad, and it might just kill you.

“Uhm—” you clear your throat, and Dean’s eyebrows raise as you initiate a conversation for the first time. “Do you—uh, you know the drive-in that…” you shuffle nervously with the lacy edge of your dress, fingers clumsy. “That opened like a month ago in the next town over?”

“I know of it, yeah.” The edge of amusement that’s so characteristic of his every word is back, and it’s enough to convince you to keep going.

Of course, Dean knows. It’s all anyone at school is talking about. Everyone loves the idea of a secluded, parent-approved new makeout spot.

But Dean likes movies—he loves movies—and you want to make him happy. Plus, it just so happens that they’ll be screening your favorite movie.

“They’ll play Scream tonight.” Your hand moves to fidget with the bow wrapped around the end of one of your braids, and you throw Dean a hesitant but hopeful look. “If—I would like—maybe you wanna go? W-with me?”

You did it. It is done, you got it out. 

You could still barely process that someone like Dean even wanted to walk with you, much less actually hang out with you. So the words feel like sandpaper on your throat, but Dean’s dull eyes felt like being ripped in half.

And then his eyes brighten, his mouth shifts into that grin you’ve grown to love so much, and then—

“I can’t.” 

It is like being shot through the heart. 

Right, because why would he. 

Why would Dean Winchester, who has every cheerleader and pretty girl in town with their eyes on him, want to go watch a movie with you.

But there’s a tint of something in his words, almost like he is sorry he can’t go.

It’s the only thing keeping you from running into the woods and jumping off a waterfall into your gory demise, which would be less painful than living with Dean’s rejection.

“I promised Sammy we’d hang out tonight,” he explains, and the bullet in your heart transforms into something softer and sweeter. “He’s… kind of down because of, you know,” he gestures vaguely with his hand. Right, because of yesterday. “So I can’t cancel on him.”

That you weren’t expecting, but maybe you should’ve. Because if Dean prides himself on anything, it’s being a big brother.

“That’s really nice, Dean.” Your words surprise you almost as much as they surprise him. It may be the first time you’ve ever said something that wasn’t prompted by him. “What are you two doing?”

That seems to snap him out of his stupor, and a soft smile takes its place on his lips.

“Don’t know yet. Probably go for a burger or somethin’,” he huffs. “Sammy’s finally gone full angsty teenager. Like all he does is brood and wallow and pout, you know?”

That makes you snort, loud and obnoxious, because yeah, you know. You’ve been there for years.

The noise makes Dean laugh too, and he seems to relax once he realizes you’re not mad.

“He spends all his time nowadays listening to sullen emo crap and glancing out the window,” he continues, his words mocking but dripping with affection. “Seems like the only thing he enjoys lately is watching slashers and complaining.”

The comment lights up a lightbulb in your head. You hesitate, scared of crossing a line. Dean is clearly protective of his little brother, but maybe…

“We—if you don’t mind, and if he wants to, we could all go to the drive-in.” Your voice comes out shaky, but there’s no doubt in your eyes as you stare up at Dean.

“You’d… be okay with that?” Dean’s eyebrows almost reach his forehead, and he stops walking.

You do too, turning around to face him as your hands grasp the straps of your backpack.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Your face twists in confusion, genuine and adorable.

Because Dean looks seriously taken aback by the proposal, speechless for the first time in his life.

“I don’t know, I don’t think most chicks enjoy hanging out with their friend’s little brother.”

Friends. You two are friends. You have a friend.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug, a small smile on your lips. “I like Sam, and I kind of already thought of you two as a package deal.”

Dean laughs at that—actually laughs, bright and loud and beautiful. He starts to walk again, you two falling back into the familiar pace of making your way home.

“Yeah, we are.” He turns to look at you, and there’s something new creeping around his eyes, something warm and engulfing and a little bit scary. “It’s a plan, then.”

You wait until you’re inside your room to freak out. 

“We’ll pick you up at six, sweetheart.”

It’s cute, how Dean is picking up speech patterns you recognize from Bobby. It’s also cruel, because the nickname made you melt inside, and it had you lying bare on your bed, hand buried under the skirt of your dress until you were a mess of goosebumps and teary eyes.

You fix your smudged mascara, change your panties, and reheat some of last night’s dinner before sitting there and waiting.

You’re nervous, because you’re not only hanging out with the boy you’ve been obsessed with since you were ten, but also his sweet little brother, who might just be the most important person in his life.

Hands shaky, breath ragged, eyes teary—not from pleasure, but from the stench of your mother’s passed-out shape rotting away on the couch—you grab one of her vodka bottles and take a swig.

It washes down your throat like lava, corroding your stomach and running through your veins, reminding you of who you could become.

It makes you sick, but it also washes away the anxiety. Not completely, but enough to keep you from throwing up when the horn of a car reaches you from outside.

Sam and Dean are waiting for you in a beaten-up pick-up truck when you walk outside. The old thing is rusted, has no side windows, the bed is full of junk—and it’s fucking perfect.

Dean is in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other draped over the backrest of the bench seat. Sam is sitting in the middle, waving at you just like he did all those years ago.

You wave back before climbing onto the truck, muttering a low greeting that mixes with the humming of the engine.

The drive to the drive-in is quiet, classic rock filling the air as the three of you bob your heads to the beat, wind messing up your and Sam’s bangs.

Dean looks a little uncomfortable behind the wheel, explaining that he doesn’t usually drive trucks, but this was the only car Bobby could lend him.

“He’s just grumpy he can’t drive our dad’s car.” Sam doesn’t miss a beat, picking on him. “He’s like in love with that car. Calls it Baby and everything.”

Dean grumbles but doesn’t deny it.

“I will not be ashamed of Baby.”

You buy the tickets for the movie—more like Dean buys them, because he refuses to let you pay—and then you park in the middle of the grassy field. It leaves you with a great view of the screen, and not too far away from the concession stand.

“Do you want popcorn?” You ask the brothers as you open the door of the truck. 

“I do.” Sam quickly replies as he slides right behind you.

Dean grabs his wrist and gives him a careful look, at which Sam just nods. You try to decipher what it could mean but you are completely lost to their secret language.

You stare at Dean for a second, the beast on your chest whining at the thought of being away from him. You smack it on the snout.

“I don’t want anything. You two kids be careful.”

With that send-off, which makes both Sam and you huff, you make your way to the stand.

The walk would’ve been quiet if it weren’t for the teenagers yelling all around. Some jocks are throwing a football back and forth between cars, and they end up hitting some poor kid on the head.

“Assholes,” Sam and you mutter at the same time. You both look at each other, shocked, and immediately burst into laughter.

Your shoulders relax, the last bit of vodka in your blood sending its final sparks before extinguishing. Maybe you were being dramatic, and you’d be just fine after all. 

You’re both in line, chatting about Sam’s latest English test—he blushes when you compliment him on his straight A’s, knowledge you picked up from one of Dean’s afternoon rants—when Sam suddenly gasps, eyes wide.

You turn around to see a young girl being handed something: a big plate covered in chips and something white on top. It isn’t queso, so what in the world…

“Marshmallow nachos!” Sam looks like he’s about to leap over the counter to steal some for himself.

“Marshmallow nachos?” The words leave a sour aftertaste in your mouth, like a night spent kneeling in front of the toilet, but Sam looks as though he’s just seen an angel descending from heaven.

“I’ve always wanted to try them!” He bounces on the heels of his beat-up Converse, but then his face falls.

“Why don’t you get some, then?” You ask, confused, as the smile fades from his sweet face.

“They’re more expensive than the popcorn,” he murmurs, hands quickly shoving into his hoodie pockets. “And Dean always says he doesn’t want anything, but he’ll want popcorn later.”

You glance up at the menu hanging above the counter and spot the nachos. They’re not as cheap as you’d thought. Probably a new hit with the younger crowd, and they’re striking while the iron’s hot.

“Why don’t you buy both?” You try again, wanting to erase the pout from Sam’s mouth.

He just shakes his head, eyes darting down to where the toe of his shoe buries into the dirt.

“Dad didn’t leave much cash,” he whispers after a moment, and your heart breaks. “So I can only buy popcorn.”

So that’s what Dean was warning him about. And he still insisted on paying for your ticket.

One day, in another universe, you’d show Winchester Senior just how many tricks you know with your old butterfly knife.

It’s your turn to order, and Sam asks for a large popcorn and a large soda, paying with a handful of crumpled-up dollar bills.

“Hi,” you start when it’s your time to order. “Can I get one medium popcorn, a large Coke, and one of those marshmallow nachos? Thank you.”

Sam’s head snaps toward you so quickly you swear you hear it crack. You don’t turn to face him, but a grin spreads across your lips.

You hand Sam the nachos as soon as you get them. He looks down at them like he’s holding treasure, and his smile comes back full-force, dimples and all.

“You didn’t have to,” he whispers, but he’s already heading back to the car. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Sam.” The money was meant for a new book, but seeing the happiness on Sam’s face is more valuable than any novel.

You’ll just re-read Frankenstein for the hundredth time.

Dean’s eyes almost pop out of his face when he sees you two arrive.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

Sam climbs into the car, almost dropping his precious nachos. Dean helps him by holding the plate, staring at it with a mix of mild disgust and absolute curiosity.

“They sell them at the stand.” Sam settles in beside you as you crawl in behind him, adjusting the skirt of your dress before placing the popcorn bucket on your lap. “Here, I know you’d whine about it later.” He huffs, handing Dean his popcorn.

“How—” Dean throws you a wary glance, lowering his voice. “How did you pay for it?”

Sam’s cheeks flush, but not in the shy, bashful way he did when you complimented his grades. This time, it’s pure embarrassment, burning and uncomfortable.

“I bought them for him.” You intervene before Sam can stumble over an answer, and Dean’s eyes widen again.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, almost echoing Sam’s words. “I’ll pay you back.”

You huff, shaking your head, braids swishing with the motion.

“No way.”

“I’m serious.” Dean insists, and you should’ve guessed—he’s not the type to accept gifts.

Many would say it’s because of his ego. You think it might be because he doesn’t feel deserving.

“Consider it a celebration gift for that perfect English test.” You wink at Sam, and his face lights up. He turns happily to the screen, already lost in the trailers as he chews on his sweet-and-salty monstrosity.

Dean is still staring at you with surprise, but there’s an undertone of something else. It’s like when you look at your favorite picture and suddenly notice a figure in the background that you’ve never seen before. Either way, he seems to accept that arguing is useless.

“Careful there,” your name leaves his mouth like candy—sugary and smooth. “He might just end up writing about this in his diary.”

“It is a journal, Dean!”

“Yeah, a journal you use to write crappy poetry.”

You laugh, spectral but sweet, like everything about you.

“Don’t worry, Sam. People don’t understand tortured souls like us.”

You have to admit, it’s very out of character.

You don’t wink, you don’t intervene, you don’t joke. 

But there’s a tragic aura to Sam—the same one Dean carries—that breaks you out of the multiple layers of decay that have slowly glued to your skin and hardened into armor.

Maybe it’s because Sam was the first to ever say hi to you. Maybe it’s because he reminds you of yourself—smart, angry, quiet—or maybe it’s easier to interact with him because your heart doesn’t try to climb out of your throat every time you see his smile.

In any case, Dean's eyes stay locked on yours, burning with something unrecognizable until the movie starts and you both turn towards the screen.

But you can barely focus on Billy Loomis’ handsome face as he crawls through Sidney’s window, your mind haunted by the way those green irises—almost golden under the warm lights of the drive-in—had looked at you, with a ferocity you’d never been on the receiving end of.

The movie goes by quickly, Sam and you gushing about it on the low, Dean telling you to shut up but clearly enjoying the whispered conversation. At some point, Dean’s camo jacket ends up wrapped around your shoulders.

“Should’ve known nights are getting colder now, sweetheart.”

It fits perfectly around you, even the rips on the side feel like they belong.

