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strang3lov3 · 5 months

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Dirty Laundry

Joel's best kept secret is the washer and dryer he's not supposed to have. Your best kept secret is that you've been using that washer to get yourself off.

Tags - 18+, smut, fingering, cunnilingus, masturbation on a washing machine, dirty boxer sniffing (you fucking freak), fantasizing about a dirty old man, unprotected piv, creampie, curmudgeon joel talks you through knife safety, washing machine repairs, and overstim. 8k words, idk what the fuck happened. Thank you to @noxturnalpascal , @beefrobeefcal , and @papipascalispunk for helping me edit this monstrosity and @joelsgreys for letting me scream about washers and dryers for days <3 A/N - i have worked harder on this than my finals, but that should surprise no one. i only have one more left and then you should be seeing more of me this summer <3 i have a lot a lot a lot planned and I've been so excited to share new shit with you. Roman girlies, I haven't forgotten about you. He's up next. Anyway, you maniacs know what you’re here for, so please enjoy.

Joel’s best kept secret is his Whirlpool brand washer and dryer set, which is hidden deep in his basement. You stand before it now, loading your dirty laundry into it, using what is definitely too much of Joel’s detergent.

Perhaps it’s more accurate to say his washer and dryer set was his best kept secret, until you came along and forced his hand. Everything was fine, and then you showed up, both yourself and your basket of laundry soaking wet, leaving Joel with no choice but to lend you a hand. Biggest mistake of his life.

As great as Jackson is, it still comes up short sometimes. Not with everything; you’re beyond blessed to live in the safety of its walls. Just technologically, sometimes it can leave you missing the finer things. It's not Jackson’s fault society is twenty years into an apocalypse, thus running on twenty-plus year old appliances. The older ovens, refrigerators, and other appliances that were built in the seventies to the nineties or so are surprisingly doing alright, but the ones built when manufacturing began to take a turn for the worse around the later nineties and 2000s are beginning to crap out, especially the washers. God, you hate laundry day. The washers at the laundromat in Jackson always give you a hard time. Week after week, your chosen washer won’t start, or it’ll stop mid-cycle. The laundry attendant, Patti, often helps you wash your clothes by hand which is nice, but still frustrating for you both.

On a busy and gloomy Sunday a couple months back, you were lucky enough to pick one of the less temperamental washers and hardly had to fight or beg and plead with it to get it to wash your clothes. However, your luck ran out when it came time to dry, your dryer wouldn’t run. Refused to start, even with Patti’s help. Worse yet, every other dryer was in use at the moment. You were shit out of luck. Patti offered you a sympathetic smile and sent you home with a baggy full of clothes pins and a wagon to carry your basket of sopping wet clothes. The clothespins were a nice gesture, but didn’t help much as you didn’t have a clothesline. And - you had to laugh - most of them were broken. Oh dear, sweet Patti.

Once at home, you did your best to hang up your clothes on your porch, laying them out over the thick wooden railing, securing them with rocks. The wind was blowing something fierce that day, and then you felt it – a raindrop. And then another, and another. Before you knew it, you were caught in a torrential downpour, with your clothes blowing every which way. Working to gather your clothes as quickly as possible, you haphazardly chucked the rocks that were keeping them still in every direction, your neighbor Joel interrupting the task when he came outside and started to shout at you. Joel’s a man that can only be described as crotchety. A curmudgeon, even.

“The fuck are you throwing rocks at my window for?” he shouted, but you couldn’t hear him over the sound of the wind and the rain smacking your porch.

“What?” you yelled back, “Joel, I can’t hear you.”

“ROCKS,” he shouted again, “Why are you throwi–” Joel realized it was a lost cause then. He could see in your face that you couldn’t hear him, you looked puzzled and annoyed for a moment before you returned to throwing rocks and gathering clothes. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself. Through the pouring rain, he marched across both his and your lawns and right up the steps of your porch. “What are you doing?”

“I was at the laundromat and the dryer stopped working so Patti gave me clothespins but I don’t have a clothesline so I tried to lay them out on my porch with rocks so they could dry but then it started to ra–” Getting the picture, Joel had stopped listening to you and joined you in gathering your clothes tossing stones back into the rock edging surrounding your house. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Nothin’, just– come on. Let’s go – we’re goin’ to my house,” he answered, dumping the last of your clothes into your basket.

“Why?”

Lightning shoots from a nearby cloud, with booming thunder following suit. Joel’s soaking wet, as are you. His hair was dark and stuck to his forehead, his thin t-shirt clung to his body, outlining his soft, pillowy tummy and belly button and his thick, muscular biceps. “Go, go, go,” Joel shouted, waving you away. “Just go. Move.” he grunted as he lifted up your laundry basket and hauled it across the grass in quick strides. He held the basket on his hip as he opened his door for you, guiding you inside with a push to your lower waist.

Your shoes squeaked as you followed Joel through his house. He took your basket down his basement stairs, “Be careful for me, stairs are steep,” he warned you, “Don’t need you crackin’ your skull open. Got enough shit to deal with.” It was sweet, knowing that he was looking out for you – even with the irritation lacing his tone.

You couldn’t believe your eyes as you saw what Joel had led you to. A washer and a dryer, olive green in color. He opened the door of the dryer and shoved your wet clothes inside it, then took off his own soaked shirt and pants and tossed them in too. “They’re clean,” he told you.

In another lifetime where the world doesn’t go to shit and fungus is the least of your problems, the mundane appliances in front of you would be the very last thing on your mind. You’d be focused on Joel, watching rivulets of water slide down his jaw, past his Adam’s apple and pool in the hollow of his throat. You’d be tracing the outline of his body with your eyes, following that thin line of hair that spreads down his lower stomach, disappearing under his boxers. You’d be eyeing his thick bulge and the way that if you squint, you could see the outline of his cock. But in this life, in this moment – where the world went to shit a long time ago – you’re more amazed by the washer and dryer he stands next to. “This is why I never see you at the laundromat? The whole time, you’ve had a washer and dryer?” you asked, astonished.

“M’not supposed to, but yeah,” Joel answered, shutting the dryer door before turning to you with his chin tilted down, eyebrows raised. Don’t you go tellin’ anyone, now.”

“I’m gonna tell Patti.”

Joel looked betrayed and puzzled. “I’m doin’ you a favor,” he reminded you.

“I know.”

“You want me to dry your clothes or not?” You crossed your arms and bit the inside of your cheek as you shrugged. “Oh, Christ,” Joel grumbled under his breath. “Why the hell would you go and rat me out?”

“Because, Joel, ” you began explaining, “All of the washers and dryers are breaking and you’re hoarding your own? I don’t think so – if everyone else has to share the washers, then you do too,” you scolded. “It’s selfish.”

“Life ain’t fair, sweetheart.” You stared at Joel for a moment before turning on your heel to go tattle on him, just like you swore you would. “Wait–” Joel grabbed your arm, stopping you. Despite being long gone from Boston QZ, Joel couldn’t quite shake those smuggling and bargaining habits of his. You were serious about this threat, and he knew it. You’d march your ass through the pouring rain to go snitch on him to Patti. And really, the worst that would’ve happened to Joel would be a scolding from Maria and the washer and dryer removed from his home and placed in the laundromat. It’s not like he’d be placed in a pillory and have rotten tomatoes thrown at him. But still. Joel liked his washer and dryer. He sighed. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Joel. I just want to better our community.”

Give me a break. “What do you want,” he repeated, his voice lower.

You pressed your lips in a thin line, eyeing those pretty olive green appliances of his. It’s not a far walk to Joel’s house… And you wouldn’t have to wait in line to wash your clothes behind twenty other people. You did want to better your community, that much was true. But you weren’t opposed to bettering your own life. “Let me use your washer and dryer. Whenever I want.”

Joel was quick to counter in a stern voice, “Twice a week, tops.”

“Three times,” you tried.

“Once,” Joel lowered his offer and then looked at you with his eyes squinted, his head cocked to the side. “Who does laundry three times a week?”

It was a fair point. Even with your very own washer and dryer, you wouldn’t do that much laundry. “Fine. Twice,” you agreed, and Joel held out his hand for you to take and you shook on it. His palm was warm and calloused, his grip firm. In that moment you met his eyes, taking in the beauty of his face. Those sparkling, big brown eyes and the beautiful curve of his aquiline nose. Your eyes traveled lower still, and it hit you both at that moment - the realization that Joel was wearing nothing but his boxers, and that you were still shivering in your cold, wet clothes. Joel dropped your hand quickly and grabbed a clean t-shirt from one of his own laundry baskets on top of the dryer. “Here. You can change into this and toss your clothes in there too, f’ya want.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking the shirt from his hand. “Do you have something to wear?”

“I’m a little behind on laundry, actually…” Joel trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. You scoffed and chuckled at that. The luxury of his very own washer and dryer, right in the comfort of his home, and Joel had the audacity to be behind on laundry. “Uhh, anyway. You just turn the knob on the dryer to ‘high’ and press the start button. I’ll give ya some privacy to change, you can meet me upstairs when you’re done,” he said, and then shuffled past you.

Once Joel was up the stairs, you took off your clothes and put them in with the rest of the clothing in the dryer. You changed into Joel’s t-shirt, the fabric was soft with time and many wearings, and it smelled like him despite being washed. It was a muted teal in color, littered with a couple of bleach stains here and there. You liked it.

Upstairs, Joel made a couple of mugs of hot tea to warm you both up. “Honey?”

“Yeah, Joel?”

“N- no, like…Was askin’ f’ya wanted honey in your tea.”

“Oh.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Y– yes please. Thank you.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks. What a stupid thing to say. You watched as Joel stirred a bit of honey into your cup of tea, smirking as he then handed you the mug. Asshole. “Thought you were a coffee drinker,” you mused awkwardly, attempting to change the subject after taking a sip of the hot liquid, “You like tea?”

Joel grimaced in disgust as he took a sip of his own tea. “No. Just tryin’ to be polite for ya.”

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it, you know,” you smiled into your mug.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Aaand there it is. Curmudgeon Joel was back, Neighborly Joel never lasted long anyway.

You sat on Joel’s couch, warming up with your cup of tea. Joel had noticed goosebumps on your thighs and pulled a blanket over your lap. He sat next to you with his mug steaming in his hands and just stared at you, not even realizing how deeply he was admiring the way his shirt hugged your curves just right, highlighting all the right parts of you. He jolted when he felt his cock thicken in his boxers, spilling his scalding hot tea all over his bare thighs. “God bless it,” he swore. Without thinking, he pulled the blanket from your legs and covered his own lap to hide his growing erection from you.

“Joel, what the fuck?”

“Nothin’. Just– m’cold,” he lied. “Jesus fuckin’- just - c’mere,” Joel huffed as he patted the spot next to him and urged you closer, then laid the blanket back over your legs. You sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh as you sipped your tea and Joel’s went cold. Dork.

Moments passed. You sat in silence, the only sound was the rain pounding against Joel’s windows as your heart fluttered in anxiety, or maybe excitement. You might’ve even called it butterflies in your tummy. But you knew better. It was just the close proximity to Joel. And the fact that you were wearing his shirt, and he was practically naked. All of it pretty insignificant, honestly. It was basically nothing.

Joel finally spoke first, “Was thinkin’ it’d be best if you’d come by at night, when I’m on patrol or somethin’. Nobody’ll see you with your laundry and it’ll stay our lil’ secret, yeah?” You nodded, still a little bashful with everything that had happened. You aren’t often like that. It’s cute, Joel thought. “An’ you can use my detergent and whatnot. Whatever you need, s’yours.”

“Thank–” an especially bright flash of lightning followed by nearly deafening thunder interrupted you. You startled and sort of hurled yourself closer to Joel, grabbed his forearm and held it tight. It was just a reflex, probably. Basically nothing.

“It’s just a storm, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna bite ya,” Joel teases with a grin.

“Oh, shut up,” you let go of his arm and missed the warmth of his skin beneath your palm almost immediately, but your longing for his touch was quickly soothed. Joel wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his side as you listened to the sounds of the storm together. You stayed like that, inhaling the sweet scent of him, masculine and heady. He smelled like the rain, too, and the hair on his underarms tickled your skin but you didn’t mind. When your laundry dried, he carried your basket home for you. You thanked him and moved to shut the door, but Joel stopped it with his hand, “Washer can be sorta delicate sometimes, so just be careful with it.”

“Noted,” you replied. “See ya, Joel.”

“See ya, hon.”

A few nights later, you returned to his home with your basket of laundry. Joel was gone, on patrol as he often is at night. Doing the laundry was uneventful , even though you probably used too much detergent, but whatever. Joel didn’t have to know. The next time you did laundry, Joel was at home. He told you not to worry about whichever nights you come by, that he’d always leave the washer and dryer empty in the evenings for you to use. He was even generous enough to make you dinner that night.

It all worked out. Joel’s washer and dryer stayed unknown to the rest of Jackson, and your laundry was cleaned in a much more efficient way. There really weren’t any flaws in your and Joel’s system, as long as you didn’t include the one laundry night where Joel was gone on patrol again, but had come home just as you were leaving. You bumped into him accidentally, causing a lacy pair of your panties to fall right out of your basket and onto his shoe. He bent down and picked them up for you, not even realizing what he was holding. “Oh. My bad,” he blushed, once he recognized the garment. “I’ll just…” and put them back in your basket. From that point forward, he was always careful to stay out of your way. Aside from that it really did all work out.

After loading your clothes into Joel’s washer, you shut the washer door and turn it on. You make your way upstairs and there’s a note on Joel’s table – Leftovers in the fridge are yours if you wanna heat them up.

Opening the fridge, you see a neatly packed container of what looks to be chicken and vegetables. Yum. God, you’ll miss these vegetables when it gets cold again. You take advantage of the offer and heat up the food in a pan on the stovetop, humming to yourself as you stir the food to keep it from burning. A light flickers above you. Weird. It flickers again, and then finally goes out. But it’s no big deal, you’ve seen in Joel’s basement that above the washer and dryer is a shelf full of supplies and you know there’s a couple of bulbs there. You go back downstairs where the washer hums, working its way through the cycle.

“Hmm,” you hum to yourself. You’d never quite realized just how high up that supply shelf is. And the bulbs are in the middle of the shelf, so there’s no good way to get them without climbing on top of the washer, which Joel would probably kill you for doing. He did ask that you be careful with his fragile washer, after all. Whatever. It’ll take like six seconds, tops. You hoist yourself on the washer and first try kneeling on it to see if you can reach one of the bulbs. No luck. You stand on your feet then, raising yourself up carefully, slowly, feeling the washer shake slightly beneath your feet. Joel would be absolutely irate if he saw you like this now. When you finally grab one of those light bulbs, you carefully lower yourself to a seated position on the washer to catch your breath. You’re not usually prone to vertigo, but Joel’s wobbly washer brought the dizziness on. You know better than to try and move right now, so you just settle yourself down to avoid fainting.

The washer vibrates under the flesh of your thighs. It’s a gentle sensation, lessened by the angle you’re sitting at. But if you focus really hard, you can feel it in your core. Curious, you spread your legs and turn to the corner of the washer, tilting your hips to the floor, and oh, this is it. You’re not even thinking about potential consequences when you shimmy your shorts and panties off, then find that sweet spot once more. The metal of the washer is cool against you as it vibrates, sending sweet little buzzes through your hot core. You’re not quite wet yet, just enjoying the sensation. Letting it build and build, seeing where it can get you. You let your mind wander, not really thinking about much in particular. The low hum of the washer fades away in your mind and you’re starting to become wet. Shifting your position, you extend your arm to find something to grab onto when you feel fabric. Joel’s clothes. He’s still a slacker with keeping up on his dirty laundry. Usually it would irritate you. It does irritate you, this exorbitant waste of an advantage he has. You look at the shirt in your hand, the same shirt Joel had lent you. You think back to that first time you did laundry here at Joel’s, how he sat next to you nearly naked. The feel of his skin and the smell of him - sweat and rain and musk. And Joel being the beautiful, incognizant man he is, probably had zero clue of how sexy he looked. Or smelled, for that matter.

With Joel now on your mind and his shirt in your hand, you decide to experiment, create a better ambiance. You keep those images of him in your mind, those feelings too. You remember the low timbre of his voice, the rain splashing against the windows, the weight of his arm wrapped around your shoulders. And with his dirty t-shirt clutched in your fist and its armpit pressed against your nose you remember his scent. Smell is a powerful sense, closely linked to memory and emotion, his shirt and what it’s doing to you is a testament to that fact. Legs spread wide, your hips angled down with your clit pressed to the corner of Joel’s washer, the machine vibrating under you as you inhale his scent deeply - you’re back in that memory. And then some.

In your mind, your back on Joel’s couch. You can smell him, feel him, and if you really concentrate, you can even taste him. You’re on your knees and he’s drawing lazy patterns on your back as you suck his cock and fondle his balls, and he’s moaning, grunting and whimpering your name. He tastes like he smells, heady and all masculine. He grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, guides you to straddle his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, he notches the tip of his cock inside you and pulls you down slowly, careful so as not to hurt you but it does, of course it does. Not that you mind, you love the stretch and the ache of his thickness splitting you in two. You rock yourself, grind your clit against that unruly patch of hair at the base of his cock. You’re coming, you’re coming, you’re coming.

You’re coming. Loudly, whimpering Joel’s name as you rut against the vibrating machine. As you finish, so does the washer. It sings you a little chiming song indicating the load is done washing. You can’t help but giggle at that as you bask in the discovery of this fortuitous delight. You’ve got private access to a washer and dryer and a vibrator now too? Lucky, lucky, lucky.

God, Joel’s shirt smells good. You inhale it deeply, wondering if he wears cologne. It smells almost woodsy…smokey, even.

Fuck. You’re smelling smoke.

You pull on your pants and sprint up the steps, racing to Joel’s kitchen only to find that the chicken and veggies you were heating up are no more. They’re black and shriveled, cemented to the stainless steel pan, and there’s no salvaging that. No amount of scrubbing can erase your masturbatory mistake. Fuck, Joel’s gonna kill you. Your only choice is to conceal the evidence. Surreptitiously, you take the pan and hide it under a bush outside Joel’s backdoor.

You’ll be more responsible next time - yes, there absolutely will be a next time. Gas off before you get off.

The next time came and went. And the time after that, and the one after that. Laundry was always your least favorite chore, but with access to Joel’s washer and dryer and this new trick up your sleeve, it’s not so bad. Getting off on Joel’s washer has become a weekly thing and it’s been lovely, relieving, dirty, and exciting, but you’d be lying if you were to say it’s been perfectly fine the whole time.

You’ve been abusing the poor machine. It’s no secret. You get every bang for your buck out of the washer, taking full advantage of Joel’s twice a week offer and then some. Some nights you’ll sneak over and do an extra load, wash a blanket or something just to make the washer run for your masturbatory purposes. And so, the vibrating sensation the machine produces has begun to weaken. In order to compensate, you’ve been rocking yourself harder on it, which probably isn’t helping. But it’s still washing your clothes, right?

…Yes. Mostly. It still washes, but it’s become sort of finicky. And the door doesn’t quite shut the way it used to, and it makes an odd noise now that it never made before.

Tonight you’re at Joel’s doing a double load of laundry. There were no ulterior motives on your part when you came over, honestly and truly. Your first load is drying, the second load is in the washer. Joel’s home tonight, he’s gonna cook you dinner like he always does when he’s around. For such a grouch, he wears his heart on his sleeve.

It would be more accurate to say you’re cooking dinner together. Joel came home with a basket full of fresh vegetables from the market and actually put you to work, his reasoning being that he was starving and wanted dinner ready yesterday, and that having your help cutting up the vegetables for the meal he was making would have dinner ready that much sooner. He places a cutting board in front of you and hands you a knife, “Chop chop,” he says, then laughs at his own pun as he rifles through some cabinets. “Missin’ a saucepan…” he mumbles to himself. Oops.

You start by peeling the carrots. As you begin to chop them, you realize he didn’t give you any sort of instruction. “Joel?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“How small do you need me to cut the carrots?”

“Uhhhh,” he thinks. “Lemme see.” Joel turns around and watches you with a look of disappointment and repulsion painting his features. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” you ask defensively.

“Why are you tryin’ to cut off your fingers?”

You look down at your hand holding the carrot and your other hand holding the knife, then up at Joel. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I’m not trying to cut off my fingers.”

“Sure looks like it to me. Is that always how you handle a knife?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “Why?”

“‘Cause you’re gonna cut off your damn fingers, dammit, that’s why. C’mere,” Joel stands behind you where you stand at the island, then lifts up your left hand and curls your fingers underneath themselves. “Keep your fingers like this,” he instructs. “Holdin’ your fingers out flat like that are a sure fire way to cut ‘em off. Now show me how you chop.”

With your fingers in the proper position now, you begin to cut the carrots. They wobble beneath you, you hate the way Joel has you holding them. “This is uncomfortable,” you tell him.

“You know what’s more uncomfortable? Missin’ fingers. Keep goin’.” You groan but keep chopping per his demand. He’s pressed against your back, one of his palms lays flat against the countertop, semi caging you in as he watches you work. “Okay, okay, stop. You’re makin’ me nervous. Gimme this.” Joel wraps his hand around yours on the handle of the knife. He moves the knife for you, cutting the carrot slowly, your hand securely in his. “You’re liftin’ the knife too much, sweetheart. Just rock it back and forth for me. Just like this,” he whispers, showing you how he rocks the knife in a fluid motion to cut the carrots. His hands are warm, his grip on your hands is firm. His breath is hot and tickles your ear, sending goosebumps erupting down the back of your neck. He chops the carrots quietly, and you feel him against you - the rise and fall of his chest and tummy with each inhale and exhale he takes, his wiry scruff kissing the side of your face. “That’s it,” he praises, “Good girl.”

Fuck. His words go right to your core. As if him holding your hands and caging you in to teach you how to cut vegetables wasn’t enough, he had to call you ‘good girl’ as well. That had to be deliberate on his part, you’re almost certain of it. And now you’ve got to pay his washer another visit. His fault, honestly. “Laundry,” you blurt out, pushing his hands off of yours and shrinking away from his hold. “Sorry. Gotta check the laundry.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Joel watches you pace down the basement stairs and listens to you pretend to check on your clothes, opening and shutting the washer and dryer doors. He’s waiting for you to come upstairs, but you never do. “You comin’ upstairs?”

“Yeah, just a minute,” you call back.

“There’s spiders down there, you know. Big an’ fuzzy too.”

“I’ll be fine,” you yell as you unbutton your shorts and pull them down your legs. “I don’t mind them.”

Your reply immediately has Joel feeling suspicious of you. Even a mention of a mere ant should have sent you running into his arms and pleading with him to get rid of it. On more than one occasion, Joel’s woken up to you pounding on his door in the middle of the night begging him to come kill a spider that’s in your bedroom. And he always does, of course, even when the spider is miniscule and simply minding its business in a corner somewhere. He’ll scoop it into the palm of his hand and set it outside in a bed of flowers, call you a wimp and be on his merry way, grumbling the entire walk home. He wonders why the hell you’re so brave all of a sudden.

A loud, clunking noise interrupts the silence. “Oh, fuck,” you swear. And Joel’s deaf, but not deaf enough to not hear you. “What was that?” he calls from up the stairs.

“Nothing!”

Joel knows it wasn’t nothing, it certainly didn’t sound like nothing. You quickly pull your shorts and panties back on when you hear him stomping down the stairs to investigate. Wracking your brain to think of a lie to tell Joel, you realize you’re fucked, utterly and completely. It would’ve been more appropriate to think of one before now, probably around the time the washer started to make weird noises. Now you’re faced with god knows what consequences.

Joel greets you with a puzzled and angered expression. “What the hell happened?”

“I d– I don’t know. Just something… Happened, I guess,” you stutter. Subtly, you stuff the used pair of his boxers you were smelling down the back of your shorts to hide the evidence of your even dirtier secret. Joel sees that you’re avoiding eye contact, looking up and away, scratching your head. The silence hangs heavily in the air and Joel sees the guilt on your face and that your shorts are undone for some reason. “You have ten seconds to tell me the truth before this becomes a much worse day for us both.”

“Nothing happened–”

“Nine, eight…”

You fold instantly. “I sit on it,” you confess, Joel exhales in frustration. “Sit? As in… this is a regular occurrence, you’ve been sittin’ on my washer,” Joel asserts. You nod in confirmation. “Why.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, another lie.

“Well, how much have you been sittin’ on it?”

“Just like…a lot, I guess.” You look down at your feet, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Why?” he asks again.

“It…uhh…sort of…” you mumble, picking at your fingernails.

“Sort of what?”

“Vibrates.”

Joel’s face falls at the admission. “You’re not serious,” he says, but he knows you are. “Oh my god.”

“Stranger things have happened, right?” Your voice wavers as you try to soften the blow with a joke.

“Unbelievable,” Joel pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “No. Stranger things than you have not happened, sweetheart.” After taking a few deep breaths, he pushes you to the side and reaches for the shelf above the washer for a toolbox. He takes out a putty knife and wriggles the front of the washer off, then drops to his knees to inspect the washer. “Did I not ask you to be careful with it?” It’s a rhetorical question. Joel groans when he sees what’s broken inside of the washer.

“What is it?”

“Belt’s broken,” he answers. “You’re lucky s’fixable.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well, it’s good you can fix it, right?”

“Oh, no. You are fixin’ it, my darlin’. You broke it.”

Joel’s out of his mind if he thinks you’re putting his washer back together. “I don’t know how,” you tell him. You’ll make it up to him in any other way than this, but there’s no way he’s serious. Besides, he’s now the first to know that your track record with washers isn’t to be trusted.

“I’ll walk you through it,” Joel replies plainly. “Get down there. On your knees, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes at him. “Now,” he says, unimpressed with your defiance.

You drop to your knees in front of the washer, looking for the broken belt that Joel speaks of. You find one of the big and fuzzy spiders he was talking about instead. “Jesus!” you yelp, launching backwards and nearly knocking Joel over in the process “There’s a spider, Joel - kill it, kill it, kill it, Joel - kill it, please,” you beg.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it’s harmless.”

“Joel!”

Joel nudges you out of the way to find the spider sitting right at the bottom of the washer. He scoops it into his hand, then holds it in front of you, “I thought you said you didn’t mind ‘em,” he taunts.

“I lied. Get it away from me,” You shove him away from you, and he clutches the spider more carefully in his hands, laughing.

“Yeah, I know you lied. You’re very bad at it,” Joel opens one of the basement’s egress windows and sends the spider on its way, then closes it and returns to you, first grabbing what looks to be a replacement belt for his washer from a nearby shelf. Leave it to Joel to have the most convenient yet obscure supplies right in his basement twenty years into an apocalypse. “Back to work.” You’re in front of the washer once more, and Joel takes his seat right behind you. “See that black belt at the bottom of the drum?”

“No.”

“This thing here,” he points at it with his finger. “Take it off,” You reach for the belt and tug on it a bit, “Gotta wiggle it a bit,” following his instruction, you wiggle the belt and it falls off the drum. “Attagirl. Now put this one on,” he hands you the new belt and takes the old one from you. “S’gonna be snug.”