On the drive back home, you let the breeze play with your hair as you roll down the dirt road. There’s nothing but dark woods and the moonlight around you, like the perfect setting for a murder. You close your eyes, focusing on the low thump of Dean’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

You’re almost home when a weight drops onto your shoulder. You quickly turn to find Sam, asleep after the sugar rush from the marshmallow nachos wore off, his face buried in the fabric of Dean’s jacket.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Just wake him up, or—”

“It’s okay, Dean.” You smile gently at him, your eyes drifting down to Sam. There’s marshmallow stuck to the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it away with the soft touch you wish someone had used on you. “I don’t mind.”

Dean stops the truck, and only then do you realize you're already in your driveway.

A beat passes, and Dean stays frozen, staring at you. You freeze, too, because this moment feels like it’ll shatter if you move even a little too harshly.

“You’re—really something, sweetheart.”

He says it like it means something. It sinks under your skin like it means everything.

“Is that good?” You can’t help the tremor in your voice, but you’ll blame it on the cold air.

Dean snorts, like even questioning it is a joke. “Yeah,” he whispers, “it is.”

You chuckle, cheeks warming, something shifting low in your stomach. The beast inside you stirs, hungry, and you bolt.

Carefully, you rest Sam’s head back on the seat, then almost scramble out of the truck through the window. A more rational part of you reminds you to open the door like a normal person, but you slam it shut so hard Sam jumps.

“Bye,” you blurt, before darting into the house.

It’s only once you're lying on your bed that you notice Dean’s jacket still around your shoulders. And if you sleep with your face hidden in its neckline, that’s between you and the demon on the corner of your room.

The next morning, Dean wakes up to Bobby handing him a box, only offering him a grin when he asks what it is.

Inside, there’s his jacket. On top of it, written on sketchbook paper with black ink, the letters loopy and flowing, is a note.

“You also are something good, Dean Winchester.”

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: Part two! ugh I love this series so much. if you can't tell, I have a soft spot for young!sam. in the next part it starts to get good, I promise. please let me know what you think, it genuinely makes me so happy! I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[jennxxe]

Chevy Cavalier 1997.

pairing — billy hitchcock x fem! reader

summary — you’re billy’s y2k it girl girlfriend.

warnings — 18+, unprotected sex, oral sex (both blow job and eating out), cursing, public sex, outdoor sex, you guys fuck on the hood of his car, he compares u to god at one point lmao, clothed sex

a/n — first billy fanfic i wrote!! hope he’s accurate personality wise <33

There’s a shimmer on the asphalt, molten patches of heat dancing like ghosts in the late afternoon sun. The parking lot outside Suncoast Video is nearly empty, save for a rusted-out vending machine humming like it's breathing and a few wayward shopping carts stranded like forgotten planets in the orbit of the shopping center.

Your platform sandals click lazily against the pavement as you walk, slow and sure, hips swaying like the beat of whatever Britney song is looping inside your head. Your crop top is a whisper of glittery mesh, clinging just enough to make Billy short-circuit when he thinks you're not looking. But oh, you always know when he’s looking.

And he is. Slumped against the hood of his mom’s beat-up Chevy Cavalier, a bag of sour gummy worms half-spilled in his lap, Billy stares like he’s watching a miracle in real time.

He’s in a faded baseball tee, sneakers dusty and unlaced. There's sweat on his temple, a curl of hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, then tries to pretend like he didn’t just fumble the bag of candy for the third time. His whole posture says: I’m lucky she even knows my name.

But baby, you're not just his girl. You're the girl. The one with the butterfly clips that sparkle like tiny weapons in your hair. The one with cherry gloss lips and a closet full of every popular clothing piece popular in 1998–2000 and eyes that could make a boy forget his own damn name.

You lean against the car next to him, arms crossing under your chest just enough to make his throat catch. “You spacing out again?” you murmur, head tilted, voice laced with amusement. You don’t have to raise your voice; your presence is already loud enough to make the air tremble.

Billy blinks like he’s just remembered how to breathe. “Nah—I was, uh—just thinking about… how the sun, y’know… reflects off your hair. Like, kind of blinding. In a good way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just slide your hand along the warm metal of the car, fingers grazing his wrist. He shudders a little at the touch. It’s adorable. You live for it.

There’s a low hum of cicadas in the distance, a dog barking somewhere across the street, the occasional groan of a skateboard wheel over cracked concrete. The world feels like it's holding its breath around you.

Billy sits up a little straighter, trying to play it cool. He offers you a gummy worm, fingers smudged with sugar. “Want one?”

You lean in while looking him right into the eyes, let your glossed lips brush his knuckles as you grab it. His face goes beet red in an instant. It’s almost cruel how easy it is to fluster him but you never push too far.

The sky above is going lavender, streaked with tangerine and cotton-candy pink. Somewhere in the car, a mixtape is still playing, probably something dumb and sweet he burned for you: Third Eye Blind, maybe, or Smash Mouth if he was feeling brave.

Billy shifts again, this time sliding a hand along your thigh, tentative but desperate to anchor himself somewhere real. You don’t stop him.

“I still can’t believe you said yes to me,” he mumbles.

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Oh, the way he looks at you then.

He leans in, not for a kiss, not yet, but just to rest his forehead against your temple. He smells like sun and sugar and the faint trace of the gas station cologne he always puts on when he’s trying to impress you. His breath catches against your cheek.

You let the silence stretch, long and golden, until it wraps around you both like summer air.

✧˚ · . ✧˚ · . ✧˚ · .

The Chevy Cavalier’s engine rattles like it’s just barely holding on but it moves, and that’s all that matters. Billy's hands are on the wheel, knuckles pale, one moment his eyes are on the road, the other flicking toward you when he thinks you won’t notice.

The sky outside is violet now, bleeding into navy at the edges. Streetlights flicker to life like fireflies caught in glass cages. You’ve kicked off your sandals and tucked your legs up on the seat, body twisted slightly toward him, your back resting against the passenger door.

His mixtape spins lazily in the stereo, 
“Semi-Charmed Life” fading into “Crash Into Me” like the soundtrack of a dream you forgot you were having.

Billy reaches over, fingers tracing a line up the inside of your thigh like he’s not entirely sure if he’s dreaming. He glances at you, a quick, questioning look and you give him that little smirk, the one that says I own you and you love it.

“Where we going?” you ask, dragging out each word like you already know there’s no real answer.

Billy shrugs, eyes forward again. The wind from the half-cracked windows flutters your hair like a music video from 1998. “Nowhere,” he says. “Just… somewhere that isn’t here.”

You hum, lashes low. “Good. I hate here.”

He grins, nervous and proud all at once, like he just passed some invisible test. “Me too.”

The road curves, leading you both past the outskirts of town, past shuttered gas stations, fields soaked in moonlight, the rusted carcass of an old playground where ghosts of your childhoods still swing when no one’s looking. The city noise fades into crickets and the thrum of wheels on asphalt.

Your hand finds his on the gearshift, fingers tangling without ceremony. His thumb brushes yours in these soft little stutters. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. He just drives, just touches, just burns in that quiet, trembling way that sneaks up on you.

And you? You're half-curled beside him like a wish he didn’t dare make out loud. Your head finds his shoulder as the car dips into a long, low stretch of road framed by trees. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of the tape flipping sides, the soft hitch in Billy’s breath, the way the road hums beneath the wheels like a lullaby for the lovesick.

You feel his lips brush the top of your head, feather-light, almost scared to exist. A kiss not meant to be seen. A prayer.

Your fingers curl tighter around his.

And for a moment it feels like you could drive forever. That if he just keeps the wheel steady and you keep breathing into the space between his heartbeat and the music, maybe nothing else will catch up.

Not time.
Not reality.
Not the end.

Just you and him.

The Chevy growls to a stop at the edge of the woods, headlights casting long shadows over wild grass and rustling leaves. Billy kills the engine, and the sudden silence feels thick, like the air just got heavier with whatever’s about to happen.

You swing the car door open and step out into the night like you own it. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you walk, the hem of your denim skirt catching the breeze, the chain around your hips catching the moonlight.

Billy’s slower to exit. Not because he’s unsure, he just needs a second. To breathe. To process.

Because you look like a damn fever dream under the stars, silhouetted in moonlight, a soft curve of danger and desire that keeps tugging at the part of him that never learned to play it cool.

He stands by the front of the car, nervously running a hand through his hair. “So, uh… what’s out here? Just trees and, uh… bugs? Maybe like, a serial killer or two?”

You smile—that smile. The one that says oh, baby, I’m the most dangerous thing out here. You step closer.

“Don’t worry,” you say, voice sweet. “You’re not in danger.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s not sure if he should be scared or grateful.

He opens his mouth to say something, probably something awkward, maybe a nervous joke but you don’t give him the chance.

With one smooth, intentional motion, you press both palms against his chest and push him back. He stumbles, backs of his legs hitting the hood of the car with a soft thump, a startled little breath leaving his lips as he fully sits back on the hood. He’s half-laughing, half-stunned. “Whoa—uh—hi?”

You plant yourself between his legs before he can recover, hands sliding up his chest, nails grazing the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s frozen, like his body’s trying to keep up with how fast his brain’s short-circuiting. You tilt your head.

“You always talk this much,” you murmur, “or is it just when you’re trying not to lose your mind?”

He lets out this nervous little chuckle, all breath and panic and boyish sweetness, like he’s not sure if he’s about to die or pass out or both. “I mean, technically, I’ve, uh… already lost my mind? Pretty sure you stole it. Like, weeks ago.”

You shut him up the only way he deserves.

Your mouth crashes into his, all lip gloss and heat and control. He makes this sound, a low, breathy gasp like he didn’t know it would feel that good.

His hands scramble for somewhere to land, your waist, your back, then finally your hips, holding on like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

The hood of the car creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to pull you closer. He’s kissing you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once—messy, desperate, so full of feeling it almost trips over itself.

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper. He pulls back for half a second, eyes wide, lips kiss-swollen and glossy.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin, leaning in close, lips brushing his jaw. “Better me than Death itself.”

That makes him laugh and you kiss him again just to shut him up, teeth grazing his bottom lip, tongue slipping past his defenses like you own him.

Because you do.

The hood of the car is still hot beneath him. Your lip gloss is smeared across both your mouths. The world has shrunk to the space between your bodies and the taste of cherry and want.

And god help him, Billy wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Billy’s hands are still on your waist, but he’s not in control, not even close.

He’s flushed to hell, blinking like he’s drunk on you, like his brain is buffering while his body spirals. His back’s pressed against the warm curve of the hood, legs slightly spread, fingers digging into the denim of your skirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your hands are on his chest, slowly sliding upward, teasing, pausing at the collar of his tee before tugging it down just enough to expose that pale skin at the base of his neck. The moment your lips graze it, he lets out this breathy "oh god"like a prayer and a warning all in one.

“You always make those sounds,” you murmur, voice low, lips brushing his throat.

“Y-yeah, I—uh—I make sounds,” he stammers, already breathless, already wrecked. “You’re—you’re making me make sounds—”

You cut him off with your mouth again, this time not to kiss, but to bite. Soft at first, teasing. Your lips press a slow, deliberate kiss to the hinge of his jaw, and he leans into it like a sunflower chasing the sun. Then your teeth graze, your tongue follows, and your mouth seals over him like you’re about to leave evidence.

He gasps, head tipping back, hands tightening. You suck, slow and deep, drawing that perfect flush of purple to his neck like a signature, and when you finally pull back, he’s got the audacity to whimper.

“Holy shit,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “That was… that was something.”

You don’t even give him a chance to recover.

You go lower.

You pull the collar wider, exposing more of that soft skin along his shoulder, and you mark him again. A little higher. Then one under his jaw. A small cluster, blooming like stars just under his skin. He’s squirming now, equal parts overwhelmed and addicted, legs shifting as he tries to keep from sliding further up the hood.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut, breath hot and fast. “You’re actually, like—killing me right now.”