You struggle to stretch the rubber over the drum and it snaps your hands when it slips. “Fuck.”

“Keep tryin’. Put some elbow grease into it, hon,” Joel hovers over your shoulder, just as he did earlier in the kitchen. “M’just checkin’ to make sure you got it lined up properly,” Joel tugs on the rubber belt, making sure it’s sitting where it needs to. “So tell me again how long you been doin it for,” he whispers. “Long time?”

You answer cautiously, “Uhhh…a while now, I guess.”

“Yeah, I figured. S’it feel good?”

The question throws you off, makes you nervous. But his voice is low and gravelly, and his tone isn’t pointed or accusatory. He seems curious, but for what reason, you’re not quite sure yet. “It does.”

“Better than your fingers?” Joel tightens the belt a bit and leans back. He’s watching you, but you can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes. You gasp when you feel his warm palm sliding underneath your shorts. “What the–” Oh, fuck. Joel found his pair of boxers. He holds the fabric in his hands, a knowing grin on his lips. “These are mine. What’re you doin’ with my dirty boxers?” he asks. He doesn’t allow you time to stutter out an excuse. “You’re a dirty lil’ bird, aren’t you?”

“Joel.”

He tosses his pair of boxers onto the dryer and whispers in your ear again, “I asked you somethin’. My washer feel better than your fingers?”

“Yeah,” you answer, “Better.”

Joel hums in amusement. He slides his hand down the front of your pants, still unbuttoned from earlier. “Saved me the trouble, didn’t ya, sweetheart?” he breathes. Your breath hitches when his fingers find your mound, as he toys with the curls there. He traces over your lips, then dips a finger between them, circling your hole, then circles your clit. “Better than mine?” he asks, dipping a finger into your center and you moan. He holds one hand on your hip as the other pumps in and out of your center, and you lean back into his chest, relaxing with his touch. You sigh deeply. “Don’t get all cozy on me, now. You ain’t done. Gotta put the front of the washer back on, should just click right into place.”

Joel pulls his hand away from you so you can lift the front piece of the washer. “It’s not–” you complain, struggling to click it into place the way Joel says it should. You push and push, but it doesn’t budge. “Joel, it’s not–”

“It will. Just try.”

“I am,” you argue, shoving it once more but to no avail. You’ve grown frustrated by his washer, by the task Joel bestowed upon you in fixing it, and his teasing, too. In a fit of anger, you stand up and kick it.

“Hey, easy,” Joel scolds. “Look, like this,” Magically, the front piece of the washer fits right into place, just like he said it would. He does nothing different than what you did, it just works out for him. Of course it does. “You’re impatient, huh?” he murmurs, moving behind you. You gasp when you feel his hands on your hips, tugging the fabric of both your shorts and your panties down to your ankles, he helps you out of the garments and tosses them elsewhere. His hands are on your hips again, this time guiding you, whispering, “Back, back,” as he positions you where he needs you, spreading your legs apart. You’re leaning on his washer and he’s on his knees behind you, using his nose to tease and part your slick folds. He inhales you deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your arousal before he tastes you. He traces your lips with a pointed tongue, up and down, before he dips his tongue into your heat, savoring you.

“How ‘bout my tongue?” he purrs, whispering against your skin. You don’t answer, and it’s not like you could anyway, with the way he devours you. His arms are wrapped around your legs, his fingertips are digging harshly into your thighs like he means to bruise you, tear the flesh off your bones even. It’s possessive in nature, but not abusive or aggressive. You know his actions aren’t borne of anything except pure pleasure and you indulge in it, in him. He moves slow like honey as he tastes you languidly, kissing you. He laps your velvety heat, his tongue teasing all of your sensitive, slick flesh. Now and then the wiry hairs of his beard will tease and scratch your inner thighs, a sensation that tickles you and rubs you raw all the same. “Oh my god,” you moan, reaching behind yourself to take hold of his head, fingers tangling in his graying curls and waves. “Joel, oh my god.”

Joel takes your lack of a real answer to his question as a no, his washer pales in comparison to his tongue. Good. He bets you’ve fantasized about him, all those times you’ve used his washer for those needs of yours besides washing your clothes. And he bets that you probably grind yourself on it, picturing it’s his warm flesh beneath you and not the cold metal of the machine. He’d be right. He sucks your clit, circling the sensitive bud with his tongue. He nips at your folds, sucking one, then the other between his plump lips, then focuses his attention back at your clit. You’re moaning his name, the only word you know anymore. Joel keeps you still, held tight in his arms so that you can’t push your ass back and grind against his mouth like he knows you’re fighting to do. All you can do is take it, feel his perfect aquiline nose tease between your cheeks. He’s buried himself face first in your most private place as he consumes you voraciously, his tongue flicking and swirling and painting you. You’re biting into your own arm, seeing stars as you come on his tongue. It’s an elusive sort of orgasm, the kind where you don’t exactly know where it begins and it ends. All you know is that you’re sensitive, so fucking sensitive and Joel is relentless. Your knees buckle as he toys with your clit, gives you a break for a moment before he’s right back there again, continuing to eat you. He keeps going and going, repeating the actions over and over again just to make you cry and beg, “Stop - please - I can’t, I can’t, Joel. T-too much.”

“Know it’s too much, sweetheart, s’why I’m doin it,” Joel coos. But he obliges, places one last kiss to your heat, soaked by his spit and your own arousal before he stands up behind you. He wraps one arm around your stomach, pulling himself close to you. You can feel his hard cock against your ass, separated only by his denim as he uses his other hand to turn your face to the side, meeting him beside you. He kisses you, tracing his tongue along the seam of your lips, licking into your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, then feel his hand leave your face to reach for his fly. You hear him unzip his jeans slowly, and then he’s pulling his cock out, still kissing you as he lines up with you, first parting your thighs with a gentle nudge of his knee before notching his tip at your entrance. He finally pulls his mouth away from yours and gently forces your chest down toward the washer. He pushes himself into you, careful so as not to hurt you but deliberately so that you still feel that ache, the stretch of his thick cock separating your insides. Joel continues holding your body close to his as he reaches for your hand with his free one, interlacing his fingers in between your own. “How about my cock, sweetheart? You like it better, worse?” he whispers, kissing, nipping at your ear in between words. He pulls out of you nearly all the way, then pushes back into your dripping cunt.

You try to answer, “Bet - oh, ahhh,”

Joel chuckles at the way he’s reduced you to nothing but broken syllables and moans. “Ohhh, listen to you. I think it’s better, huh? S’that what you’re tryin’ to tell me?” You nod frantically. “Yeah, I know, beautiful.”

His pace is slower to start, but it builds in quick time. You can feel he’s fighting with himself to be more gentle than he actually wants to be, his thrusts sloppier than he intends, like he’s losing himself in you. You’re lost in him, lost in the moment all the same. You take it all in, the lewd and obscene sounds of the pleasure he creates with you - his thighs slapping against yours and the gushing of your cunt on his cock. Your moans, your cries, all babbling nonsense. And Joel’s deep breaths in and out, shaky and stuttering as he does it. His grunts and his swearing, a whimper here and there if you listen closely. He fills you up perfectly, hits that sweet spot deep inside you over and over and over…

“You coulda had me like this the whole time,” he pants, “Didn’t have to go an’ break my washer f’ya needed somethin’ more than those fingers of yours, sweetheart. Know you been needin’ some lovin’.” He reaches for your breasts, squeezing and groping the flesh, twisting your nipples and smirking when you twitch and whine. “All you had to do was ask.” You don’t respond, but he doesn’t expect you to anyway. What he did expect, however, were your moans of displeasure as he pulls out of you. He knows, oh, he knows how empty you must feel, you poor thing. He’ll soothe that. He flips you around, seats you on his washer. “I’m gonna make you come again,” he promises, “I’m gonna watch.”

“Too much, Joel, I can’t,” you cry. You want to come again, really. But you don’t think you have it in you, still so worked up, overstimulated by the endless teasing of his tongue on your pussy.

“Oh, don’t cry. You can do it, hon. You can take it,” he says, “Open up those legs for me, darlin’.” Joel pushes your trembling legs wide so he can slot his hips between them, then wraps your legs around his waist before sliding his cock into you once more. He thrusts just once, rather harshly, before he’s met with another rather loud noise from the washer. Joel halts and scratches the back of his neck. God, he hopes he didn’t just do it in. “Probably shouldn’t…uh…”

“Yeah,” you agree.

“Did you use my dryer too?”

“Duh,” you answer. “How else would I dry my clothes?”

Joel rolls his eyes, “No, smartass. Were you usin’ it for your dirty work, is what I’m askin’.”

“No.”

Still inside you, Joel slides you over to his dryer. “Good girl. Poor washer’s been abused plenty by you already.”

“But I will,” You whisper defiantly under your breath, wrapping your arms around his neck as he adjusts.

“Wrong ear, sweetheart. My right one’s deaf. I heard that loud and clear.”

Joel’s back to fucking you in an instant. He wastes no time in making good on his promise, thumbing your clit as he rolls his hips into you. “See, look at you. Takin’ me just fine,” he praises.The way you squirm and take your shallow little breaths fills him with satisfaction and delight. He knows this isn’t easy, that you’re tired and sore and overstimulated. He’ll be done with you soon. “Come with me, wanna feel you come with me, sweetheart,” he says. “Focus here, eyes on me. You’re gonna come with me.”

It’s a few moments of Joel painting your clit with those tight, steadied circles as he fucks you hard and deep. There’s a push and pull to it, where you’re not sure who this is for - yourself or Joel. Just like before, you’re not sure where it starts and stops, but you’re there. God it’s intense, you’re gonna break and you know it. Joel’s got his palm on the back of your neck, squeezing you. His jaw clenches and he’s coming undone first, but he never loses focus on you. His thrusts stutter as he milks himself in you but doesn't yet stop - he’s making sure you’re gonna come. “C’mon baby, c’mon. Give it to me,” he says. “One more for me. Last one.”

His words are all it takes. You whimper and moan, cry his name as you find your climax. Release washes over you the way waves crash onto sand - it’s repeated, the way the tides push and pull. Deafening. Powerful.

But there’s a calmness yet. The rolling of his hips slows, slows, stops. He presses his damp forehead against yours, breathing deeply. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay?”

You nod and smile, “Yeah, I’m good.” He smiles with you and helps you off of the dryer. Joel finds your clothes and dresses you in them, steadying your shaky legs.

Joel tentatively restarts the washer. It chugs a bit, but makes all the right noises and he breathes a sigh of relief. You’re a bit startled when he takes you by the arm and marches you up the stairs. “New rule,” he says, “You stay with me when your clothes are washin’.”

You bite your lip to hide your guilty smirk. “Yes. Joel.”

“And I still need you to cut them veggies for me, too.”

I struggled heavily with this fic, comments and reblogs would be much appreciated if you were feeling so inclined🙏 they keep me motivated and I look back at your words when I’m writing to remember that I’m capable of pleasing you all

#strang3lov3 #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller fanfic #joel the last of us #tlou joel #pedro pascal x reader

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runa-falls · 1 year

Note

size kink with miguel 👀

yes, nonnie, of course.

edit: bro, i'm sorry, this got away from me...

cw: smut (18+), size kink, somnophilia, oral (m-recieving), dry (wet?) humping, the big stretch™️, crying ;-;, finger riding, teasing/edging, free-use (miguel hehe), piv, tummy bulge, overstimulation, cockwarming, uhhh i think that's it???

miguel is so big, he could only slide against your pussy during the first few months of dating you 😵‍💫

you're barely able to take him into your mouth, let alone down your throat, but you still try your best, giving him sweet licks against the sensitive head and sucking him in with a soft moan.

he loves watching you. how everything about you is smaller -- and not because you're smaller, but bc he's just insanely big.

he needed to be the one to stop you from fucking him the first time. you were so desperate to get him inside of you, convincing him with breathy whines that you can take it, you'll be good for him + stretch out as much as he needed.

though he thoroughly prepped you, he could barely push himself into you and as soon as his tip breached your entrance, you cried out and he could barely move.

he had to grit his teeth when he felt how hot and tight you were, almost losing control when you fluttered around him from the intensity of stretch. he slowly pulled out with a heavy groan, eyes blazing red and claws ripping into the mattress next to your head.

he let you pout, whine, and beg for him to try again, but he wouldn't give in. he was too scared of hurting you.

you mewled and writhed in his arms, whining about how you crave being stretched and filled. the only way he could sate you was by plunging two fingers into your cunt, rubbing relentlessly against your g-spot until you're shaking in his hold.

of course, he makes up for his refusal to fuck you.

miguel is a sweet boyfriend: he'll let you grind your naked body over him at any time of the day until you're seeing white and cumming against him, completely soaking his sweatpants as tears spill from your eyes.

he lets you tease him as much as you want, sliding your dripping pussy over his cock until he's unbearably hard and spurting precum all over himself.

he even lets you ride his fingers, letting you take his arm away from whatever he's working on so you can comfortably roll your hips over him and grind your clit against the palm of his hand.

when he finally does fuck you, it's impossible to get him away from you (not that you mind). miguel is mesmerized by how well your smaller body can take him. how you squeeze around him so sweetly, gushing and trembling as he moves against you.

he loves seeing the outline of cock pressing against your tummy, how he can literally see himself move into you as your body struggles to make enough room. he pushes down on it and you get infinitely tighter. his scarlet eyes stares up at your euphoric expression, pretty lips shaped into an O for him as your eyes roll back with pleasure.

miguel, as spider-man, has no refractory period. usually, he'd stop after two or three rounds, but now that he's felt your molten heat over him, the way you shudder around his cock when you cum, he can't get enough.

even when you're filled to the brim with his cum, he still hard inside of you, fucking you harshly until you're dripping everything onto the sheets below you.

<cw: somnophilia>

sometimes you're so exhausted, so delirious with pleasure, that you pass out while he's still rutting into you. the first time it happened he freaked out a little, hoping he didn't push you to far. once you gave him the green light to continue, so turned on by the fact he can fuck you to sleep, he doesn't hesitate to take you all the way.

you regularly wake up with a pleasant soreness between your legs. miguel makes sure to show you extra soft loving in the mornings, cooing about how sweet and pliable you were the night before. sometimes you wake up and he's still inside of you, face cutely nuzzled against the back of your neck.

UM ANYWAY-- 🫠👀

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut

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imsilay · 1 year

Text

MANIA

obsessive love; very possessive and often jealous.

mdni NSFW! +18 cw: possessiveness, size k!nk, fem!reader, obsessive König, dominant König.

summary: König doesn’t wants you to leave him, even for a second. he finds excuses and makes it your problem so he could fuck you until you’re too sore to leave again.

i will post part 2 <3 (english isn’t my first language sorry for the mistakes) edit: posted! here

art cr: @kinky-thirsty-reader

He doesn’t like when you try to leave him…

After a long night, you were exhausted, your body sore from head to toe. You tried to sit up and leave the bed, but suddenly König's arm snaked around your waist and held you down. "Where do you think you're going, Prinzessin?" he whispered. "I need to shower." you mumbled as you put your hands on his forearms and tried to push him away, but it was a pathetic attempt. You were so powerless compared to him.

“So klein~” he cooed.

He chuckled at your struggles. "I don't think so, Schatz. You're staying here, in my bed, where you belong…" he purred, kissing the back of your neck and pulling you even closer, pressing your back against his chest. "König, stop the nonsense. Let go of me, i really need to shower." you protested— you wish you didn’t. His arms tightened around your midsection, reminding you that he could snap your spine effortlessly. "Are you talking back, Prinzessin? Did you forget you’re mine?" he whispered, his tone now edged with discontent. His grip was far from loving anymore. “Do i need to remind you?” he hissed, he would fuck you dumb until you understand that you’re his. His to use for his own satisfaction, his to kiss whenever he decided to do, his to touch wherever he wants. You were simply his.

When you realized you were in trouble, chills ran down your spine. You quickly apologized. "No, I was just... I don't like being sweaty. I'm sorry." Your apology made him loosen his grip a little. He placed a tender kiss on your neck. He turned you around as if you weighed nothing and pressed you against his chest.

“Hmm... let's see," his voice teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He sat up, leaning his back against the headboard and had you straddle him. He lowered his hands from your waist to your thighs and gently caressed them. You let out a groan of relief and wrapped your arms around his neck, savoring the sensation of your lover's massage on your sore muscles. However, your relief was short-lived because he wasn't finished with you yet. "You tried to escape my bed. So you need to be punished, Hase." He squeezed your thighs until the pain in your sore muscles became almost unbearable.

You cried and whined but he shushed you softly, soothing you. “We’re not done, Liebling.” It was clear that his tone had changed again. The anger and firmness had given way to something more gentle, almost loving.

You slurred something for forgiveness and apologize nonstop. “Don't be sorry, Hase. I didn't like seeing you try to escape from me." he said with a hint of a pout. "But I think i can make a exception for you this time. What about you let me…" his rough hands slowly caressed your inner thighs making you shiver and gasp in anticipation. “use you as i please, then maybe i could let you rest.” he murmured as his hand found its way to your already wet panties. Your breath hitched and you squirmed on his lap as he teased your cunt through your panties until you’re soaked for him.

“You’re so easy to seduce, Schatz.” he chuckled lightly but his voice stained with pure lust. He lifted your chin up with his free hand to take a look at your lovely face. Your eyes red, your skin flush from all the crying and stimulation. It was all for him… right?

“Immer so empfindlich, wenn ich so mit dir spiele.” (Always so sensitive when I play with you like this.) he mumbled in German like he always did. You never understand what he said -mind foggy with lust and too focused to chase that sweet release.

He grinned with a proud expression and mumbled to himself. “Braves Mädchen.” he whispered before lifting his balaclava up just enough to capture your lips in a long passionate kiss.

a/n: please support me by reblogging, if you liked it <3

a/n: also i post everyday -sometimes 2 posts in a day- so if you follow me i won’t disappoint ;)

#könig mw2 #konig x you #konig x reader #konig smut #konig x y/n #i know it’s könig #könig x y/n #könig smut #obsessed könig #könig x reader #könig x you #könig fanfiction #könig #silay

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007reid · 1 year

Text

187. spencer reid (18+)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: you're dealing with a dumb, whiny boy and you are wondering where your boy genius went.

warnings: 18+, sub!spencer & dom!reader, dumbification, whining, whimpering, overstimulation, handjob, orgasm denial, begging..you know the rest ;)

a/n: this is a result of too much ai spencer tiktok edits....wrote in a rush on my phone late at night but that's how fanfiction are meant to be written. enjoy angels <3 requests are open if anyone want to drop by!

“okay spencer, this is an easy one. can you answer it for me baby?" you pause expectantly, and it takes him a while, but spencer only mewls in response, frustrated. "what states are next to louisiana?”

you see spencer’s eyebrows slowly pent up in thought but then he immediately gives up in lieu of letting out another pathetic moan, bucking up uselessly to your fingers. “answer the question baby," you prod sweetly, kissing your words into his cheek.

“i-hnfgg…” he pants breathlessly, eyes shut tight and when they flutter open, they are round with plead. “please, it hurts so bad, please let me cum i—“

you let go of his cock entirely and he whines, trying to shuffle closer so that you would touch him. in response you move away further, smirk at your lips. “be a good boy for me and i will.”

“i am being a good boy for you!” spencer whines, his eyes blown with need and watering, body writhing pathetically against the sheets. his dick is flushed an angry red and you know he’s only several strokes away from coming undone, being so closely attuned to your boy. “i’m being good i—“ his words hitched in his throat as you gently caress only the tip of his cock, teasing.

“the good boy i remember is super smart,” you slide up to him, pressing a leering kiss on his jaw. “the guy has an iq of 187. can you believe that? how rare is that?”

spencer doesn’t answer, his pleas and whines soft and stuck in his throat as he keeps trying to buck up his hips to get more of your touch, but with no avail. “hm? how rare is it spence?”

“i don’t know!” he cries, tears leaking and wetting his pretty lashes. “i—please it hurts so bad, just please let me cum i’ll do anything, please!”

“answer me and i’ll let you cum baby boy,” you say smoothly, removing your hand from him (which elicited a very impatient groan) to spit on your palm before going back again, moving your hand up and down his shaft deliberately slow. you know it drives him crazy, even crazier than he is right now and you soak in the satisfaction of it. “how many people has your kind of genius spence? hm?" you add encouragingly. "get this one right for me and i’ll let you cum baby.”

“i…uhh….” he's slow, and even slower with your hand working and overstimulating his already-sensitive cock. “one out of every hundred million people. 1000 who ever lived,” he finally decides to peel open his eyes again, searching your face for any hint of approval. as a response you flick up your wrist quickly and he nods his head back, an obscene and needy moan coming out of his mouth.

“and the states surrounding louisiana?”

his head snaps back immediately and stares at you in betrayal, like a kid being scammed out of his cookie, completely flustered and debauched. “you said one question!”

“i changed my mind baby,” you soothe, pressing an apology kiss in the corner of his mouth. “the faster you are the faster you get to cum. do you want to cum honey?”

“yes! yes i wanna cum so bad,” he cries, hands coming up to rest lightly at your waist and you can feel the tremble in them. the heavy feeling at the pit of his stomach has been there for at least half an hour now and you’ve just been toying with it, reliving it then bringing the pressure back. now he’s an absolute mess, curly hair sprayed on the pillow and stuck to his forehead, his pretty, delicate face ruined with tear stains, but it just makes him prettier. he’s completely at your mercy, writhing and whimpering and begging you to do something about his looming orgasm and you denying him of it.

“then answer the question baby boy,” you murmur encouragingly in his ear, fingers still teasing him. he’s so sensitive and overstimulated to the point that a single touch can make his entire body jump, so you are careful. too much and he might actually loose it, and you both know this. “you remember it, right spence?” you press, "the question?"

“hnngg,” he whimpers when you start biting on the lobe of his ear, grabbing and squeezing onto the sheets for dear life. “umm…arkansas and… i-i don’t know,” he admits shamefully, then desperately tries to make up for it. “but i got the first one! you said if i get it i could cum. i’ve been such a good boy for you, just this one time, please!” he begs, not in control of what he says anymore and it shows. he’s completely delirious and fucked stupid, and you take pity on him.

“aww, my sweet boy,” you coo sweetly, running your fingers through his messy mop of hair and pulling it away from his face for him. “i’m sorry angel, but if you can’t get it right, you don’t get to cum,” you whisper faux apologetically in his ear. you see when spencer’s eyes widen with horror, and the tears begins to fall freely.

“please,” he begs, his fingers pleadingly reaching out to try to touch you, convince you to change your mind. it’s a foolish and naive attempt, and he knows it too but can’t help taking his chances. he’s desperate for anything. “please, i’ll be so good for you. i’ll be your best boy. i promise. i swear. it hurts so bad y/n please, i cant take it—“

“fine,” you give in, only because you know for a fact that he can't last any longer. really, you're surprised he's managed to make it this long so far; you had already planned his punishment in your mind. your boy deserves his reward.

you speed up your movements and the sounds coming out of his mouth becomes wanton, sobs becomes louder and his whines a pitch higher and he’s strung high like a violin string, ready to snap. “cum for me, pretty boy.”

at your command his body gives out obediently, thick strings of cum spitting out of his cock, painting your hand and his hips, coating at his thighs. he twitches and his thighs tremble weakly as small blurts of cum starts to collect at the tip of his cock and you kiss him during all of it as he cries against your lips. he pants hard, and when you accidentally swipe a finger over him, he whines painfully and inches out the way, sore. when it’s over, he collapses into you, spent.

“thank you,” he says, sounding genuinely grateful, his voice muffled and his face buried in your shoulder. you laugh, fingers smoothing out the mess of his hair, pulling his head back and pressing kisses all over his face. spencer needs the aftercare, especially after being edged on for so long, needs the love and the assurance and the cuddles afterwards. "i love you."

"and i you," you say, smiling when he whines predictably, unsatisfied.

"you gotta say the whole thing," he says, looking mildly upset, lips jutting out and giving you the fattest, most foul and adorable pout, eyes big and searching.

"'m sorry," you weave your fingers with his, and he presses a kiss against your knuckles. "i love you."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #dr spencer reid #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #sub spencer reid #sub!spencer #my works

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dewwinchester · 2 months

Text

stitches | d.w.

synopsis: dean texts you for help, and you drop everything for him.

requested by: @dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy

pairing: pre-series!dean winchester x reader

word count: 1.6k+

warnings: fluff, some angst, john winchester, blood, wounds/injury, stitching up wounds, typical spn series warnings. no use of y/n, no pronouns used!

a/n: if john winchester has no haters, i'm dead <33 also, it's currently 12am, so if the editing is a little wonky, pls forgive me

You gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white as you navigated through the torrential downpour hammering down around you and your car. The rain was relentless, blinding you as it pounded against the windshield. The smell of wet asphalt filled your car as the tires slipped on the rain-soaked road. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears – a mixture of adrenaline from trying to avoid a horrific car wreck and anxiety from the message still illuminating your car in a dim light.

I need your help.

It wasn’t a message you were expecting. Normally, in your line of work, pleas for help came in the form of a frantic phone call or a scream in the dark. They never came in the form of a random text message.

And they never came from Dean Winchester.

You were having a relatively normal night, working a case and staking out a couple of vamps, when your phone buzzed with several messages from Dean. First, he asked if you were busy. Then, he asked if you were nearby. Moments later, he sent you an address to a motel. Then, came the message that caused you to leave the stakeout completely and go frantically speeding down the road.

Your tires screeched as you rounded a corner. The neon light of the motel soon appeared ahead, its reflection dancing across the many puddles on the asphalt. You pulled into the first parking spot you saw and stepped out of your car. The rain immediately soaked you to the bone, wetting your hair and your clothes, sending a chill through you, but you couldn't find yourself caring as your eyes scanned for Dean's room number.

The motel was rather seedy-looking – more so than normal. The wooden palings were splitting, and the paint was chipping off the trimmings and walls. There wasn't any other car in sight. You wondered just how bad things were if Dean had found himself in a place like this.

Once you found his room, you practically ran over to the door and threw it open, not bothering to knock. Your eyes immediately landed on Dean, who sat on the edge of one of the beds, his back to you. A wave of relief washed over you – he was alive – but the sight of his tense shoulders and the untouched beer bottle in his hand kept your anxiety simmering.

You closed the door behind you and took off your saturated jacket, leaving it next to Dean's leather one.

"Hey," you said with a sigh, "You okay?"

Dean responded with a curt nod but said nothing more. You stepped closer to him and placed your hand gently on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch, and you felt a pang in your chest. When you finally got close enough, you quickly scanned his face. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, and his normally sharp gaze was clouded with exhaustion. HIs hair was wet and spiky, and his lip trembled from the cold.

Your eyes continued to trail down to his side, where his shirt clung to his skin, dark and wet with blood. Three jagged and deep gashes spread across Dean's side. His shirt was torn.