You pull back, admiring your work. Red, raw, messy proof of exactly who he belongs to. Your fingertips trace the newest hickey just to make him shiver.

“You’re still breathing,” you smirk, licking a spot of gloss off your lip. “Barely.”

His hands move suddenly, trying to gather you closer, like maybe if he kisses you again he’ll stop feeling like he’s about to dissolve. But you don’t let him, not yet. You push him back with just your fingertips against his chest, eyes dark with heat and power.

“You’re not done,” you whisper, leaning in again, mouth skimming the shell of his ear.

Billy’s entire body trembles.

“Do whatever you want,” he breathes, voice shaking, half-laughing from how overwhelmed he is. “I’m—I’m just gonna lie here and, y’know, ascend or something.”

You chuckle before ducking down again to paint another kiss just below his collarbone.

And just like that, his world goes fuzzy. The woods could burn. The stars could fall. The whole damn car could roll into the trees. But none of that matters. Not when you’re leaning over him like a storm in lip gloss and heat. Not when your mouth is leaving galaxies across his skin.

Billy’s practically melting, sprawled back against the hood of the car like his knees won’t work anymore. His hands are still gripping the edge behind him, knuckles white, like if he lets go he might just float off into the stars overhead.

You slide down in front of him, your knees in the gravel, looking like a vision lit by moonlight, lip gloss a little smeared, eyes hooded, and a smirk that’s half-angel, half-devil.

“Whatcha doing down there?” he asks, voice rough and frayed, breath catching halfway through. He’s trying to sound casual, but it comes out cracked, like he’s not sure if he’s terrified or thrilled.

You glance up at him through your lashes. That slow, heavy look that makes his whole body jolt like a static shock. “Just taking care of you,” you murmur, fingers already dancing along the edge of his waistband.

He gulps, mouth dry. “You, uh—you don’t have to—”

You tilt your head, pressing a kiss to the soft skin just above his waistband. He lets out a sharp inhale, hips twitching instinctively. “I know I don’t,” you whisper. “That’s what makes it fun.”

And Billy loses every last brain cell in his pretty little head. You pull down both his pants and his boxers in one go.

His fingers curl tighter on the hood as he throws his head back as soon as you take his cock into your mouth, letting out this sound—half-gasp, half-swear. The stars above blur in his vision, his chest rising and falling too fast to keep up with. You’re slow, deliberate, teasing every little sound out of him like you’re playing a song only you know the chords to.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes, voice barely there. “You’re gonna—you’re gonna kill me, oh my God—”

You hum around him, lips never lifting. The vibration alone sends another full-body shudder through him. He’s mumbling now, nonsense compliments and strangled moans, every muscle in his body locked and trembling, eyes squeezed shut like he can’t look at you doing this and still remember how to speak.

One hand slides down to tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t push, he just holds, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

The sound of the forest has vanished. There’s only the soft rasp of your subtle gagging and sucking, the little sounds he can’t help but make, and the low groan of the hood beneath his weight.

And when it’s all too much, when his whole body arches, when he gasps your name like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say—you finally ease off, slow and sensual, lips brushing over skin like a promise kept.

He collapses back, panting, utterly ruined.

“You okay?” you ask sweetly.

Billy looks up at you like you just parted the damn sea.

“I—I think I met God. And she had butterfly clips in her hair.”

You laugh, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you climb onto the hood beside him. He immediately pulls you into his chest, still shaking a little, heart pounding so fast you can feel it even through his shirt.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers into your hair, kissing your temple like you’re too precious to touch and too dangerous not to.

You grin, curling into him. “Told you you weren’t in danger.”

You slide off the hood, legs still trembling slightly from the last time you made him forget how to breathe. He’s still recovering, sitting slack-jawed on the edge like someone just dragged him out of his body and whispered your name into his soul before stitching him back together.

But you?

You’re not done.

Not even close.

You stretch like a cat, slow and languid, letting your back arch just enough to let him see the curve of your waist and the way your skirt rides up when you move. His eyes follow every motion like he’s hypnotized. You catch his gaze and smirk.

You pause right at the center of the hood, look back over your shoulder, and give him that dangerous little grin. The one that says don’t blink, baby boy, or you’ll miss it.

Then, slow and deliberate, you bend forward, palms flat against the metal as your skirt hikes up just enough to make him swear out loud.

“Well,” you murmur, voice playful but edged with allure, “what are you waiting for, Hitchcock? Get in there.” And boy, does he.

You hear gravel shift as he drops behind you to his knees, breath catching in his throat like he’s seen divinity and it's got glitter on its thighs. His hands land on your hips, warm and reverent, thumbs tracing circles like you’re carved from marble and starlight. He pulls your lace panties aside in no time.

You gasp the second his mouth meets your pussy, hot, open, greedy. He grips your thighs tight, like he’s scared you’ll change your mind or disappear. But you won’t. Not when he’s making you tremble like this. Not when the cool air meets the heat of your body and his tongue is tracing shapes that make your breath hitch and stutter.

He moans against you—yes, moans—like he’s the one being touched, like this is something he needs to survive. And you? You’re a mess of breathless laughter and broken whimpers, your fingers gripping the hood like it might float away.

“God,” you manage to gasp, “you’re so—fuck—so good at this.”

He hums in response, smug and smugger, and you almost cum from the vibration alone.

The car rocks slightly beneath your hands. The woods hum around you. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you think: if anyone finds us out here, they’re gonna need therapy.

But that thought vanishes the second Billy pulls you back onto his face more firmly, adjusts his grip, and doubles down like he’s on a mission. Like you’re the only thing that exists. Like he wants to make you remember this every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life.

And when you finally fall forward with a gasp, thighs shaking, lips parted around his name.

He stands up behind you slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed and wrecked and smiling like he just won the damn lottery.

“You good?” he asks, panting, cocky and a little dazed.

You look over your shoulder, hair wild, eyes heavy-lidded, a satisfied smirk painted across your face.

“I’m still not done.”

His grin fades into awe.

“Oh, f—okay. Okay. I need to hydrate. I need electrolytes. You’re gonna kill me.”

You pull him by the collar and whisper, “Die pretty, then.”

He grabs your waist and lifts you instead, spinning you around like you don’t weigh a thing and setting you on your back against the hood.

The metal is cool under your bare thighs, but the look in his eyes? That’s fire.

He leans over you, forearms bracketing your head, breath ragged and lips parted. You’ve never seen him like this before—eyes dark, mouth twitching at the corners, and a kind of shaky boldness that makes your pulse spike.

“You can’t just—like—do all that to me and think I’m not gonna, like… do something back,” he stammers, eyes flicking down to your thighs like he’s already forgotten how to blink. His voice is rough, caught between awe and pure chaos, like he doesn’t even fully grasp what’s about to happen but knows he needs it.

You smile up at him, slow and knowing, spreading your legs in one smooth motion that leaves him wrecked. The skirt shifts up your thighs like it’s part of the plan, moonlight kissing every inch of exposed skin.

“Well?” you murmur, smug and sweet. “Get to it, Hitchcock.”

Something in him snaps clean in half like a rubber band stretched too tight and then he’s on you, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and hungry, teeth clashing, lips desperate. The kiss is less about finesse and all about want—raw, clumsy, real.

He pulls back, panting, eyes scanning your face like he can’t believe what’s happening. “Tell me to stop,” he says, but it’s weak, already unraveling, already gone.

You lace your fingers behind his neck, dragging him down until your lips ghost against his.

“Billy,” you whisper, breath warm against his mouth, “shut up and ruin me.”

You feel the shift in him, the way his body presses between your thighs, one hand fumbling at his waistband, the other steadying himself above you.

He sinks into you in one fluid motion, and the breath punches right out of your lungs. Your back arches against the hood, your mouth falls open around a gasp, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, locking him there.

He groans—loud—like your name just ripped out of his chest. “Oh god—I—shit—I’m gonna—this is—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t.

Because you’re already rocking up against him, matching his rhythm, dragging nails down his back through his shirt, moaning shamelessly into his ear. Every movement is wild, graceless, full of fire. The car creaks beneath you both, the metal dipping with every frantic thrust, headlights still dimly glowing across the grass.

Billy’s all panting and whimpering and praise, whispering things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s saying.

“You feel so good—baby, you’re so—can’t believe you’re mine—fuck—”

You dig your heels into his back and pull him deeper.

“Harder, Hitchcock.”

He swears, a full-body shudder rolling through him, and then—he delivers.

The pace gets frantic, borderline unhinged. You’re both barely holding on. Sweat, breath, the rhythmic slam of hips into hips. It’s a storm of sensation and noise and need.

There’s just you, Billy, and the hood of a car somewhere deep in the woods where nothing else matters.

And when the orgasm hits, when it crashes through both of you like a wave that doesn't ask permission, he collapses forward, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. You’re breathless, trembling, boneless beneath him, your hands stroking his hair as his chest heaves against yours.

No words. Just gasps and the thundering beat of two hearts that just barely survived each other. Finally, after what feels like forever, Billy lifts his head, eyes glazed, lips parted.

“Okay,” he pants. “I—holy shit—I blacked out. Did I cry? I might’ve cried.”

You laugh, voice hoarse but warm, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. “You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

He buries his face in your neck again, and you both lie there, tangled and breathless, under a sky full of stars and a hood full of memories.

[filthyjoelslvr]

memorial day

Content: Dbf!Joel x Reader

Synop: What was supposed to be a quiet Memorial Day at the lake turns into something far more complicated when long-held tension finally snaps. In the stillness of the woods, boundaries blur and secrets take root—ones that can’t be easily forgotten once the sun rises.

Warnings: No!Outbreak Joel, No use of y/n, degradtion kink, pet names (babygirl, little girl, sweer heart), Mean joel (kinda, calls reader a slut), Joel tries make you feel guilty kink?, Creampie, No protectipn pnv, fingering, honestly just kind of disgusting in a sexy way? Public (kinda but no one’s around), in front of your daddy but he’s sleeping (so sorry for this)

Word Count: 10k

(dividers by: @strangergraphics)

Memorial Day in Texas feels less like a holiday and more like a dare — how long can you stand the heat before it breaks you? The sun comes up early and mean, baking the pavement by 9 a.m., turning leather car seats into griddles and the air into something thick enough to choke on. That’s why you escape to the lake every year, just far enough outside Austin that the water feels cleaner, cooler, like a secret. You pack light: cutoff denim shorts, a thin knit sweater, and the one bikini you know will get noticed — black, high-cut, a little more grown than anyone at the lake last saw you in. Joel shows up in his usual: a faded black tank that hugs his shoulders and clings in all the wrong places once it’s soaked through, swim shorts, and that same damn baseball cap he’s had for years, sweat-stained and stubborn. He looks like summer and trouble, and maybe that’s why you hate the heat a little less when he’s around.

Joel and your dad go way back — not college buddies or some childhood thing, but the kind of friendship that forms in real life, under pressure. They met working construction in their twenties, two guys figuring it out as they went, both with young families, both struggling to make ends meet but still finding a way to laugh at the end of the day. Joel had Sarah, just a baby then. Your dad had you, and your mom — back when life was loud and full, and holidays meant cookouts, not silence.

Every memory you have of childhood, Joel’s somewhere in the background. Fixing the AC in the middle of a heatwave. Bringing over brisket and cheap beer. Holding a sleeping Sarah while your mom made peach cobbler. The two families blurred into one, easy and natural — until your mom got sick. And after she passed, it wasn’t your dad who held things together. It was Joel.

He never made a big show of it. Just… showed up. For you, for your dad. Quiet help — rides to school when your dad forgot, groceries in the fridge, fixed leaky sinks without asking. Never stepped into your mother’s space, but never let either of you fall too far, either. And when your dad was too broken to be fully present, Joel was the one who kept you grounded.