Your eyes widened as panic once again surged through you. You frantically looked around for anything you could use to stop the bleeding. You grabbed the first towel you could get your hands on and pressed it to his side, grimacing when Dean winced in pain.

"Jesus, Dean. What the hell happened?"

"Werewolf," he gritted out.

"I think you're gonna need stitches."

There was no first aid kit in sight, so your mind began running through alternatives. You could go to the front desk and ask if there were any supplies, but asking for anything more than a simple band-aid would cause suspicion, and the last thing you needed was someone knocking on the door asking too many questions.

You could use dental floss. You had known plenty of hunters that used it in the past and not had a problem, but you weren't sure there were any needles…

"There's a sewing kit in the bathroom."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "You read my mind."

“One of my many talents.”

----

Needle, thread, dental floss, tissues, water. You looked over the supplies in front of you, mind racing at a million miles an hour. Despite being a hunter yourself, you weren’t exactly a natural when it came to stitching wounds and performing first aid. In fact, the sight of too much blood caused your head to throb and your legs to go numb.

Dean had already taken off his shirt, leaving you to see the full extent of his injuries. The gashes started at the top of his ribs and curled around to his left shoulder blade. Blood continued to trail down his back, causing your mouth to go dry. Pins and needles tingled your toes, and the room began to spin…

You shook off your thoughts and shifted your weight between your two feet, hoping to get some blood flow back there. You put your thoughts and discomfort behind you and prepared to begin.

“This isn’t gonna feel great,” you said, trying to control the shake in your voice.

“Not my first time,” he replied.

You grabbed the needle and thread, and – with shaky hands – tried your best to thread the cotton through the eye. You sat behind him, deciding to start around his shoulder. With a damp cloth, you tried your best to clean around the area, whispering apologies whenever Dean flinched.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, using your gentlest touch to guide the needle through.

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, “werewolf.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” you trailed off. “Where’s your dad?”

Dean clenched his jaw, and you immediately knew you had touched on a rough subject. Throughout the time that you had known Dean, you had learnt his relationship with his father was far from healthy. John Winchester was not your favourite person in the world. In fact, you and Dean had gotten into plenty of arguments about him in the past.

“He’s not here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, continuing your stitching. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Do we have to do this–?”

“--Yes.”

Dean sighed, scrubbing his hand down his face. The anger and tension radiating off him was palpable, his shoulders were tense and his breathing was heavy. You finished stitching the first gash, and tied the thread off with a neat little knot. Instead of immediately moving on to the next one, you moved around and knelt in front of Dean so you were eye level. You placed a hand on his right knee and traced gentle circles into his skin with your thumb. You raised your eyebrows, sending him a look that was simultaneously stern and empathetic.

You just wanted to know he was okay.

“We’d been stakin’ out the thing for weeks,” Dean began. “We finally pinpointed it to this boathouse. Dad was sure that it was in there, so he sent me in first to sweep the area.”

“And…?”

“Turns out it was a lot smarter than we thought,” Dean said, a dejected smile on his lips. “It was waitin’ there for us. Dad knew, but I didn’t.”

“Then why did he send you in there?”

Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But the thing had me on the ground before I even realized what was goin’ on. Put it’s claws in me and ran.”

You shuddered.

“Dad didn’t stay,” Dean continued. “The second he realised it jumped ship, he went too. Left me with my phone and wallet… I walked here.”

“What?”

If Dean’s anger was palpable, you were damn-near irate. You pressed your lips together, trying to control yourself from spewing all sorts of profanities. If you had it your way, you would have marched your way up to John Winchester and given him what for. You would have knocked his lights out if Dean had let you.

You stood and pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes.

"He – you? God!"

"Alright hot-head, calm down."

"No, I will not calm down!" You spun on your heel, turning to face him again. "Your own father left you for dead!"

"He's done worse."

You laughed bitterly. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Alright," Dean sighed, raising a hand to stop your tirade. "I'm okay! I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Oh yeah, you're the pinnacle of okay."

"Your sarcasm isn't helping."

You shook your head. Angry tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you were too stubborn to let them fall.

"I just wish you would understand that you deserve better," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You could leave his ass behind any time you like -"

"Oh yeah? And then what?"

You paused, and looked down to your feet.

"You could come with me?"

For half a second, Dean smiled. “You and I would kill each other in half an hour.”

He was right – but you’d never let him admit it.

“Why’d you text me then?” You asked. “If we’re just gonna kill one another–”

Dean shot you a pointed look.

“– I’m serious.” You said.

Dean stood up with a groan and walked over to you. You stood with your arms crossed, a slight frown creasing your brow. Nothing could be heard but the rain that battered against the windows and the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Dean tucked a strand of your wet hair behind your ear, “You’re the first one I thought of… The only one I wanted here.”

A blush crept onto your cheeks and you shook your head fondly. “You’re fantastic at changing the subject.”

Dean winked, but his smooth-talking was soon replaced by a painful scowl.

“Let’s finish this up later, shall we? I’d rather not bleed to death.”

You helped Dean back to the bed and prepared to finish stitching him up. You knew this was far from over – with Dean, it never was – but for now, you would focus on the rain that pattered against the roof and the relief that Dean was with you, safe.

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader fluff #dean winchester fluff #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #dean winchester x y/n #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean fluff #dean fic #supernatural fic #*my writing

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erwinsvow · 3 months

Text

ain't nothing better for me

summary: at half past midnight, you get call from your ex-boyfriend. and though you really, really shouldn't answer, you still do.

now spinning: poison by brent faiyaz

word count: 8.8k

warnings/tags: toxic exbf!rafe, heavy angst, mentions of past breakup/fighting, reader knows she deserves better but can't stay away (classic), car sex feat. fingering, backshots, unprotected sex. thank you so so so much to @zyafics for all her help with reading and editing ♡

your phone goes off when you’re putting on your nightly skincare. in between layers of moisturizer and serums, a hopeful smile graces your face. you think you know who it is, and you’re actually a little excited to check your messages.

you let the anticipation soak in for a little longer, finishing your routine first before taking a look to reply. it’s been months since you’ve even felt a hint of excitement about talking to a boy, and this one—the one you know has just texted you—is making you feel somewhat normal again.

you’re not just someone hung up on her ex-boyfriend, pretty much unable to escape him and the ghost of your old relationship wherever you go anymore. now you’re just another girl—talking to a new boy and feeling the excitement that a new crush brings.

you rub on the last layer, the one that makes your skin all glowy and soft before bed, before deciding to go check the text. you rush over to your phone, which is resting on your nightstand next your books and your water, picking it up and tapping the screen to read the message you’ve been waiting for.

rc: are you asleep?

you think your beating heart has just fallen through to your stomach. the phone falls out of your hand, thudding against the counter and hitting your glass of water before falling onto the rug.

“shit. oh, shit,” you repeat to yourself, picking up the now spilled, half-empty cup. you look at the water drip off your nightstand, dark specks of water painting your rug while you try to catch your breath.

it feels impossible to do so, and you wonder how one short text can get you so winded. you scramble to the other side of the room, grabbing a towel but unable to walk back to where your fallen phone is. picking it up and rereading that text feels impossible. every muscle is frozen in place, the towel clenched in your fist while you realize nothing you could ever do is going to make you normal again. all it takes is a few words from rafe cameron to get you completely unglued.

“okay. deep breaths,” you say quietly, as though rafe could hear you through the phone. you tread back carefully, watching your screen fade back to darkness. letting out yet another deep breath, you blot the wet patches with the towel and take a seat on the floor against your bedframe, resting your back and bringing your knees in.

it’s pathetic, you know that already. no one should permit one text to get them curling up half-fetal with a new fear of their phone, but that’s what rafe has done to you.

a tumultuous relationship had brought you here now—for every up, there was a down, and though you had once thought rafe was the most misunderstood guy you had ever met, you know now that there was a reason for it.

all of your friends had warned you, and you hadn’t listened. and it’s not as though you have something hard, something concrete to blame. maybe it would have been better if rafe had just cheated on you or gotten bored of you, maybe that would make getting over him easier.

instead you’re left the gutting realization that there was still, to this day—even four months after you two had officially broken up—no lack of love between you two. the way you’re sitting on the floor with tears brimming in your eyes is enough to prove that to you.

and of course, there’s that other feeling nudging through in the back of your mind. the one you’re trying so hard to avoid feeling the full brunt of, to avoid letting that feeling stand on its own two feet in your heart and head. rafe cameron still wants to know if you’re asleep or not.

he still wants to know what you’re doing, where you are, even how you are. and that feeling is a beast of its own, impossible to even begin to understand.

you try to let yourself soak in the feeling, when your phone screen lights up again.

rc: i know you’re up

rc: stop ignoring me

fuck. how does he know you’re even awake? setting aside yet another impossible feeling, you finally pick up your phone, rereading his texts for the third time in sixty seconds. gone was the cute profile picture, the emojis next to his name and the butterflies in your stomach when you got a text from him.

instead you stare down at messages from a boy who has always seemed to know you better than you know yourself, wondering why you had even unblocked his contact to begin with. actually, you know why, but you decide to ignore that for now.

you need to grapple with your current reality. you need your best friends to read these texts and tell you how you should feel, because you know you can’t trust your own feelings. you need an hour just to work out how you should respond, and another hour to work up the courage to actually do so.

but you don’t get any of that. your screen glows with a red button and a green button, rafe’s contact appearing and a call coming through.

“oh god,” you get out, wondering why the hell he’s calling you. you didn’t even respond. briefly, you think if you let it go to voicemail, rafe will think you’re asleep and leave you alone. you wrestle with that idea for a moment, thinking it’s the best course, coming to terms with the fact that the boy you had once loved more than anyone in the world is now getting his call screened.

and then, as if your heart has a mind and body of its own, you feel your finger hover over the green answer button. what if rafe’s hurt? what if he really needs you and you’re ignoring him, what if it’s something serious? you shouldn’t just ignore him because of your feelings when it’s closer to one in the morning than midnight, and your boyfriend knows you always sleep early.

shit. ex-boyfriend. you let this new idea of the freudian slip take over your mind, feeling like your head might explode from the amount of emotions you just went through in the last ten minutes.

heartbreak, anxiety, and a terrible sadness even imagining telling your friends about this. they’d praise you for not answering and deep down wonder how you didn’t immediately text back. everyone in your life knows how you much you love rafe cameron.

shit. that’s the wrong word. not love, but rather loved. you need to get better at this.

“oh.” it comes out in one short breath, more a noise of relief than anything else. the call went away, your screen returning to your home wallpaper, a pretty picture of the sunset on the water. you stare at it, thinking that you really, really need to go to bed now.

rc: your light is on. answer before i-

you don’t even finish reading the text, eyes going wide. you should scramble up and turn your lights off, but you don’t even get to it before the call screen comes back on. fuck, he’s calling again.

and fuck. because this time, you answer.

bringing the phone to your ear, you wait with bated breath.

“hey, kid,” rafe says, and true to form, like something out of a dramatic teen movie, you slide down against your bedframe because those two words will always, always make you feel weak in the knees.

your eyes are closed now, a stray tear making its way down your cheek. you think you’ve missed the sound of rafe’s voice like nothing else in this world. and now, realizing what an impact it’s having on you, you wonder if cutting him off cold-turkey was the smartest idea.

“how did you know my light’s on?” you ask quietly, and it seems the whole world has stopped spinning. you can picture it now, wherever he is, running a hand through his hair at your question, licking his lips before speaking.

“i’m outside.”

oh no. no, no, no. rafe cannot be outside your house right now, he can’t be anywhere near you. and he certainly can’t be looking through your bedroom window and texting you about your lights or about anything else.

“rafe, why are you-”

“‘cause we need to talk.”

“i don’t have anything to talk about, rafe.” the words sound foreign coming out of your mouth, feels like it’s wrong to even speak this way to him.

“then just listen. c’mon, kid, come outside. gimme ten minutes, okay? s’it.”

you hang up the call without answering his last question. and letting your heart call the shots again, you get up, slipping on your shoes and grabbing your phone. and then, though you know you shouldn’t, you climb down the stairs and open the front door, being greeted by rafe’s blue truck parked alongside your curb.

you stand there frozen for a moment, thinking about every time before this you had snuck out for rafe. and then you really take it in—how the hell had a two minute phone call convinced you to do this?

the night air nips at your exposed legs, and you cross your arms to feel less cold. usually you couldn’t help yourself, ignoring the chill and running up to the passenger side door that rafe would open from the inside for you.

at first you’d been too shy to greet rafe with a kiss but it had come to you over the early months of your relationship. there were times you two spent hours in his truck on the same deserted street by the forest, coming back home before dawn and soaking in the feeling that you finally had what you wanted.

now you stare at the truck, wondering why it felt so hard to even walk closer. your body tenses up at the muscle memory coursing through you, but you hold back this time. releasing a breath, you tell yourself one thing.

“ten minutes. that’s it.”

slow steps lead you to rafe’s truck, and then when you’re just a foot away, reaching for the doorhandle, you can make out rafe leaning over your seat and pulling the handle, opening the door for you like he always does.

you should turn around and run back inside.

instead, you climb up and take a seat, gently closing the door. you stay seated, eyes focused on your lap, trying your hardest not to look around and take everything back in from the countless times you’d been here before.

moments later you fail, feeling your entire body soften like butter upon taking in the memories of yourself in this car. your lip gloss sits in the cupholder, a photo of you and rafe that you had clipped into the passenger side mirror pokes out, and the air freshner you’d bought for rafe hangs around the rearview.

you smile without realizing it, thinking that maybe rafe had erased the memories of you like you had tried to do to him. you turn, finally, to look at rafe. he’s already looking at you.

“you could have thrown this away,” you say, picking up your lip gloss and avoiding his gaze quickly.

“nah. kept it safe for you.” you bite your lip, tugging on the skin much too hard. words are becoming harder and harder to find, and you want the ache in your chest to go away more than anything in the world.

“y-you said ten minutes,” you get out, your expression dipped in sadness. without knowing why, fresh tears brim at your eyes, and you stay turned ahead to make sure rafe doesn’t see.

“that was just to get y’out here.”

“rafe-”

“c’mon, kid. m’sorry. how many times do i have to say it, huh?” unfortunately, tears start streaming down before you can control them. wiping them away, you turn to look at rafe for the first time tonight, and for the first time in a while.

he looks like he always does. some of his hair falls into his forehead, and every time he runs a hand through it, it falls back in exactly the same place. his blue eyes are completely focused on you, and though there was a time where nothing could have made you happier, right now it feels like they’re burning into you. he looks upset, like this is all very serious and like you’re not getting out of this car until you accept his apology. that last thing may be the truest part.

but worst of all, rafe looks just as handsome as always. he doesn’t have to do anything to completely take your breath away, to be that guy you would give up anything for, do anything for. that boy is still here, you just had thought that you weren’t that girl anymore. but now you don’t know.

“if you think this is about.. apologizing, then i don’t know what to say to you.”

and you mean that. you don’t know what to say to him. you don’t know any sentence you can utter that will get you out of this car with your heart still in one piece.

“kid,” rafe says, and your entire body tightens up. he moves one hand to your exposed knee and you feel your skin turn to fire underneath his touch. “you wanted time. i gave you time. i gave you months. you really so much better off without me that you won’t even let us try?”

“it’s not like that,” you say through tears, a sob wrangled in your throat.

“then what’s it like? ‘cause i’ve been waiting. first you didn’t answer my calls, my texts. then you fuckin’ blocked me and you said you needed time. this is enough time.” rafe looks at you like he’s ready for this whole thing to be over, like all the two of you need to mend this relationship in the next few minutes.

“it’s not about the time, rafe. you still think this whole thing is about flowers and-and attention, and it’s just not-”

“i know i fucked up.”

the sentence hits you like a wall of bricks. the entire break-up had started from what was mostly a simple thing—you felt like rafe never got you flowers anymore. the two months leading up to this relationship starting had been everything you had dreamt of. rafe would check in on you everyday, go out of his way to see you, make sure you were okay even when you had already lied that you were fine. spontaenous dates, car rides, boat trips, he had done it all.

but it was really the effort behind the actions that had made you so head over heels. you didn’t care about anything but that simple word—effort. and rafe had put in the effort the entire time before you two agreed to date.

truth be told, you didn’t care about all the stuff you two did together. everything with rafe was fun for you, but it was really just being with him that you wanted. and for the first six months of your one-year relationship, you had his complete effort and attention. there was never anything pressing when the two of you were together, never anything that was worth leaving you for.

and the flowers. the boy who had taken you on the first date had brought you flowers. and you, being you, had beamed. those peonies had lived on your nightstand for much too long, and then you had taken one and kept it on your windowsill.

the single dried peony was still on your windowsill—you had never thrown it away, and the realization makes your heart hurt. it had been a stupid argument about flowers that had made you decide you wanted, or rather that you needed to end things with rafe. you had been sitting in this very seat, noticing for the hundredth time in the last few months that rafe was stressed about something, unhappy about something else. instead of talking to you about it, he was neglecting you.

conversations were one-sided. your efforts to try and help him, and to try and figure out what was even going on were met with silence or a gruff leave it alone, kid. a couple dates were forgotten or cut short, but that wasn’t a big deal. you wanted to be supportive, and you tried as best as you could, but you couldn’t keep burning the candle on both ends.

you wanted to take care of rafe while he was going through this, but in that process, you had to take care of yourself too. and when it came to it, sitting where you were sitting now, you had decided to put yourself first.

you snap out of your thoughts at once. you’re reflecting as though something is about to change, and for your own sanity, you know it can’t. rafe admitting he did something wrong is nice, so at least you don’t have to blame only yourself anymore, but it can’t change what you’ve decided.

“you..” you falter, unsure where your sentence is going. “it wasn’t just you. but maybe we both need to stop, rafe. this isn’t healthy.”

“no, no, it was just me.” your shut your eyes tightly, holding back a painful noise that you don’t want to release.

“rafe, please-”

“you got upset about flowers. i didn’t know what it was really about. and that’s my fault, okay? it’s not about the fuckin’ flowers. it’s about us, i get that now.”

your eyes open, though tears have made your vision blurry and your eyes hurt. you keep looking at rafe, wondering when he realized all this and when he decided he was going to keep chasing you. you don’t think you really want to know the answer. holding back another sob, you try to reply, but it comes out in a teary whisper.

“why couldn’t you figure this out four months ago?”

you start crying again, though you really wish you wouldn’t. it’s been more than ten minutes, but you have a feeling you’re not getting out of this car anytime soon. rafe grips the steering wheel so hard you see his knuckles lose color.

“‘cause i wasn’t.. i wasn’t paying attention. and m’sorry. what else can i do, huh? y’know i can’t live without you.”

the words bring up more tears, and you wipe them away with your hands.

“c’mon kid, don’t cry.”

“i can’t just forget about all of that because you’re saying this now. if this happens again i’m gonna-”

“it won’t,” rafe says it firmly, moving his hand back to your thigh. there’s goosebumps on your skin. “it won’t happen again.”

you’re staring at rafe while he stares at your thigh, where he’s touching you. you sniffle, a million thoughts running through your head. you want to know what to do, what to say. unfortunately, the one person in the world you ask every question to is the one sitting next to you right now.

you focus on wiping your tears away, crossing your legs. rafe stretches his arm to the backseat, grabbing something and bringing it to the front. he offers it to you—one of his hoodies, the navy one from his alma mater that you used to wear almost every day.

“i-i’m fine,” you say, though you’re still cold. it’s the idea of wearing it that provokes you to say that. you don’t know how you’ll feel if you put that sweatshirt on again.

you could remember the first time you wore it like yesterday. at the bonfire, wearing a dress you had thought rafe would like, you were freezing by the water with him and his friends. rafe had left to get you two new drinks and come back with it, and you had spent the rest of time curled up next to him, refusing to take it off even when the group migrated near the fire. when had you given this hoodie back? it seemed to have a new permanent home in your bedroom or your car.

“stop lyin’ to me. just put it on.” suddenly too sad to fight about this, you comply, pulling it over your head and covering your pajamas—a big shirt and your sleep shorts getting hidden.

you shouldn’t take in the scent, but you do, inhaling deeply. it smell like rafe’s cologne—which is enough to bring more tears to your eyes, since it’s been months since you’ve smelled that scent—and the laundry detergent he uses and something else you can’t place.

“thank you.”

you know what you’ve just done. someone staying in the car for another few minutes doesn’t put on their ex-boyfriend’s hoodie. you think you’ve just signed your death warrant through this simple act.

“i don’t want one of your neighbors to call the cops,” rafe says, looking into the side mirror.

this is your chance. the logical part of your brain screams at you to tell rafe to leave, to take off this hoodie and run back inside. it reminds you that no one can change instantly, no matter what they tell you and how much better they seem.

it says that the next time rafe gets stressed out, you might suffer through everything you went through all over again. you see it in flashbacks—nights spent crying into your pillow, waiting on your front porch for dates that never happened, asking rafe for flowers and deciding that you need to break up with him after he finally gave them to you.

“do you want ice cream?” you ask, blinking up at rafe.

“where are we gonna get ice right now?” you shrug at his response.

“you always found somewhere.”

rafe laughs at a little, and your heart soars.

“yeah, guess i did.”

rafe looks down at you, perched in his passenger seat like you always are, like you always should be, your face a little flushed from the tears.

“you sure you want ice cream, kid?” you don’t miss the implication in his words, the tone of his voice, or what he’s really asking you. you nod. “alright. let’s go then.”

changing gears, he pulls the car away towards the road and takes off down your street while you fasten your seat belt.

you had only suggested getting ice cream because you couldn’t find it in yourself to go back to your room and sleep after everything you just went through. rafe’s words were having an immediate, visceral impact on you, making you reevaluate everything the two of you had gone through these last few months.

he did seem different. you’re probably one of the only people in the world who would notice, but you know he has. there’s small changes—the way he talks to you, the words he’s using to apologize, how much he seems to understand everything you were feeling during the end of your relationship and the following months.

but you’re not sure yet. you can’t let a few nice words or what could end up being empty promises change your mind completely, as heartbreaking as that idea now seems.

you need to think about it, and you need more time. you push down some of your inner thoughts—they’re telling you what you really need is a good night’s sleep and an hour-long conversation with your best friends. instead you’ve decided for yourself that you need some more time with rafe. hence; the ice cream.

rafe pulls up to the drive-through window of the only place still open on figure eight. the parking lot is mostly deserted, but not empty. you don’t recognize any of the cars, but you keep looking, staring off into space, distracted with your own thoughts. you don’t look up until rafe’s driving towards the second window to pay, not realizing he’d already ordered.

“oh, i didn’t tell you-”

“s’okay. i got you what you always get.”

“oh.” you’re left a little stunned. it’s been four months since you’ve had a real converastion with rafe and he still remembers your ice cream order—is that normal?

rafe pays and hands you one of the ice creams to hold, keeping the other in his hand while he drives away, parking in an empty corner of the lot. you stare at him stupidly while holding your ice cream, watching as he picks up your lip gloss from the cup holder and puts it in your lap. he takes the ice cream in your hand first, putting it into the holder, and then does the same with the one in his hand.

you look away finally, now peering at the lip gloss on your lap.

“sorry, kid.” rafe says, picking it up from your lap. his hands are cold and even with his hoodie on, you shiver at the touch. he drops the bottle into the center console, and then looks up at you, one hand still on your thigh.

“huh?” you ask quietly, a little overwhelmed. there’s so many thoughts running through your mind, you don’t know which to focus on first. rafe remembers your order. rafe doesn’t want you to hold the ice cream since you’re cold. rafe brought you a hoodie because he knows that you wouldn’t put one on before coming out. the last thought is particularly biting—rafe knew you would come to his car if he called.

“you okay?” he asks, and truly, you don’t know how to answer.

“fine. yes, i’m fine. just tired,” you murmur, reaching for your ice cream with your hand covered by your sleeve.

“yeah. s’late for you.”

before you even take a bite, you look up at rafe. he’s just eaten a bite of vanilla soft-serve, licking the spoon before going back for another scoop. you feel your defenses slipping away while the scene infront of you unfolds. rafe doesn’t even like ice cream that much, not like you do. but he still always gets some because you hate getting it alone, and he knows that. if he remembers your order, he remembers that. rafe looks up and catches you staring, your melting ice cream in your hand.

“you sure you’re okay, baby?”

you turn away, staring down at your ice cream.

“you can’t just do that,” you mutter, all of a sudden upset at yourself more than at rafe. you’re doing it—the very thing you had told yourself to watch out for before even getting in rafe’s car. falling for him all over again, without any thought of your own mental well-being if this all goes south another year from now.

“do what? check on my girl, huh?” there’s a teasing lilt in his voice that makes you want to chuck your ice cream at him.

“i’m not your girl anymore, remember? and you-you can’t just call me baby and act like everything’s back to normal-” you feel so stupid. why were you even here? why had you even suggested this?

“i thought we just went over this, kid, i’m-”

“i can’t rafe,” the words come out a little too loud, and you put your half-eaten ice cream back in his cupholder. “i can’t just.. go back to you. you’re gonna hurt me again, i-i know you are. i know you’re fine and-and you wanna get back together but it’s gonna tear me apart all over again.”

you stay silent, holding back what you really want to say. the words even rest at the tip of your tongue. no matter how much i love you, i can’t do that to msyelf again. you hope rafe understands, that he’ll try to make this easy on you.

“there’s no.. no amount of ice cream and hoodies and flowers that can make us okay again.” your words linger in the air and you stare at your hands now, trying to avoid looking at rafe because you’ll start crying the moment you do.

“kid, i-i know i fucked up. this stuff is just to show you m’still tryin for you. m’never gonna stop. that’s all.”

your shoulders sink down, all the tightness leaving your spine.

“can y’just look at me, please?” you glance up, meeting rafe’s eyes again. “i’m gettin’ better, baby. i can’t do it without you.”

“don’t i deserve someone who doesn’t have to get better for me?” you ask, though your heart isn’t really in the question.

“you do. i know you do. and maybe m’just the idiot hopin’ for another chance, even if i don’t deserve it.”

“then why are y-”

“‘cause i can’t live without you. and i’ll hate myself forever if i don’t try again.”

rafe can see it happen, the way your eyes soften immediately. you hate when he says stuff like that, mostly because you believe every word coming from his mouth. your lips turn into a small pout, eyes looking down again.

“finish your ice cream before it melts,” he says, and you listen immediately, picking it back up.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, eating ice cream. you glance up every now and then but then look back down when you catch his eye.

“you-uh, found anyone like that yet?” rafe asks, while you eat another spoonful of your own soft-serve. “that doesn’t have to get better and all that?”

you let the sugary dessert melt in your mouth, licking your lips while you try to think of the best answer. rafe’s staring at your mouth, but you don’t notice.

“no. not really, i guess.”

“you guess?”

“well, i.. i was waiting for a text from this guy, but it’s nothing, i-i barely know him.”

you notice what you’ve just done as the sentence finishes—trying to undermine everything you were going through before rafe came back into your life suddenly earlier tonight. and you know why—you don’t want rafe to think this guy means anything to you. and watching rafe finish the last of his ice cream, the one he only got because he knew you’d hate eating yours alone, you know that boy doesn’t mean anything anymore.