Sarah’s grown now — lives a couple states away, working, in love, building her own life. Joel’s divorced. Has been for years. It wasn’t messy, just one of those things that runs its course. He stayed in Texas. Stayed close. And you? You never really stopped orbiting him, even when you left for school, even when life moved on.

Now you’re older. Old enough to see Joel not just as the man who helped raise you, but as a man. Strong, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. Your dad still calls him his best friend. Still trusts him more than anyone. And that’s the line you know you’re not supposed to cross.

But sometimes Joel looks at you like he’s not sure if you already have.

Memorial Day at the lake was tradition — not something anyone ever questioned, just something that happened, like clockwork. Every year, the same plan: your dad would pack the truck with coolers full of beer and whatever meat he felt like over-seasoning, Joel would bring the boat and the old rusted grill that somehow still worked, and you'd toss in towels, sunscreen, and the too-small duffel bag that always carried your swimsuit and a second pair of dry clothes you never ended up needing. The three of you had been doing it for as long as you could remember — back when Sarah was still small enough to cling to Joel’s back in the water and you were too shy to take off your shirt in front of anyone. Back when your mom would make cold pasta salad in a giant plastic bowl and yell at your dad for forgetting the ice. Even after she passed, even when Sarah got older and stopped coming, the tradition didn’t break. It shifted. Tightened. Became something quieter and more sacred. Just the three of you — a long weekend of sunburns and smoky air, Joel manning the grill with a beer in hand, your dad blasting classic rock from a busted speaker, and you stretched out on the dock, toes in the water, pretending not to notice the way Joel’s voice dipped when he talked to you. It wasn’t about the holiday. It was about the ritual. About holding on to something that still felt right, even when everything else had changed.

The drive to the lake always felt longer than it was, but maybe that was just the heat — or maybe it was because you were crammed into the backseat of Joel's truck, half-napping against the window, pretending not to listen to the familiar back-and-forth between your dad and him. They talked like they always did — like no time had passed. About work, traffic on I-35, the price of gas, whether the water level at the lake would be high or low this year.

You kept your sunglasses on and didn’t say much, letting their voices hum in the background like static. The sun was already hot, even before noon, and the AC in Joel's truck gave up halfway into the drive. You were sweating through your sweater and silently cursing the denim shorts that now felt painted on. Still, you didn’t regret what you’d packed — especially the black bikini tucked under your clothes. It was a little bold, sure, but after last year’s Memorial Day trip, when Joel didn’t even look twice at you, you’d decided this year you weren’t going to fade into the background. Not again.

The truck finally turned down the familiar gravel road, and the air changed — lighter, full of cedar and lakewater and something nostalgic. The trees parted to reveal the same sagging dock, and that wide, glinting stretch of water that made it all worth it.

You were the first one out of the truck.

Joel didn’t say anything as he grabbed the rope from the bed and headed toward the water. You watched from the edge of the dock as he worked — pulling the cover off the boat, checking the fuel, tying off lines with practiced ease. He hadn’t changed much, at least not in ways that made him any easier to look away from. His tank top was sun-bleached and clinging just enough to show the shape of him — broad shoulders, strong arms, tan skin gone golden under the sun. His hat shaded his face, but you still caught glimpses of his eyes when he glanced up, squinting toward the glare.

He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off yet, and still you felt like he could see right through you.

There was something hypnotic about watching him work — the steadiness in his hands, the little grunt he made when something stuck, the way he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, unaware or just unaffected by the fact that you were staring. He’d always had this calm, capable energy that made you feel safe without even trying. But now, older, clearer-eyed, it hit different. It settled low in your stomach. Pulled at you.

Your dad was still fiddling with the cooler in the truck bed, grumbling about forgetting charcoal, oblivious. But Joel? Joel caught your eye for just a second as he stepped onto the boat. He smirked — subtle, knowing.

“Water’s perfect,” he called out. “You bring that swimsuit or just plan on lookin’ hot and sweaty all day?”

You blinked, then laughed, heart kicking.

He turned away before you could answer, already back to work. But that one line sat with you. Because he said it so easy. Like he didn’t even realize what it sounded like.

Or maybe he did.

It didn’t take Joel long to finish up with the boat. He moved with that quiet focus he always had — checking the motor, untangling ropes, kicking open the storage compartments to toss in life vests and the warped foam noodles your dad refused to throw away. Once everything looked good, your dad finally hauled the first cooler down from the truck, grunting like it weighed more than it did, and Joel stepped in without a word to help. The two of them moved in sync, loading up the boat with bags of chips, beer, and the pre-wrapped burgers your dad insisted on grilling even though it was already 90 degrees.

You lingered on the dock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just watching. Waiting.

Joel hopped back onto the boat and opened a beer with the edge of the cooler, leaning against the railing like it was second nature. His tank top stuck to his chest now, damp with sweat, and his skin had already started to flush from the sun. He wasn’t looking at you — not directly. But you caught the shift in his stance when you stood up. The way his body stilled. The flick of his eyes under the brim of that damn hat.

Time to make it worth it.

You peeled off your clothes slow — first the sweater, then the shorts — and folded them with deliberate care, placing them neatly at the edge of the dock. The air hit your skin all at once, and the black bikini felt suddenly bolder than it had in your bedroom mirror. High-cut, low-backed, with just enough give to make you feel dangerous.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just walked over to the lounge chair and grabbed your tanning oil from your bag, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other smoothed your hair back off your shoulders. Then, you started to apply it — slow, intentional, dragging your palms over your arms, then down your legs, gliding over your stomach like you had all the time in the world.

Only then did you glance up.

Joel was mid-sip of his beer, but it had stalled halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked — not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice — but you saw it. The way his eyes trailed down the curve of your body and then quickly darted back to the boat like he hadn’t just undressed you all over again with one look.

You smiled to yourself.

This swimsuit was a good choice.

He tried to play it off, mumbling something to your dad and rummaging through a bag that definitely didn’t need rummaging. But you caught it again — the second glance, lower this time. And when you lifted one leg to rub oil into your calf, his jaw flexed hard enough to make your chest flutter.

You leaned back on your elbows, soaking up the sun. Letting him look. Letting him want.

For the first time, you weren’t the one being watched like a kid. And Joel? He wasn’t hiding it nearly as well as he thought.

The boat eased away from the dock with a low hum, the water shimmering under the sun like molten glass. Joel was at the front, one hand on the throttle, the other resting on the wheel like he’d been born to drive this thing. He wore those same dark sunglasses, and the breeze whipped his shirt against his chest as the boat picked up speed, slicing through the lake with smooth confidence.

You laid back across one of the cushioned benches, sunglasses on, letting the sun kiss every inch of your oiled skin. Your dad was futzing around with a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting in and out, alternating between classic rock and static. Occasionally, he’d call out to Joel to steer left or point out a cove they’d used to fish in, but mostly, it was quiet — lazy and warm, the kind of afternoon that felt suspended in time.

Eventually, Joel cut the engine. The boat bobbed gently in the middle of the lake, surrounded by nothing but water, hills, and heat. He stood up and stretched, back arching just enough to make your mouth go a little dry, then kicked off his shoes.

Without a word, he jumped.

The splash was loud, and when he surfaced a few feet from the boat, his hair was pushed back and dripping, face slick with lake water and sun, his grin wide and boyish in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. The wet tank clung to his chest for a second before he pulled it off and tossed it onto the deck behind him.

You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t looking.

His shoulders, tanned and cut, gleamed in the light, droplets racing down the planes of his chest. His laugh was low and easy as he treaded water.

“C’mon,” he called out. “Water’s perfect.”

“Don’t pressure her,” your dad said — right before cannonballing in beside him, creating a second wave of water that sloshed against the side of the boat.

You groaned and pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m good right here.”

They both resurfaced, grinning, ganging up like clockwork.

“Aw, come on,” your dad called. “You used to be the first one in!”

“Used to,” you shot back, stretching out further, crossing one oiled leg over the other. “Now I’m grown and civilized.”

Joel smirked, running a hand back through his wet hair. “Grown, huh? That why you’re afraid to get your hair wet now?”

You narrowed your eyes behind your sunglasses. “Not afraid. Just not stupid.”

Joel floated closer, arms lazily pushing through the water. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared we’ll splash you.”

“You will splash me.”

“We will,” he agreed, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”

You shook your head and leaned back with a sigh of exaggerated contentment. “I’m on beer duty. Go play.”

Your dad laughed and turned away, swimming toward the back of the boat.

Joel just lingered there, watching you.

“I give up,” he finally said with a dramatic sigh. “Toss me a beer, will ya?”

“Fine.” You sat up, grabbing a cold one from the cooler, condensation already sliding down the side of the can. You shuffled over to the edge of the boat where Joel was floating and leaned over the railing to hand it to him, the sun warming your back.

And that’s when he struck.

His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, and before you could even yelp, he tugged — hard.

You gasped, tried to pull back, but the slippery deck offered no grip. The world tilted for a split second — sun, sky, Joel’s smirk — and then you hit the water with a splash that stole the breath right out of you.

Cold and shocking, but somehow still perfect.

You surfaced with a sputter, pushing your wet hair out of your face, eyes wide as Joel laughed loud and unrepentant. He backed away in the water, arms raised like he was innocent.

“Joel!” you shouted, splashing water at him furiously.

He just grinned. “Told you it was perfect.”

Your dad howled with laughter in the distance.

You blinked the water from your lashes, glaring — but it was hard to stay mad when Joel was right there, water dripping from his jaw, that same damn smirk on his face, and your heart beating just a little too fast in your chest.

Maybe falling in wasn’t so bad after all.

After Joel yanked you into the water, it was full-on war.

You splashed him until your arms ached, trying to keep up with how fast he moved in the water. Your dad jumped in to “defend” you, which really just turned into him dunking Joel under like they were ten years old again. The lake echoed with laughter — yours louder than it had been in a long time — and the heat of the afternoon felt less suffocating when you were weightless, drifting in cool water, surrounded by two people who’d known you your whole life.

You forgot about the sunburn slowly forming across your shoulders. Forgot about time.

At some point, Joel disappeared under the surface, only to pop up right behind you and lift you up out of the water in one strong motion, tossing you with a triumphant shout. You hit the water laughing, kicking toward him, yelling his name like a threat, even though you weren’t really mad.

Eventually, the chaos quieted. You all settled into the stillness that always came after the burst of play — muscles heavy, voices softer, the heat stretching out like molasses.

Joel pulled a pool noodle under his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. You found a floatie — one of those half-deflated recliner ones — and climbed on, letting your legs hang over the sides. Your dad drifted between you, occasionally humming along to the music still playing faintly from the boat’s speaker.

The water rocked everyone gently. It was the kind of peace that didn’t need words.

After a while, your dad cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, paddling toward the boat. “Time to get the grill set up before I pass out from hunger.”

You cracked one eye open.

Joel just grunted a lazy, “Mmm.”

Your dad laughed and climbed back aboard, the boat tilting slightly under his weight. He moved around the deck, opening the cooler again, mumbling about lighter fluid and forgetting to bring the damn tongs.

You stayed where you were — drifting, warm, weightless.

Joel floated a few feet away, arms still hooked over the noodle, chest rising and falling slow. He glanced your way, and for a second, it felt like the sun paused in the sky.

The water between you shimmered. Quiet. Charged.

And your dad was just close enough to feel like a buffer, but far enough not to hear a word.

The water lapped gently around you, lazy and warm now in the late afternoon heat. Your float rocked with each soft ripple, and somewhere behind you, your dad moved around the boat, metal clinking as he got the grill ready. The smell of charcoal drifted faintly on the breeze, mixing with cedar, sunscreen, and the soft churn of lakewater.

Joel was still there — a few feet away, noodle tucked under his arms, sunglasses low on his nose. He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just floated. Watched.

You tried not to look at him. You really did. But the way the sun hit his skin, all bronze and wet, his hair slicked back from the water, neck beading with droplets—it wasn’t easy. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t even know you had permission to have.

“You’re quiet,” you said finally, your voice soft, breaking the thick silence between you.