“waiting for? so you didn’t get it?”

“no, i don’t think so. i haven’t looked since you called. actually, when you texted me, i-i thought it was him.”

“really?” rafe asks. you nod. “were you happy? that it wasn’t?”

“i don’t know,” you say it immediately. and truthfully, you don’t. “i need to think about it.”

“what’s your gut tellin’ you?”

“my gut said not to answer your call. but here we are.” you put your empty ice cream in his cup-holder, listening to rafe laugh.

“sorry, kid. that’s my fault.”

“your fault?” you question, looking at rafe. your confused expression stares back at him while he debates the best way to tell you this.

“i had a conversation, y’know, man to man. it was his choice.”

“rafe,” you start, turning in your seat to face him. “what did you say?”

“nothin’, kid. just, y’know.. if he texted you he’s gonna get a black eye.”

“rafe-”

“if he took you out, he’s gonna get two-”

“what the fuck-”

“what? you just said it was nothin’-”

“but you decided for me! before i even had a chance. it’s not your choice to make, it’s not your-”

“-but it is. if it’s about you, s’about me.”

exasperated, you sink into the seat, unsure about how to reply to that.

“how many times have you done this?”

“not a lot,” rafe says. you don’t believe him, staring with a look that tells him as much. “once.. or twice.”

“once or twice? please tell me-oh my god. that guy last month—i thought he stood me up, you dick!” you swat at rafe’s arm, but only manage to get a few taps in before he holds your wrist in place, stopping you from moving at all. “i thought there was something wrong with me.”

“there’s nothin’ wrong with you. just thought you deserved better than those assholes, s’all.”

“oh, but your type of asshole is fine, is that right?”

“yeah, it is.”

you lock eyes with rafe for a second, before the two of you start laughing. it feels so stupid to think back to the last few months and realize you couldn’t even remember the last time you and rafe laughed together. you keep looking at him, your laugh dying down until you bite your cheek and watch rafe run a hand through his hair.

“i didn’t like him anyways,” you finally say after enough silence has passed.

“good. i didn’t either.”

“is there any guy you would like for me?”

“just one, kid.” rafe stops, taking in the way you’re looking at him. he knows where and when he fucked up, even knows how to be better for you and not let it happen again. convincing you is the hard part, and he thinks he’s even making progress with that, with the way your pretty eyes shine up. your expression is as close to hope as he’s ever seen before. hoping that he’s not just saying these things, hoping that it won’t end like last time.

but you care enough to hope, and that’s enough for him to run with.

“m’sorry about the.. threats. but it’s me, so-”

“what did i expect?” you finish, smiling back at him. the way rafe looks at you right now makes you feel things you wish you could bottle up. instead you redirect your gaze, staring at the street lights illuminating the now-empty parking lot.

“exactly. and if i let you go on a date with some guy, i couldn’t give you these.”

“rafe,” you start, though you’re not sure where your going with it. you shut up though, because rafe leans back, behind your seat. he picks up a bouquet of flowers and puts them on your lap, and the whole time you watch holding in a breath, tears automatically springing to your eyes.

it’s a nice sentiment, you think, trying to justify it to yourself. the flowers on your lap are pink peonies, dark and light wrapped in brown paper. they look just like the ones rafe had give you on your first date and you smile down at them, still trying to wrap your head around the sentence that had you dizzy all night long—maybe rafe really had changed.

“this is really cheesy,” you finally admit, your eyes flickering back up at rafe with another smile. he keeps his eyes on you for a while, not saying anything, though you’re sure you know what he’s thinking. something along the lines of how you’ve wanted cheesy, you’ve wanted flowers without asking for them.

“i wanna be cheesy for you.” you inhale, not realizing how much such simple words mean to you. “it’s not flowers. it’s you, it’s for you. the things i do. the way i show it. i thought you wanted flowers but you just wanted me, didn’t you?”

“yeah,” you breathe out.

“well i’m here now. and you have me. you have all of me. and i’m not goin’ anywhere this time.”

the feeling coursing through your veins right now is unlike anything else. you feel more than just happy, more than just like a girl about to get back together with her ex-boyfriend. you feel like you’ve just become whole again.

what a shitty metaphor—as though you’d been totally and utterly incomplete without rafe in your life. that thought lingers for much too long, because haven’t you? you’ve always been attached to rafe, teetering on the edge of codependence, but there’s no denying the plain truth so obvious to both of you right now.

you can’t live without rafe and rafe can’t live without you.

“i gotta take you home. can you imagine what your parents will say? one day back with me and already sneakin’ out until-”

“i don’t wanna go home,” you say quietly, watching as rafe reverses out of the parking spot. he swings his arm around the headrest of your seat, watching behind him. back on the road, he drives in the direction of your house.

“don’t worry, kid. i’ll see you in a couple hours, probably-”

“will you take me by the water? where we used to go?” the truck comes to a halt at the stoplight. rafe looks over, the entire car glowing in the dim red light. the two of you meet eyes for a moment.

“yeah. sure.” you smile, watching rafe take a left instead of heading straight to your street. it’s not a long drive to the water from here, but the place the two of you always frequented is tucked away between trees and dead-ends.

it’s a bit of a maze to get there, and you don’t think you could figure it out in the broad daylight. but here in the dark, with rafe driving and music playing faintly in the background, you remember it like the back of your hand.

you entire body tenses up, a tingling running from your fingers to your toes. the mere feeling is electric, to be back in yours and rafe’s spot—almost like nothing has changed. it feels like maybe nothing has changed—you’re just as happy as you once were.

the tell-tale bumpiness of the road signifies you’re close to the spot. there’s a small outlook just beyond patches of gravel, a parting between trees where you can see the ocean. it’s private, almost completley inaccessible unless you were searching for it.

and maybe something’s changed in the last few months, maybe someone is searching for it, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. rafe puts the truck in park and you take a moment, first to stare down at your peonies, then to look over the water.

“it’s late,” you say, taking in how dark the sky is. stars sparkle above you, and when rafe turns the car off, you can even hear the waves rushing on the beach.

“nah, kid. it’s early.”

“yeah, i guess you’re right.” holding another breath, and without knowing exactly why you are, you lean forward, resting your elbows on the dash and staring up at the sky through the windshield. you release the breath suddenly when you feel rafe’s hand on your knee, first just the touch, but followed by a squeeze.

“say the word and i’ll take you home.”

“no, i don’t wanna go. it’s just so late. i’m never up at this time anymore.” you bring your arms back, sitting in your seat and staring at rafe again, like you’ve been doing this entire time. “thank you, rafe.”

you prepare yourself for his usual answer, waiting to explain why you’re thanking him and how you still feel nervous but you’re ready to jump back into this relationship if he is, the sentences and words forming in your head already.

instead he doesn’t say anything, leaning in suddenly and taking your face in his hands, bringing you into a kiss. and fuck, you’re a liar if you say you hadn’t missed this. rafe kisses you—always has, and seems like now he always will—like you’re about to slip away if he’s not holding you tight enough.

the hand on your face hold your jaw securely, tilting your face up for him. the kiss has you reeling from your seat, a wave of heat coursing your entire body. your face is hot, your palms clammy, eyes clamped shut while you try to remember if his lips have always been this soft, or felt this good on yours.

your flowers fall to the floor, rolling off your lap and landing with a rustle. you’re sure there’s loose petals and stray leaves littering the car now, but still, it’s hard to care. rafe moves his hands away from your face, pulling away from the kiss for just a second.

while you try to look down and see the damage you’ve just caused your peonies, you feel his hands on your hips, picking you up and bringing you onto his lap. you let out a noise of surprise, looking back at your boyfriend now. he doesn’t hesitate, leaning in again for a kiss.

this time, you don’t hesitate either, both of your hands migrating, traveling from his arms to his shoulders, gripping him as hard as he’s holding you.

you feel wandering hands on your waist, traveling down to your ass and grabbing hard, making you let out squeals into rafe’s mouth. it feels like nothing has changed, like the last four months have never happened, with the way you fit so comfortably, how it feels so right to be back on his lap. you move your hands again, running through his hair like you always did—how you always loved doing—when you pull away this time to catch your breath.

you meet rafe’s eyes, letting out a shuddery breath and a laugh all in one. you move your hand to his chest, pressing down against it, trying to make sure this is really happening. rafe follows your movement, taking your hand into his. your fingers intertwine with his, and rafe brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the back of it.

you think you’ve just melted all over again, lips curling up into a happy smile but finding it so much harder to keep looking into his blue eyes. he doesn’t say anything, just brings you back for another kiss.

this might have been enough for you tonight, but everything rafe had said in the last few hours rushes back into your mind, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you. before you can even think about what you’re doing, you’ve moved to the backseat. propped up against the door, you wait for rafe to join you, biting your lower lip so hard it’s about to bleed. you watch rafe—he sighs, turning to look at you smiling in the back.

“jesus, kid,” he says, opening the driver’s door and getting out of the car. you sit up a little straighter, confused until he opens the other door, meeting you in the back. you tilt your head at him, rolling your eyes.

“you couldn’t just hop over?” you question, blinking up at him.

“no, ‘cause i’m not a runt,” rafe says, shutting the door once he got in beside you. you stay still for a moment, looking at him again.

but it really is just a moment this time—you’ve become far too impatient to wait any longer. normally you’d savor it—there’s a lot that you and rafe can get done in this tiny space—but today your mind can’t focus on any of it.

your hands go to rafe’s polo first, moving it up his abdomen, fisting the bunched cloth to get it off your boyfriend as fast as you can, until he finally pulls it over his head. you crawl back onto his lap, hands perched on his shoulders while you start kissing again.

your brain goes numb and fuzzy, feeling rafe sneak under your shirt and rub the soft skin of your back and stomach, before making his way up to your tits. he gropes while you keep kissing—and it’s a vicious cycle. you moan at every teasing touch, rutting harder against his erection.

it’s quick—he lifts your shirt up and off, and you both stay like that for a while, until you feel rafe paw at the waist of your shorts. leaning into his touch, you let him move you around like a rag-doll, now on your back on the seat, with him in between your legs. you lift your hips compliantly, letting him slide the shorts and your panties off together, laying completely exposed before him.

“not fair,” you breathe, watching as his eyes rake you over from top to bottom, like he’s memorizing every detail. “you’re still dressed.”

“don’t worry ‘bout that, kid,” he says, and you feel your walls flutter at the words, it’s nothing but it feels like everything right now, with anticipation driving you insane.

“can you just.. hurry? please?” you whine, even though it’s against your best interest. rafe likes taking his time with you, a fact you are well aware of.

“no,” he says, and you’re meant to understand the word is an entire sentence and your only answer. “y’know how long i’ve been thinkin’ about this?” you glance up at rafe from your position, watching as he hovers, your hand reaching out to touch his chest again. his silver chain glimmers in the light around his neck, and you loop your fingers around it. you want to tug, pulling him on top of you for another kiss, but you refrain for now.

“i don’t know,” you answer. “four months?” rafe laughs and so you laugh too, the sweet sound filling the tense air. he brings a hand to your exposed stomach, trailing up and down and taking in how your breath catches.

“needy, huh?” rafe starts talking and your body tenses up immediately, knowing what’s coming. “when’s the last time you came? hm?”

“i-um,” you trail off, paying more attention to how he’s unbuckling his belt and undoing his zipper. you’re close to getting what you want, the question getting lost in your mind in a swirl of thoughts—all of them revolving around how rafe’s stroking himself, his eyes scanning over you.

“s’not an answer, kid,” he says, leaning over you again. his chain dangles on your skin and the mere touch of it transports you back to every other time rafe had you like this. you clench hard around nothing, positive that you’re humiliatingly wet for rafe right now. and he’s still waiting for you to answer a question you’ve clean forgotten. “the last time you came. tell me. or y’not cummin�� this time.”

you whine, toes curling. rafe’s teasing your pussy with his fingers, two of them prodding through your folds and hovering over your wet hole. you think an answer might get him to actually fuck you with his fingers, but you still can’t piece it together with how fast your heart is beating.

“i-i think-” his fingers press into you without actually pushing inside your tight walls.

“don’t think. jus’ tell me.”

“last-last week. i was-” he gives you a little more pressure, you can feel them almost inside but it’s not nearly enough-

“you were what?”

“thinking about you-!” it comes out all in one quick gasp, rafe plunging both fingers inside you quickly. you moan, back arching off the seat, but restrained by rafe that you can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything but take it. he keeps going, finger-fucking you faster until you’re positive you’re about to tip over the edge.

“good. good girl. wasn’t so hard, was it?” he keeps going, leaning over you to bring you in for another kiss, and it seems that’s all you need. that feeling—his chain grazing your face and his fingers deep inside you is enough to have you cumming, the tightness in your stomach unwinding while you make a mess over his hand. rafe swallows your moans, keeps his motions going while you ride it out.

when he finally pulls his fingers out, you feel empty. you try to catch your breath and level out your heartbeat, looking back at him with your dopey, teary eyes. he’s stroking himself with his glistening hand, getting ready to fuck you, you think dreamily.

rafe brings one hand to where your head is, pressing his palm flat against the seat. you watch him with big, wet eyes how he lines himself up with your throbbing pussy, how he leans in for another kiss. that’s when he pushes inside—no teasing words or questions, just a kiss you groan loudly, feeling the impossible stretch you’ve missed so much again, eyes rolling all the way back. your noises are muffled by rafe’s kiss, until he pulls away to bury his face in your neck. he bites at the sensitive skin there, leaving marks you’ll have to deal with later today, but it seems like a fair exchange in this moment.

rafe pulls out and slams back in, and you moan in response with each thrust, forgetting how good he was at this. your legs are quivering, pussy impossibly sore already but you don’t think you’d make him stop even if someone knocked on the window right now. you move your hand, holding onto the seat while rafe keeps battering into you, your eyes wandering down to where the two of you are connected. rafe sucks hard above where your pulse is, and you arch your back up, legs wrapping around him.

“feels good, doesn’t it baby? better than you fingers?” he asks, and you nod, still speechless. “tell me how good-”

“rafe, rafe, i-” you moan his name but he interrupts.

“no, kid, lemme hear you-” he brings his face close to yours, your foreheads almost touching. you close the gap, kissing him again, feeling the tickle of his chain on your neck now.

“i missed you,” you cry out. you realize later it wasn’t the answer he was asking for, but you don’t really care. the words fly out of your mouth, you’ve been so desperate this entire night to keep them tucked away, but it can’t stay down any longer. “i missed you, i missed you, i missed-”

he shuts you up with another kiss, his pace picking up, if it’s even possible. your senses abandon you again, toes curling while rafe hits a spot inside you that’s been so neglected these past months. a white-hot sensation rushes over you, exploding from your stomach and spreading out, while your walls clench tightly against rafe. rafe presses back to your neck, murmuring let me hear you, and you do—finishing with a moan so loudly you’re sure someone in the vincinity has just heard you.

you need to catch your breath, but rafe doesn’t give you the chance. he pulls out of you, letting your sore pussy flutter around nothing, before he turns you around, your body folded up while he slaps your ass so hard it starts stinging.

he pushes back in and your eyes roll back again, gripping the seat and then the door handle just to stabilize yourself for a moment. rafe likes backshots—the only thing he likes more is mean backshots, slamming into you from behind while you cry out. everything feels even more sensitive like this, coming down from two highs and blindly chasing a third.

rafe’s talking but you don’t hear what he’s saying, you can’t make it out over the ringing in your ears. so you turn your head, looking up at him from this position, but you still don’t actually hear him. instead you feel it—his hips stuttering, the weight of his body collapsing on you, hot, wet streams of his cum shooting inside you.

you two stay like that for what feels like forever, listening to birds chirp and the waves crash over rocks. it’s rafe who untangles the two of you, separating sweaty, sticky limbs. he leans against the seat and brings you in to his chest, holding you tight while you let your eyes shut again. it’s comfortable—even more so when rafe picks up the discarded clothing, using it to cover you like a blanket.

you move your hand until you find his, bringing your palms together on his chest, close to your face so you can rest your cheek on his hand.

“shit. i gotta get you home,” rafe says, and you sigh in agreement, listening to the thud of his heartbeat from your position. outside, the sky is lighting up a little bit with soft early blues.

“can’t we sleep first?” you murmur back, eyes still closed.

“don’t think we’ve ever stayed here ‘til sunrise. have we?” he asks you, and you try to rack your exhausted brain for the answer.

“first time for everything.” finding some strength, you turn your head, looking up at your boyfriend. “rafe? can i ask you something?”

“yeah, kid?”

“did you mean everything you said?”

“yeah. i did.”

“oh. good.” the words are quiet coming from your mouth, and you lean back against his chest, getting comfortable again. “thanks for the flowers.”

“yeah, kid,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. your breathing evens out, and he knows you’ve fallen asleep. it’s fine—it’s way too late for you anyways. “thanks for answering.”

♡

#here it is! i hope everyone likes it ♡#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #ex bf rafe #... why do i not like it lol

990 notes · View notes

darnell-la · 29 days

Note

Can you do a follow up with the project x!wolverine x government employee!reader (it can be smut or not I just really like that story)

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗧 𝗕𝗥𝗢𝗞𝗘 𝗢𝗨𝗧 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ)

pairing: project x!logan howlett x government employee!reader

warnings: tied up, trapped, sniffing, hunting down, roughly fucked against a tree, pinned, choking, “dragged” through the woods, fucked on the patio, ass slapping, hair pulling, etc.

note: we will be making a part three where they contact Charles's school for mutants to warn them about the government, but the government hacked into their call and found out where Logan was hiding out and keeping y/n.

Logan will be more sweet in the next one as y/n grows out of the fear of him.

follow our Instagram @ darnell.la so we can start posting random videos, photos, edits, and memes of the people we write about!

———

when y/n woke up, she was dangling from the ceiling by her wrists. It took her a while to realize, she was in a basement full of big freezers and sinks. For a second, she thought she was going to be cut up and frozen to feed to whoever until she saw a man sitting on the stairs, leading upstairs.

“W-Where am I?” Y/n said, voice coming out lower than she expected it to. “Home,” the man spoke before getting up. He came out of the light, now shaking off the figure.

He was shirtless, yet had jeans on. Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t know why. Was it because Project X had her tried up in god knows where, or was it the fact she could see all of his chest?

He was sweaty, hairy, ripped, muscles flexed every once in a while, veins popping from his skin and smooth.

“It’s passed midnight, but I bet you’re hungry. Went to the store then cooked us up some food,” he spoke as her eyes traveled all over his body. She felt like she was in a trance.

“Up here, princess,” his voice was closer. She didn’t notice how close he was until his fingers lifted her chin. Even though her feet were a few inches from the ground, he was still towering over her.

“You hungry?” He asked with a head tilt. “Let me go,” she spoke, not knowing what else to say. “No,” he spoke back, voice sounding stern. She could hear the seriousness behind his tone.

“And if you try runnin’ you’ll regret it,” he said, body now touching hers. Y/n quickly went to kick him right between his legs, but he knew what was coming. He surprised her by pulling her leg to the side of his waist. She went to use the other, but he did the exact same thing.

“Relax, princess,” the man smirked down at her as she tried wiggling away, but doing so made her cunt rub up and down his clothes length. She prayed he wouldn’t notice, but he felt the wet spot soaking into his jeans.

“If you act good, I’ll fix that for you,” the man whispered in her ear, pulling her body closer to his. Y/n held bad the whine she almost let out. What was he doing to her?

Logan eventually pulled back and walked to the corner of the room to lower her rope. He then walked back over to the girl as she looked down, not knowing what to say or do to the man.

He wasn’t giving off any type of serial killer vibes. He didn’t seem like he wanted to do any kind of killing. A part of her felt saved than she’d ever had, especially because of her job, but she felt off just letting this man win what he wanted. And that was her.

After y/n’s hands dropped from the ropes, she lifted her knees and connected with his groin. The man fell to the ground in pain as she pushed past him, running up the stairs.

The slightly frightened girl ran towards the front door, thinking she was free until she noticed a device on the lock that needed a code. “Fuckin’ hell,” she shouted before running around the rest of the house to find another way.

“You ain’t gettin’ outta here, bub!” Logan yelled from downstairs, finally getting up from the ground. You would think a mutant like him wouldn’t feel that pain, but he did.

Y/n panicked, thinking she was doomed until she had an idea. A stupid one which she slightly felt bad for doing but she did it anyway.

“Son of a bitch!” Logan finally made it up the stairs to the sound of glass breaking. She was out and running for her life, knowing he’d be furious about his genitals and glass.

Y/n ran as fast as she could through the woods, a bit terrified of the dark and animal noises, but the real animal was back at that house. He is an animal, right? That’s what they said he was.

Y/n had stopped after a few minutes to catch her breath. He’s never been the kind to run.

As she rested, she looked down at her feet, swing scratches and blood, but she’d get over it. She needed to get away.

As the young woman went to take a step to continue, she heard a noise behind her. She quickly looked back but saw nothing. Maybe it was a squirrel or something, she thought.

Y/n turned back around to start walking until he saw the view of an angry Logan in her face. “Where ya goin, bub?” He asked. Y/n instantly screamed at his presence.

Before she could move, the man tangled her to the ground, pushing his hand down the middle of her back to pin her into the dirt.

“No!” Y/n fought in anger, thinking she was actually going to escape. “When I said no, you ain’t listen, now didn’t you?” The man said through his teeth as he forced her to dress up.

“Logan, please! N-Not out here, not out here!” She begged, thinking people would be able to hear this scene going on and go and check, just to see her getting drilled into the ground.

“No one’s out here, princess. Not for another mile or so — You’re all mine out here,” the evil low laugh he let out as he pulled his jeans down was insane. He hadn’t even pulled himself out of his boxers. He wanted to take his time with her out here.

Y/n tried kicking her legs, but what was the point? He could smell her leaking down her folds. He knew she wanted this, and he was going to make her understand.

“I said, no!” Y/n shouted as she swung her elbow back as hard as she could, making him fall back. Y/n crawled away, but only a few inches to look back at him. The fear that grew inside of her was unbelievable.

Logan‘s jaw was dislocated. She popped his jaw.

Y/n’s words got stuck in her throat. She wanted to apologize as the man slowly looked up. He didn’t mean to hurt him. She’s not like that.

Before she could open her mouth, Logan popped his jaw back in place with his hand before moving it around to make sure it was normal.

“You fucked up, bub,” the man said before crawling towards her. It didn’t even look like a crawl. How did he do that? Logan lifted the girl up by her neck and pinned her to the closest tree.

“Ow!” She cried out, feeling the tree bark scratched her ass through her thin and silky nightgown. God, she needed to change soon.

“Logan, ow!” She hoped he’d have sympathy for her, but the way his eyes looked, he was far from it. He wanted to teach her a lesson, and that’s what he was doing.

“N-No, no!” She pushed at the man’s hand, but that did nothing. He ripped her nightgown off like a strand of hair. “Logan!” She shouted, feeling the breeze on her body until his body rubbed against hers.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Logan growled as he pulled himself out of his jeans. “I don’t like that,” he had as he shifted up and between y/n’s legs until they were lifted off of the ground. Her toes barely touched the dirt.

“I-I can't, Logan,” y/n remembered how he fucked her the last time, and he wasn’t even angry at her. Logan let out a chuckle that he soon cut off after he slammed up into her cunt.

Y/n cried loudly as her arms gripped his shoulders. Logan stared directly at her, his face seemed too serious to look at. He was angry. Very angry. But why? It’s not like the pop in his jaw hurt like any other thing her went through?

“P-Please,” she choked as he pushed her neck into the tree harder, just to get a reaction out of her. “Shut the fuck up,” the man said like the tree wasn’t about to break or come out of the ground from how hard he was pounding into her.

“I can’t,” she whined in pain, but too much pleasure to not tighten around him. The way she squeezed him, egged him on further.

“Oh, you can’t? Does it look like a give a fuck? Huh!? Does it!?” He spat as his pelvis roughly slapped against her clit. She couldn’t think straight. This man was fucking her like some wild animal in the woods. She’s literally being fucked by an animal in the woods.

“F-Fuuuck,” y/n dragged with a broken moan. Logan let her neck go and used both of his hands to grip and hold onto her legs, keeping her up and against the tree, not caring how much she scratched at his shoulders and chest.

The man growled in her ear, cock slipping in and out of her entrance as her asshole puckered. He was huge and slagging around like he wasn’t.

Y/n couldn’t say, but her broken cry warned him she was cumming, and when she did, it was hard. “Goddamnit — Fuck,” the man grunted, pinning his feet to the ground to keep up his hard abuse.

“So fuckin’ good — Fuck!” The man couldn’t keep himself together as his nails dug, into her thighs. Y/n was now crying, not because she was scared, but because of the overstimulation followed by a thrust that wouldn’t slow down.

“Yeah? Yeah, is that the spot, baby?” He asked, knowing it was. “Think this is over just because you came? Think ima stop because you’re drunk on my cock? How did that go last time?”

The girl shook her head, half ass answering his questions. “So cute,” the man chuckled before pulling y/n off of the treat and throwing her over his shoulder to give her a small break.

He wanted his fresh meet alive and functioning when he fucked filled her up. Last time he didn’t get that chase, but he swore to god he would this time.

Because she ran so far, he had to walk it, giving y/n some time to come to life. “Lo-“ y/n cut herself off, still having trouble speaking, but held herself well enough for him to understand.

“No more,” she begged, but he wasn’t having it. “Please, no more,” she begged again as she noticed him passing his car parked several feet from his cabin.

“Logan!” She shouted, now kicking and screaming again. The man grew angry but wanted to take her to the bedroom for what he was about to lay on her.

“Logan!” She shouted, gripping onto the side of his house which was a long wooded stand. “Y/n, stop it!” He let her down with a shout as he began pulling her, but she wouldn’t budge and he didn’t want to accidentally rip her arms off.

“No!” She screamed before he finally pulled her off, causing her to fall on the front steps in front of his house. The way she fell and landed on her hands and knees made him say, fuck it.

“You wanna be fucked like an animal? Fine,” he said as he came up behind her, pulling his cock back out before plunging into her, earning a scream that made him know he hit the right spot instantly.

Logan grew an evil smile across his face as he tugged on her hair, making her arch her back before slapping at her ass, causing her to bruise lightly.

“Little sluts get treated like slut, y/n. You could’ve be fucked nice and sweet on the bed earlier, but no — You wanna run,”

Y/n’s mouth slacked as her eyes crossed from how hard the man was pounding on her. “You see that, bub? Look right up there, right into that camera,” he forced her to look at his security.

“Gonna tie you down and make you watch how dumb you look on my dick,” the man spat, making y/n feel the burn in her eyes, but not from embarrassment. From too much pleasure.

“Yeah — Yeah,” the man repeatedly groaned as y/n squeezed him with a shake in her body. “So fuckin’ pathetic, I might have to give you back,” Logan said, knowing he’d never do such a thing. “Nah,” he added drill in her head that she ain’t goin’ nowhere.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, sᴍᴜᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ sᴏᴏɴ...

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