Joel’s lips quirked just a little. “So are you.”

You shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the sky, the tree line, the lazy ripple of the water before finally settling on you again.

“You always liked it out here,” he said. “Even when you were little. You’d float around like you were made of water. Never wanted to get out.”

You smiled at the memory. “That hasn’t changed much.”

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest. “No. Guess it hasn’t.”

A beat passed. Then two. The space between your float and his noodle shrank slightly with the movement of the water, just enough to feel noticeable. Intentional.

“You surprised me today,” he said, not quite looking at you. “With that suit.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heartbeat ticking up.

“Why’s that?”

He finally looked you dead-on, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t smile this time. His voice dropped, lower than before.

“Because you’re you're getting older.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”

The water between you stilled.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, the movement slow — almost nervous. You’d never seen him like that. Not around you. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something in his expression. Hunger. Conflict. Restraint.

Your float drifted a little closer.

“Joel,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t look.”

That got his attention. He looked at you again, this time with something raw in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped. “Well. Maybe I did.”

Your stomach flipped.

Behind you, your dad cursed loudly about the propane tank, and the spell broke. Joel sat up straighter, turned toward the boat, jaw tight again like he’d reeled himself back in.

You let the silence take over again, but it felt different now — full of everything that had just passed between you. Everything that had almost happened.

And maybe still could.

The quiet between you stretched out, heavy but magnetic. Joel hadn’t moved much — just floated close, close enough that the water brushing your leg might’ve been him. You didn’t know for sure until you felt it again — firmer this time, deliberate. A hand, slipping beneath the surface, fingers grazing the curve of your hip where the waterline met your bikini.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his face turned toward the boat, the sun glinting off the water between you. His fingers moved slowly, barely there — a slow stroke of skin just under the surface, hidden from view. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t pushing, just touching. Like he was testing if he could. If you’d let him.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say a word.

Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the rest of the world faded down to water, skin, and the electricity building in that sliver of space between your float and his.

And then—

“Alright, you two, let’s go,” your dad called, loud and casual, from the boat.

The hand vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. You jerked upright a little too fast, water splashing against your float. Joel cleared his throat and turned, swimming a couple strokes toward the boat.

Your heart thudded hard, heat crawling up your neck — not from the sun this time.

You glanced at your dad, trying to read his expression, but he didn’t look suspicious. If he’d seen anything, he didn’t let on. He was leaning against the railing, grinning like always, waving you in.

“Got the coals lit. We’re losing daylight,” he called. “Come on before Joel drinks all the beer.”

Joel climbed aboard first, grabbing your hand to help you up like nothing had happened. His grip was firm, steady, but when your eyes met, there was a flash of something there — something unspoken and sharp. He let go a beat too late.

You dried off quickly and pulled your sweater back on, trying to steady your breath while your dad moved around the grill, humming off-key to the music now coming in clear from the speaker. Joel cracked open another beer and stood beside him, the two of them falling back into their usual rhythm — arguing about burger doneness, who forgot to pack the cheese, and whether it was too late to drive into town for firewood. Then Joel drove everyone back to land.

You busied yourself spreading the picnic blanket across the little patch of shaded grass just off the dock once the boat was tied. You laid out the paper plates, napkins, the tub of potato salad your dad insisted on bringing every year even though it always got warm too fast. Your skin was still damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, but your hands moved automatically. Anything to give you something to do. Anything to keep from glancing at Joel too much.

Dinner was easy. The way it always was — plates balanced on laps, beer bottles sweating in the grass, food that tasted better because it had been earned by sun and laughter and a long day on the water. The three of you sat in a triangle on the blanket, your dad telling a story you’d already heard twice before about the time he and Joel got stranded in the middle of the highway with a flat tire and a cooler full of melted ice.

You laughed. You always did. Joel added the same sarcastic commentary he always did, flicking a bottlecap at your dad’s arm mid-story.

But every now and then, you felt his eyes on you.

Quick glances over his bottle. A flash of tongue licking grease off his thumb. His knee brushing yours and staying just a moment too long before shifting away again.

The food disappeared fast. Your dad leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his plate empty, beer in hand, already talking about grilling breakfast tomorrow. But you weren’t listening to the words.

You were listening to the tension. To the silence pulsing just under the surface — not between all three of you, but between you and Joel.

Something had shifted.

And even if no one said it out loud… it was there now.

Undeniable.

The sun had started to dip behind the lake by the time you were clearing the last of the paper plates, the sky washed in deep orange and fading gold. The lake glimmered in the distance, still and endless now, and the heat had finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that whispered through the trees and lifted strands of your damp hair off your shoulders.

Joel had already gotten a fire going, the crackle of burning wood filling the space where conversation had died down. They had made the drive into town for firewood, and he’d stacked it just right—tight and efficient, like he did everything. He stood nearby now, feeding another log into the flames, face lit up in flickering amber, a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a beer balanced in the other.

Your dad was off to the side, tying the last corner of the old camping hammock he swore by. It hung between two trees just a little ways back from the fire pit, swaying gently in the breeze. He always staked that spot for himself come nighttime—said it was the best seat in the house for stargazing and s’mores.

You tossed the last bag of trash into the bin and wiped your hands on your shorts, making your way back toward the fire just as Joel lowered himself into one of the folding chairs with a groan and a muttered, “My knees weren’t built for this much swimming.”

You grinned and sat in the chair next to him, close enough that your knees brushed his for a moment before you tucked them up under yourself.

Your dad had finally settled in his hammock, beer in one hand, bag of marshmallows resting on his chest. He’d already started humming to himself, eyes barely open, the kind of blissed-out contentment only someone who’d grilled three burgers and floated in the sun for hours could feel.

Joel passed you the cigarette without a word. You took it between your fingers and inhaled, the smoke curling warm in your chest as you exhaled into the fading light. He lit another for himself and leaned back in his chair, his free hand lazily strumming the strings of the battered old acoustic guitar he kept in the truck. He hadn’t played all day, but now, as the sun gave way to dusk, he let the music slip out like muscle memory.

It was low and slow — something old and familiar, something that melted into the firelight like it belonged there.

You sipped your beer and watched him, your legs stretched out toward the warmth of the flames. His fingers moved with casual grace, the melody floating softly into the night. The guitar glowed in the light, the wood darkened from years of playing, his hand resting easily on the neck like it was part of him.

Your dad let out a soft snore, the marshmallows rolling off his chest and into the hammock with a rustle. Neither of you moved to wake him.

You just sat there, under a sky turning dark, with the lake at your back and the fire between you and Joel. The smoke, the heat, the music — it all felt thick and quiet and close.

Joel didn’t say anything, but he looked at you once through the smoke, the firelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement.

It was just there.

Whatever this was between you — it was burning too.

The fire had burned down to a slow, steady glow, casting everything in warm gold and flickering shadows. Crickets chirped lazily in the brush, and the trees creaked quietly in the breeze. Your dad was fully asleep now, gently rocking in his hammock with a soft snore escaping every few breaths, a beer bottle still clutched loosely to his chest like a trophy.

You and Joel hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to.

He kept playing — quieter now, slower — until even that faded into silence. His hand stilled on the strings, and the only sounds left were the crackle of wood and the distant lap of water against the dock.

He set the guitar down beside his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. For a moment, you just watched the smoke curl up into the night sky, your heart beating slow but loud in your chest.

Then his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“You ever think about how different everything would’ve been if life had gone the way we planned?”

You turned your head, eyes catching the way the firelight touched his face — carving out every line, every shadow. He looked older here. Softer, in the dark. Like he didn’t have to hold up the weight of everything for once.

“I try not to,” you admitted, tucking your knees closer to your chest. “Doesn’t do much good.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew what you were going to say.

“I used to think there was only one way to be a good man,” he said after a pause. “And I followed that as best I could. Worked hard. Stayed in my lane. Kept my hands clean.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“But then life starts rewriting all your rules,” he murmured, flicking ash into the fire. “And suddenly… there’s this person you shouldn’t want. Someone you can’t want.”

The words hung there between you. Unsaid, but completely understood.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t look away from him.

“You didn’t stop yourself earlier,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said, eyes meeting yours now, steady and heavy and raw. “Didn’t want to.”

Neither of you moved. The night was a living thing between you, breathing and buzzing and watching. Your heartbeat was in your throat. In your fingertips. You wondered if he could hear it.

His voice dropped, barely more than a rasp. “You didn’t stop me either.”

“I didn’t want to,” you echoed back, just as quiet.

Joel’s hand shifted slightly, resting on his knee. Close to yours. Not touching, but close. You could feel the heat of him there, even in the night air.

He leaned in, just a little.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Been tryin’ not to. But it’s gettin’ harder.”

The admission landed like a weight in your chest. A tremble ran through your limbs — not fear, not nerves. Just want.

You looked at him — really looked. His face was lit by fire and memory. His eyes weren’t guarded now. They were open. Vulnerable. Honest.

“I think about you too,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved right away.

But the shift had already happened.

And nothing was going to be the same after tonight.

The fire crackled, shifting slightly as a log split open with a soft pop, sending a shower of embers drifting into the dark like fireflies. Joel watched them float up, his hand still near yours, his knee brushing against you when he shifted, like he didn’t even realize he was reaching for closeness—or maybe he did.

You didn’t pull away.

He exhaled slow, like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I notice things about you now,” he said quietly. “Things I didn’t let myself see before.”

You turned toward him, pulse picking up. “Like what?”

His jaw flexed, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then he looked at you — really looked. Like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“The way you look when you think no one’s watching,” he said. “How quiet you get when you’re trying not to say what you’re feeling. The way you walk around like you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Your fingers twitched in your lap.

“And it’s wrong,” he added, softer now. “You’re—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, your voice just above a whisper. “Don’t pull that card.”

Joel stared at you, something stormy in his eyes. “He’s my best friend.”

“And I’m not a child,” you said firmly, but not harshly. “You know I’m not.”

He didn’t argue.

The silence that followed was louder than the fire.

You leaned back slightly, heart thudding, the space between you sparking like it had its own pulse.

“I used to think you didn’t see me at all,” you admitted. “Like I was invisible to you.”

Joel turned his head slowly, regret written clear in the lines around his mouth.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw everything. That was the problem.”

Your breath caught. You felt it, then — how much he meant it. How long he’d been holding this in. The restraint hadn’t just been recent. It had roots.

“I used to convince myself it was just a crush,” you said. “That it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”

Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you. Like maybe if he held your gaze long enough, he’d find the strength to walk away… or the excuse not to.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said finally, voice rough. “Don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”

You reached for his hand then, slowly, your fingertips brushing his knuckles.

“Then don’t be,” you said softly. “But don’t pretend this isn’t real either.”

Joel didn’t move at first. Just stared at your hand against his like it might burn him.

Then—finally—his fingers turned, lacing with yours.

The touch was simple. No rush.

But it meant everything.

The line had been crossed, not with a kiss, but with the truth.

And there was no going back now.

Joel’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, the callouses on his fingers rough against your skin in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked down at your joined hands like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like part of him still expected you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze.

That was all it took.

He stood without a word, still holding your hand, and gave a subtle nod toward the tree line just past the fire. You understood him without needing to ask. Not here. Not with your dad half-snoring in the hammock just ten feet away.

You rose and followed him, the fire casting long shadows behind you as you stepped off the blanket, your bare feet brushing over dry grass and soft pine needles. Joel led you just far enough away that the firelight flickered at your backs, barely kissing the edge of your shoulders now — just far enough for the dark to feel like privacy.

The air was cooler in the trees. Quieter.

He stopped near the base of a tall cedar, the branches low and swaying gently above. He dropped your hand slowly, like it hurt to let it go, but didn’t step away.

You were standing close now. Closer than you’d dared all day.

The silence between you was no longer awkward or tentative — it was expectant.

Joel looked at you for a long moment, something stormy and unreadable behind his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough, low.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

That was it.

Whatever thread had been holding him back finally snapped.

He stepped forward and reached up, his fingers brushing your jaw, then settling along the curve of your neck. His hand was warm, steady. Your breath hitched as his thumb dragged slowly beneath your ear, the gentleness of the touch at complete odds with the fire in his eyes.

He leaned in.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Like he was memorizing every second before it finally happened.

And then, with a low breath that barely touched your skin—

His lips met yours.

It was careful at first. Tentative. A test.

But the moment you exhaled against him — the moment your mouth parted and your hands found his chest — Joel deepened the kiss with a quiet, broken sound in his throat, like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand slid down, resting at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face. The pressure of his mouth grew more certain, more hungry, and your body tilted into his instinctively, drawn to his warmth like gravity.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was full — of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to let yourself want until now.

And as the fire crackled behind you and the stars blinked into the dark sky above, Joel kissed you like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

And now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The kiss deepened, his lip biting your bottom one for an invitation inside. You parted your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slip through, tasting every inch of your hot, wet mouth. Meeting his tongue with yours in a war of dominance that he, of course, won.

His hands trailed down from your waist to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning the silver stud that glowed in the fading firelight. The zipper was loud in the quiet of the night, and you instinctively turned your head around the trees to look back at your dad — make sure he was still sound asleep.

"Don’t worry about him, babygirl," Joel said, his voice low and rough as his hand came up and gripped your cheek with just enough force to make you gasp. He turned your face back to his, eyes dark. "He’s too deep in the beer to know what year it is.”

His hands continued fumbling with your shorts, dragging them down your thighs and revealing the black swimsuit underneath — still damp from the earlier swim. His hands grab at the revealing skin of your ass, pulling you closer until your rubbing against the hard outline of him.

You drop your mouth in a moan — feeling how big he is just underneath the polyester material of his shorts. His hands slip under your bottoms now, giving him full access to the plump skin. He harshly grabs and pulls at your ass, grinding you against himself — sucking in sharp breaths everytime you meet his already wet tip soaking through his shorts.

His hands, now feeling like fire against your skin, trail up your stomach, tracing the thread of shadow on your skin. He pulls your shirt off, exposing just how tiny your bikini really is.

“You did this for me, didn’t you?” He smirks, letting a small laugh escape.

You try to shake your head no, but he can see right through it.

“No, you did. Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He assures, as his fingers trace the outline of your hardening nipple through the material of your swimsuit.

“God, Joel, just fuck me.” You beg, bucking your hips to meet his. You want to rip off your swimsuit—and his—and reveal the naked bodies hidden underneath. You want to see him, all of him. And you want him to see all of you too.

But he only shakes his head, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His fingers trail just shy of where you need them, deliberate in their torment. “I’m not rushing a damn thing. I’ve waited a whole year for this—ever since last Memorial Day, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Dreaming about this.”

The confession catches you off guard—your breath stutters, heart skipping a beat—because last Memorial Day, he’d barely looked at you, all cool glances and casual distance, while you’d spent the whole day trying not to stare. You had no idea he’d been thinking the same things, wanting the same things, all that time.

He pulls down the black material, your tits bouncing out—begging for his attention, stealing the show. Your nipples are perked so painfully, needing his touch, his mouth. But he just watches them, gaze slow and heavy, like he’s memorizing the way they look—like the sight alone is something he means to savor.

Finally, his fingers brush over the nubs, sending an electric sensation down your spine, all the way to the wetting of your bottoms.

“Fuck, look at you. Beggin' for me.” He growls, never meeting your eyes. “Want my mouth? Huh, babygirl?”

You nod, too quickly to be graceful, too eager to hide—and maybe it would’ve been embarrassing, how desperate you are, if not for the heat curling low in your belly, if not for the way the air between you feels too thick to breathe. There’s no room for shame, not with this kind of need.

The desperation is enough for his head to dip down, mouth meeting your nipple—sucking ever so slowly but harsh enough to cause your back to arch into him. His fingers grab at your free breast, twirling and pulling.

You want to moan so badly, to allow him to hear exactly what he’s doing to you, but with your dad only yards away, you can’t risk the moment. So you let the harsh breaths spill from your lips, unrestrained and deliberate—each one a quiet plea, a wordless invitation. Loud enough for him to hear your want, raw enough to show you crave more.

His mouth pulls away from your hardened nub with a loud pop, causing you to shake at the loss. But the feeling doesn’t last long when he slides his hand down your bikini bottom, feeling your slick between your folds.

“So wet for me.” He groans, rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate motions—a gasp leaving you. “Fuck, is this what I do to you, baby girl?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and heat, like he can’t quite believe the way you’re falling apart for him.

His mouth finds the tender hollow beneath your neck, lips claiming the skin with bruising intent, each mark a promise that will bloom dark and visible by morning. But he doesn’t care—can’t. His tongue follows in slow, soothing strokes, tracing over the wounds he’s made like an afterthought of kindness, like a quiet act of worship for the damage he’s left behind.

His fingers trial slowly down from your aching clit, throbbing at the loss, and to your entrance. He pauses when he meets just where you need him most, fingers slick with your need and want.

You grind down on his fingers, needing him—desperation overcoming you, making you look like a complete mess under his gaze. His eyes lock with yours, molten with desire, thick with unspoken want—and yet, behind the burn, there’s a glint of playful cruelty, like he’s savoring every second of your unraveling.

“Beg for it.” He demands, fingers still hovering under your entrance.

“Wh– What?” you manage, thrown off balance by the weight of his voice. But his expression doesn't waver—there’s no joke in him, only something deep and commanding, something that leaves no room for doubt.

“I said,” he breathes, leaning in so close his lips nearly brush your ear, his heated breath stirring a trail of tingling fire down your neck. “Fucking beg for it.”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the change—the gentle words vanished, leaving only a teasing edge behind. Somewhere deep down, you know he won’t call you “sweetheart” again tonight. Not now. Not while this game is just beginning. You know you’re going to like this, what with you now dripping all over his hovering hand.

“Joel…” you whisper, breath trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation. You’ve never dared to cross this line before, but the unfamiliar thrill pulls at you—electric and intoxicating. “Please…”

“Please… what?” He growls, fingers trailing ever so slightly between you. You almost got him…almost.

“Please…please put your fingers inside me. Please, Joel, I can’t stand how empty I feel. I need you.” You finally beg.

His eyes darken as a smirk displays across his face. “All you had to do was ask.” His fingers finally enter you, your mouth shaping into an Oh at the feeling. “Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?”

You nod fervently, every fiber of you aching to please him, to offer exactly what he desires—an unspoken promise carried in your desperate submission. Two of his thick fingers enter easily inside your soaked walls. You can feel this stretch around his fingers, the fiery burning that sends chills down your spine.

“Please, faster. I want you to go faster.” You plead, riding his fingers and gripping at his biceps with your nails.

“Such a slut. Riding your daddy's best friend's finger when he’s right there sleeping. Begging him to fuck you.” He rasps, shaking his head in a lingering but teasing disappointment.

That should’ve stirred something in you—a warning, a flicker of regret for the path you were on. But instead, it fanned the flames inside you, setting your blood ablaze, a fierce heat boiling low in your belly.

He grabs your torso, pushing you against the back of the tree—stopping you from grinding against him. He holds you tight, leaving a red mark beneath his hold as you try to wiggle free. He pushes deeper inside of you, fingers curling in the perfect spot that dares the heat pooling in your belly to spill over.

His arms finally move, fingers going faster and faster—just as you had requested. Pulling completely out just to bury himself knuckles deep inside over and over again. A wet squelch fills the night air, just under the fading, cracking, uncared-for fire that’s daring to put itself out.

You writhe under his clutch, you know his hand will be bruised against your hip. Your legs start to shake as you feel an undeniable closeness threatening to spill into Joel's hand.

His pace starts to slow, the feeling leaving just as quickly as it came. A groan escapes your lips.

Joel’s hand, impossibly large and fierce, sweeps over your mouth, silencing you with a roughness that feels both unforgiving and utterly possessive.

“You’re not going to come till I fuckin' tell you to.” He seethes. You might be afraid—if desire didn’t drown out every shred of fear burning inside you.

His fingers exit your body, and emptiness overcomes you. He brings them to your mouth, giving a look daring you to open, to taste yourself.

You gulp, the weight of the moment pressing down—can you truly go this far? But with Joel, distance and limits dissolve. Whatever he wants, you’ll offer willingly, as if your very soul depends on it.

Your mouth parts, inviting him in with an innocent look fading across your eyes. A look that makes Joel quiver, fucking quiver. You could come with that sound alone.

You wrap your tongue around his fingers—slowly, intentionally—before pulling them inside. Tasting yourself coated on his digits. You suck them clean, swallowing, letting him know you’re not afraid of what he has to offer. He drags his fingers out—curling around your bottom teeth and pulling your mouth open before his lips meet yours.

He can taste you in your own mouth, and that alone could make him crumble into you, if he allowed it. He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, pulling away at it with a pop. Blood immediately forms around the wound left before he wipes it away with this fingers that just fucked your mouth.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and laced with something dangerous. “Such a disappointment to your daddy, aren’t you? … if only he knew what you’re up to right now.”

“Joel, please.” You whimper, need overcoming you. Submission ready to give in.

“What does my little girl need?” he murmurs, mock-sweet and laced with heat, each word a thread of temptation pulling you further under.

“I- I need you to fuck me. Right now, Joel. I- I need to feel you inside of me.”

With that, Joel pulls your bikini to the side—pulling his own shorts low enough to reveal his glistening tip. How big he is shocks you, you’re not sure if you’re prepared for this, but you know you want it, need it.

He lines himself up with your entrance, tugging your hips closer to him. Your back now leaning against the tree, scratches etching into your skin from the bark. Your hips bent to meet his, legs spread and ready. The sight of you—ready to be fucked, dripping down your own thighs—Joel cant wait any longer.

He grabs the hem of his tank top, aggressively pulling it into his mouth so that he can see him fuck into you better. This movement exposes his belly. How dark hair runs down his navel and meets into his now revealed shaft. His abs are shadowed by his shirt, but you still get a good look. The way his teeth clench around the bottom of his shirt drives you crazy, saliva darkening the edges.

He pushes himself slowly inside of you, stretching your hot walls around him. He can feel you clench as you get used to the size.

“So fuckin' tight.” He groans, words muffled by his shirt in his mouth. “Don’t worry, gonna open ya up real nice.”

You whimper at the words, the sight, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you endlessly. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep inside of you, pushing against your cervix. You look down and realize he’s all the way in —you can't see him anymore, just croch to croch. Clit brushing against the hair just above him.

“Look at her, takin' me all in like a good girl.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?”

You nod, realize he’s talking about your aching cunt. You can feel him throb inside of you. You need him to move, now. But you remember, he wants you to beg. He won’t do anything without you asking him for it.

“Fuck me Joel.” You groan. “Fuck me hard. Ma-make me scream.”

He finally pulls himself out, your walls clenching and begging him to stay.

“Such a dirty girl.” He huffs, slamming himself into you in one harsh movement. Making you scream just like you asked. “Your daddy know his little girl has such a filthy mouth?”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sting—but this is what you asked for. What you begged for. And now, you’re unraveling beneath the weight of it.

He pulls and slams into you faster now. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, the fire now dead, bodies only lit by the moonlight. Joel pulls himself into you, your bare breast now rubbing against his ruffled-up tank top. His teeth now focused on biting at the sweet, soft skin of your neck.

He can hear the way his moans sound, gruff and airy as if he’s trying to keep quiet—trying to keep in control. The sound opens you up, invites him in deeper.

His hand reaches down in between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You shake violently as his free hand pulls at your hair—your back arching into him at an impossible position. You’re going to be so sore tomorrow.

“I can feel how close you are.” He breaths into your ear, hands still circling around your aching, swollen clit. “Wanna come on my dick?”

A whisper escapes your lips. You try to nod, but his hand his gripped so tightly into your hair it makes it impossible to move.

“Use your fuckin' words.” He growls, biting the lobe of your ear in punishment. His hands let go of your hair, your neck thankful for the loss, and he pinches your nipples harshly.

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?” He commands. His teeth now biting the skin around breast before sucking it soothingly. He’s being so rough with you, something you weren’t expecting, but you can't deny the way your body reacts.

“Yes. I want to come on your big dick. I want you buried deep inside of me while I do it.” You cry.

He lifts up from you. Hands gripping both hips harshly, you know this is to keep you upright for what's about to come. “Fuck, such a dirty mouth on my girl.”

And then he slams inside you at an impossible pace. His tip slamming into your cervix—that’s definitely going to bruise. Screams leave your mouth; you'd cover your mouth to muffle them if your nails weren’t digging into Joel's wrist for support.

The tree’s bark bites into your back, jagged and unforgiving, the sting blooming with every shift—warm and raw, a quiet confirmation that it’s tearing you open. Just like Joel.

The boiling sensation returns deep in your belly as Joel slams into you unforgivingly, moans escaping his lips as well. This time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out before you can finish. You clench hard around him, causing him to twitch inside of you.

“Yea? Ya like that? Like me buryin’ myself inside you pussy?” He says—a low grovel in his voice, almost like he’s about to lose himself too. “That’s right. Come on your daddy's friend's dick. Nasty fucking girl.”

That’s enough for you to spill over. You collapse into his grip, legs shaking mercifully, as your juices soak him, escaping out the sides and dripping down your legs, into the grass underneath your feet.

White, slick thread now connect Joels shaft and your cunt, bubbling each time your slide back down into him. A disgusting, sticky sound now entering the night air. You come down from your high, stomach cramping at the sensation—but Joel isn’t finished with you yet.

He lifts you up, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and pushes you pully against the tree. His hands that were once wrapped brutally around your waist now grip violently into he bark of the tree. Some of the bark lifting and falling by the trunk.

His thrust start to falter, he’s getting close now, as he ruthlessly burries himself deep inside your aching cunt, white heat pooling low inside once again.

“Fuck.” He groans, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re ruinin' me, babygirl.”

“Joel… please, cum inside me.”

“God. You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” He smirks, but never denies your request. “How badly you want me to cum inside you, huh?”

“So bad. Ple-please. I-I’ve been imagining it for so long. Want it to come true.”

“You been dreamin’ about your daddy's best friend? Been dreamin’ about him cuming deep inside your begging pussy? Now, now… that’s not how a good girl’s supposed to behave.” He mocks, thrusting, getting deeper and harder. “That how you behave for me?”

“Only you, Joel. I- I’m about to come.”

“Come for me, babygirl. Wanna finish at the same time.”

Your nails dig violently into his back, drawing blood that will definitely stain under your nails. His movements start to falter as he throbs deep inside of you. It’s only when you start grinding your hips to meet his movements that he finally falls apart.

White, hot ropes shoot deep into your hot—swollen walls. You finish at the same time, come mixing while creamy slick leaves you and pools at the base of Joel's shaft.

The two of you collapse to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, the cool earth pressing against your skin. Loud, ragged gasps fill the air, mingling with the distant hum of the woods as you both struggle to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart still pounding in the aftermath, the silence between you thick with everything unspoken—raw, breathless, and electric.

Joel finally pulls out of you, removing his shirt and cleaning the sticky come off of himself—before he turns to focus his attention on you. He slowly drags his shirt up the sides of your legs, cleaning the forgotten slick from just minutes ago, before he makes his way to your swollen, fucked out cunt. He cleans the mess, making sure to not miss anything.

Your swim bottoms are ruined and stained. He tears them off before fetching your shorts, shaking them off in case any bugs tried to make them their home on the grassy floor. The mean Joel disappeared—bringing back the sweet one as he dresses you, readjusting your swim top to cover you, and pulling your sweater back over your head.

After he redresses you with an unexpected tenderness, his rough hands gentle as he helps you back into your clothes, straightening the hem with deliberate care. There’s a softness in his gaze you hadn’t seen earlier, something quiet and real beneath the hunger that had just devoured you. When he’s done, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Enjoyed every damn minute of that,” he murmurs, voice low, still thick with the weight of everything that had just passed between you. “Never had anything like that before. Not ever.”

The words land heavy, full of meaning that tightens something in your chest. You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted as if to speak—but there’s nothing to say that could match the gravity of it. Instead, you follow him in silence, legs still unsteady as he leads you back through the trees, the scent of pine and summer and sex clinging to your skin. The embers of the dying campfire come into view, and relief floods through you when you see your dad still slumped in his hammock, snoring softly, blissfully unaware.

Joel moves with practiced ease, beginning to pack up the remnants of the night—folding chairs, dousing the fire, the clink of metal and the rustle of canvas loud in the quiet. Eventually, he shakes your dad awake with a muttered, “Time to head home,” and the older man grumbles, groggy but compliant, stumbling toward the truck.

The drive back is uneventful, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional snore from your father in the passenger seat. You steal glances at Joel from the backseat, and though he doesn’t look at you, his hand tightens on the wheel every time your eyes linger too long.

When the truck finally pulls into your driveway, your dad mumbles something half-asleep before stumbling into the house without a backward glance. You start to follow, but Joel’s hand catches your wrist, firm and unyielding. He pulls you back just enough to press you against the side of the truck, eyes locked on yours.

“Can’t wait till next Memorial Day,” he says, voice quiet but rough with promise. And before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—slow, claiming, and utterly certain. The world fades for a moment, everything else falling away under the press of his mouth against yours.

As he pulls back and you finally turn to head inside, legs still trembling from more than just the walk through the woods, one thing is undeniably clear.

Memorial Day is your favorite holiday now.

a/n: Happy memorial day! (:

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Soulmate x Reader

AN: I’ve been working on this story on and off since January. Out of all the things I’ve posted, I would consider this my “passion project”. I hope you enjoy!

You were ten years old in the summer of 1964, the year The Beatles hit the radio like a tidal wave and your older brother got a buzz cut before leaving for basic training. The world felt like it was tilting in a dozen different directions at once. War in faraway places, men in suits yelling on the black-and-white television, your father working late at the plant, your mother smoking silently in the kitchen.

And you, well, you were mostly alone.

You played in the overgrown lot two houses down, the one with the rusted-out car half-swallowed by blackberry brambles and a tree that wept sap like tears. The neighborhood kids said the place was haunted, but you weren’t afraid of ghosts. You were afraid of silence. You were afraid of the yawning space your brother had left behind when he went off to learn how to shoot a gun. You were afraid of your mother’s eyes, empty and glassy as ashtrays.

That was the summer you found the bird.

It was a grackle, maybe, or some other kind of blackbird—its feathers a dull, oil-slick sheen in the sunlight, one wing crooked at a strange angle. You spotted it in the tall grass near the back fence, past the busted washing machine someone had dumped there years ago. You might’ve stepped on it if it hadn’t made a sound—a sharp, desperate little peep that stopped you cold.

You crouched down, knees scratching against the dry clover, and stared. The bird’s eyes rolled wildly, beak parted. Flies hovered near its wing, but you waved them off.

It looked small, smaller than it should’ve been. Broken things always seemed smaller.

You didn’t touch it at first. Just sat beside it, cross legged, your hands on your shins, like the grown-ups did in church when the preacher got to talking about death. You watched it tremble. It watched you back.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

Then you went home.

You told your mother there was a hurt bird. She didn’t look up from her cigarette. She flicked ash into the sink, turned on the tap, then turned it off again. You thought she might say something. She didn’t.

So you raided the bathroom for the shoebox where your father kept old receipts. You lined it with one of your brother’s old undershirts, the soft kind that smelled faintly of soap and sun. You carried it back to the lot.

When you lifted the bird, it didn’t fight you. Its body was warm, but too still. You laid it gently in the box, and it blinked once, slow.

You named it Gus.

You brought Gus little bits of bread and water in a bottlecap. You sat with him for hours, humming songs you half-knew from the radio. You read aloud from your books. You told him about your brother’s room, about the posters and the record player and how your mother didn’t go in there anymore. By the second day, Gus tried to stand.

His good wing flapped once, then again, and he managed to shuffle in a slow, lopsided circle inside the shoebox. You clapped softly, grinning like you’d just seen a magic trick. He looked stronger, or maybe just more stubborn, his beady eyes sharp. It made something ache in your chest.

You started thinking maybe he’d get better.

But the air stayed hot and heavy, and your mother stayed quiet. Your father came home later and later, and when he did, he smelled like metal and sweat and something sour. You didn’t talk to him about Gus. You didn’t talk to him about much. He'd ruffle your hair with a calloused hand sometimes, but it felt like the motion of someone remembering a role they were supposed to play.

Every morning, you’d sneak out with the shoebox tucked under your arm. Gus came with you to the lot, to the rusted-out car and the weeping tree. You’d set the box down in the same patch of grass, half in the shade. Sometimes you’d draw in the dirt with a stick. Sometimes you just stared into the box and waited for Gus to make another circle.

He never did.

On the eighth day, Gus didn’t blink. You touched his wing, gently, like always. Nothing.

You sat there for a long time, longer than usual. The light changed around you. Cicadas screamed in the trees. You didn’t cry. You didn’t know how. The ache in your chest grew teeth. It chewed through your ribs like something alive.

You buried him by the busted washing machine, using a spoon from the kitchen and your bare hands when that got too slow. You marked the grave with a rock, one you’d found near the creek a year ago, the one shaped like a heart if you looked at it just right.

That night, you went into your brother’s room for the first time since he left. It still smelled like Brylcreem and vinyl, like teenage boy and summer heat. You lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the room too big, the silence too wide. A record was still sitting on the turntable, warped slightly at the edge.

You didn’t sleep.

A few days later, a postcard came from Fort Jackson. It was short. The handwriting was sloppy.

“Tell Mom I’m fine. Hot as hell down here. Tell the kid I said hey.”

You stared at it a long time. You weren’t sure if “the kid” was supposed to mean you.

Outside, the sun was rising again, bleeding pink across the sky. You thought about Gus. You thought about how he watched you, that first day in the grass, like you were the last thing in the world he could still believe in.

You sat at the kitchen table with the postcard, the one your mother hadn’t looked at yet. She stood at the sink with a fresh cigarette, her back to you.

“His name was Gus,” you said.

She didn’t turn around. But after a moment, she tapped her ash into the sink, and said softly,
“I had a bird once, too.”


You fought back tears.

—-

You’re sixteen now. Taller. Your face longer, sharper at the jaw, the baby softness gone. You keep your hair the way your brother used to when he was your age, before the buzz cut, before basic, before the long stretch of time that peeled the shine off life.

You're sitting on the front porch of your parent’s house. Your knees are drawn up, arms cradling a sleeping bundle against your chest. The baby, your brother’s, is warm and impossibly still, one tiny hand curled against your shirt. Her breath is light. She smells like talcum and formula and something sweet you can't quite name.

Your brother got married last year. Her name is Sharon. You’re not used to saying it yet. She’s nice enough, always smiling too hard and calling you hon. The kind of girl who wears lipstick to the grocery store and hums Patsy Cline while she folds laundry. You don’t dislike her, but there’s something about her that feels far away. Like she belongs to a world you never got the invitation to.

The baby stirs, lets out a soft grunt, then goes quiet again.

Your mother watches from the screen door, cigarette between two fingers, her other hand on her hip. She hasn’t said much since they arrived for the weekend. Just looked at the baby like she couldn’t decide whether to hold her or bolt out into the street. She hasn’t touched her once.

“Looks like you’ve got the magic touch,” your brother had said earlier, clapping you on the back in that too-loud way men do when they don’t know what else to say.

You’d nodded.

Your father’s car pulls into the drive, headlights off even though the suns now bleeding down behind the trees. He gets out slowly, like he always does. He nods at you, says nothing. You nod back. You’re used to this language.

The baby yawns.

You think, suddenly, of how small everything starts. Feathers and fingers and fragile necks. How easy it is to break a thing that trusts you. How hard it is to earn that trust in the first place.

Inside, Sharon’s laughing at something your brother said. The sound is high and tinny, like it doesn’t belong in this house. Like someone wound up a music box and set it spinning.

Your mother finally opens the screen door and steps outside. She doesn’t look at you directly, but she sits on the steps a little ways down, lights another cigarette.

“She looks like him,” she murmurs, not quite to you. “When he was little.”

You glance down at the baby. She does. Same nose. Same dark lashes. You want to ask her if she means that in a good way or a bad one. You don’t.

“She won’t remember any of this,” you say instead. “Not this porch, not the smoke. Not the way the sky looks.”

“No,” your mother says. Her voice is thin. “But you will.”

You look back out at the darkening street. Somewhere, a cicada whines.

You hold the baby a little closer, breathe in her warmth, and whisper something she’ll never remember, something soft and secret.

“I miss Gus.”

—-

You are twenty now. The city is loud in ways the country never was. Car horns instead of cicadas. Neon instead of stars. Sirens, chatter, the thump of bass from apartment windows that never quite close all the way.

You live on the third floor of a building that smells like old carpet and hot metal, where the stairwell light buzzes and flickers. Your place is small—a kitchenette, a window, a mattress on the floor—but it’s yours. You picked the color of the curtains. You bought the secondhand lamp.

It’s a Tuesday when you find him.

You’re walking back from your job at the corner bookstore, the one with the creaky floors and the owner who only ever wears turtlenecks and talks like every sentence might be his last. It’s cold, early March, the air raw with leftover winter. You take the long way home, like you always do when your head feels too full.

You’re passing the alley behind the laundromat when you hear it—a whine, low and ragged. You pause, frown, then follow the sound. It leads you to a shape barely visible beneath a dumpster, dark and shivering.

At first, you think it’s a pile of rags. Then it lifts its head.

The dog is thin as wire, ribs like ladder rungs, fur patchy and soot-dark. His eyes are yellow, too bright for the rest of him. One ear’s torn, and there’s a limp in his back leg when he tries to stand. He doesn’t growl. Doesn’t bark. Just watches you.

You crouch.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t move.

You take a step closer. He flinches but doesn’t run.

You go to the corner store and buy a can of tuna and a cheap plastic bowl. You bring it back. The dog watches you the whole time, still as stone. When you pop the lid and step back, he crawls forward, slowly, like it hurts.

You stay until he’s done. You sit on the concrete, your knees up, hands folded.

He licks the bowl clean, then turns and looks at you again.

You say it out loud before you realize.

“Gus.”

It fits. Not because he’s like the bird, but because he is. The way his bones show, the way his eyes still shine. The way he didn’t run.

You come back the next day. And the next.

By Friday, he lets you touch him.

By Sunday, he follows you home.

Your landlord doesn’t allow pets. You keep Gus hidden, smuggle him in through the back stairwell wrapped in an old hoodie. He curls up on the floor beside your mattress, nose tucked under his tail. When he sleeps, he twitches, like he’s running in his dreams.

You bathe him in the tub with warm water and shampoo. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t fight. You dry him with your last clean towel. The one your brother gave you when you moved out.

He’s cleaner now, but still scarred. Still limps. Still flinches at sudden noises. You know better than to reach too fast. You speak softly. You leave space.

Some nights, you wake up and find him staring at you. Not in a bad way. Just watching, like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there.

You reach down, run your fingers gently behind his ear.

“I won’t leave,” you whisper.

Gus blinks, slow.

—-

You’re twenty-nine now. The city hasn’t gotten any quieter, but it’s not so loud anymore either. Or maybe you’ve just learned how to live inside the noise. You still live in the same apartment—third floor, buzz of the stairwell light, windows that rattle when the trains go by. The curtains are newer. The mattress has a bedframe now. You bought a plant that hasn’t died yet.

Gus is older, too. Was older.

He died on a Wednesday.

He’d been slowing down for months—his steps shaky, his naps longer. His muzzle had gone gray, softening the sharp angles of his face. His limp had come back, worse this time, and no amount of careful walks or warm baths could soothe it. You knew it was coming, even if you didn’t let yourself say the words. You’d seen it before—in feathers, in breath that went still.

You wrapped him in the same hoodie you first carried him home in.

The vet was kind. Quiet. She let you sit on the floor with him, let you stay until he was gone. You held his head in your lap. You whispered the same thing you always had, every time he twitched in his sleep, every time the thunder made him shiver.

“I won’t leave.”

After, the apartment felt cavernous. His absence rang louder than the trains ever could. The empty space beside your bed. The silence when you opened the door and no claws clicked against the floor. You left the radio off for a while. You stopped going the long way home.

Weeks passed like molasses. People at work gave you those sad, knowing looks. You hated it.

You didn’t talk about Gus. Not that Gus. Not the feathers or the grave by the busted washing machine. Not the one who laid his head on your chest that last night and sighed, like he knew it was time.

Then you met Jordan.

You weren’t looking for anyone. You were still trying to figure out how to cook for one person again. But he was there—at the bookstore, of all places. Not your usual shift, just a day you’d swapped with someone. He came in looking for a poetry collection. Asked for help finding it, even though it wasn’t hard to find. Later, you’d wonder if he already knew exactly where it was.

He had round glasses and a knit sweater with a thread pulled loose on the sleeve. His curls looked soft. His smile lit up the whole room.

He asked if you read poetry.

You lied and said yes.

He laughed and admitted he only liked the sad kind. The kind that "felt like a bruise you didn’t mind pressing."

You ended up walking to the café across the street after your shift. He told you about the apartment he was painting, the short story he was trying to finish, the old cat he used to have named Lemon. You told him about the radio you used to leave on for someone. You didn’t say who.

Not then.

But over the next few weeks, you did.

It wasn’t linear, the telling. Pieces came out sideways. Over takeout boxes on your floor. In the quiet space between movie credits and the apartment’s usual creaks. You told him about Gus. About both of them.

He listened like every word mattered. Like he understood something unspoken.

One night, he ran his fingers along your forearm and said, “You know, you look like someone who’s been carrying ghosts for a long time.”

You blinked hard. “Yeah,” you said. “I have.”

Then he kissed you, soft and slow.

You don’t believe in signs. But Jordan’s eyes are the same color as the bird’s feathers were in the sunlight—dark, with that strange oil-slick shine. When he laughs, it sounds like a song you used to hum without realizing it. He touches you like you’re something worth being gentle with.

Sometimes, when he’s fallen asleep on your couch, a book on his chest and his glasses half-off his nose, you look at him and think: You stayed.

Not like the bird. Not like the dog.

You didn’t name him Gus. But you could’ve.

Because there’s something about the way he saw you—tired and hollowed out and still reaching anyway—that reminded you of that first afternoon in the lot, knees in the dirt, watching something broken trust you anyway.

This time, you think, you might finally be ready to trust back.

Masterlist

[fredswrite]

A/N: Oh myyyyy. My first James Kelly fic I’m so happy hehe. I spent so much time on this and I hope you enjoy this just as much as me!!

SUMMARY: After your car broke down, you don’t really have a choice but to go to the nearest auto shop you can find. What a surprise to see that a certain James is working there.

WC: 1.2K

WARNING: None for this chapter.

MLST part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5?

ONE NIGHT STAND

The auto shop wasn’t much to look at.

Its sign was half-lit, one of the bulbs flickering against the gray sky. The garage doors were rusted at the edges, and a battered old truck sat out front like it hadn’t moved in weeks. You hadn’t even noticed the place before today, even though you must’ve walked past it dozens of times. But when your car sputtered out two blocks from your apartment and refused to turn over, no click, no crank, nothing, this place suddenly felt like your only option.

But when you walked inside, the bell ticking at your arrival, you saw the man you least expected to see, hell, you wanted to forget him.

You weren’t supposed to see him again.

That was the unspoken agreement, the deal made somewhere between the second whiskey and the third kiss. A night of heat and nothing more. No last names. No texts. No follow-up.

And yet, there he was.

James.

Standing in the middle of the open garage bay, his shoulders broad under a blue work overall smeared with grease, his sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight caught on his forearms as he leaned over the open hood of a car, one hand steady on the frame, the other wiping a rag across the side of his wrist.

You stopped mid-step. Your breath caught. The engine noise faded into the background like someone hit mute on the world.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

You could leave. You should. But your car died on the side of the road not ten minutes earlier, and the old guy at the front desk had called ahead to this shop for a repair. It was supposed to be just a quick fix. A battery, maybe. A cable.

Not him.

You took a step forward. Gravel crunched under your black boots. His head turned from the car he was working on at the sound.

And then those eyes, the ones you hadn’t been able to forget, locked onto yours.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

For a second, you couldn’t tell if he recognized you. His expression didn’t shift. No smirk. No flicker of embarrassment. Just the same unreadable stare he’d given you that night, right before he kissed you like he didn’t know how to be gentle, like he hadn't eaten in days.

Then his jaw tightened.

He knew.

“Can I help you?” His voice was low. Unchanged. Familiar in a way that made your chest feel like it was cracking open.

You opened your mouth. It took a second for the words to come.

“My car died,” you said. “I called and they sent me here. He said one of his guys would take a look.”

James nodded once, slowly. “You’re the Civic?”

You nodded.

He didn’t say anything else. Just walked past you toward the front office, all calm professionalism. Like you were a stranger. Like he hadn’t pressed you against a hallway wall two months ago and whispered your name into your neck like a confession.

You followed him into the office.

The same old man was waiting behind the desk, cheerful and oblivious. He handed you a clipboard and asked you the usual questions: make, model, last time you had it serviced. You answered mechanically, pen scratching across paper as your ears rang.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel James watching you. Not obviously. Not directly. But it was there, the weight of it. The question in his silence.

He whistled low at the battery code and sent one of the younger guys to go pick up your car. “Might be a quick fix,” he said, glancing between you and James. “Unless the starter’s fried.

“I’ll check it,” James said, already turning back toward the garage.

You hesitated. “James—"

He stopped as you left the office to meet him by the counter.

Didn’t look back. Just stood there, spine straight, hands on his hips.

You dropped your voice. “You weren’t gonna say anything?”

He turned then. Slowly. Blue eyes locked on yours, sharper than you remembered.

“I didn't realize it was you.”

“And now that you know?”

A beat.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

There was no heat in his voice. No guilt either. Just that same steady calm, like he never let himself react too fast. That same tension you’d felt after he kissed you the first time, like he was always holding back more than he gave.

You stepped toward him, just a little. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough that the air shifted between you.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you said.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a second. Then back to your eyes.

“We weren't supposed to, didn’t want to explain anything.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

The words stung more than they should have. But he didn’t say it like it was cruel. He said it like it had cost him something, too. But that was the engagement you both signed when you shared your kisses.

“And now?” you asked, quietly.

James glanced toward the bay. The clang of tools echoed in the background. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You want the truth?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “But I figured you moved on. People like you don’t circle back.”

You blinked. “People like me?”

“People who stick to comfort. I’m not that kind of guy.”

Your heart thudded once. Twice.

“Well,” you said, voice soft but steady, “I guess the universe decided you were for today.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was the closest you’d seen to something real. You don't think he even smiled that night, but the alcohol didn't help.

“You want me to pretend we don’t know each other?” he asked.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I said.”

He didn’t speak for a long second. Then he stepped forward. Close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin beneath the grease and sweat and metal. Close enough to remember exactly how he’d looked above you in the half-light of that one messy night.

“I don’t forget that easily.” he said.

Neither did you.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. But his hand brushed yours as he passed toward the door.

He walked towards your car, which had been towed into the parking lot. Your heartbeat shattered out of your chest like a hammer.

And this time, he didn’t leave.

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