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Elijah and Sani have been together since they were eighteen, and officially tied the knot at twenty-two. Over the years, dreams were whispered and then made real, miracles were placed gently into their hands, and time carved a quiet home between the two of them.
But can we really call this life without counting the scars left behind?
After twelve years of marriage, it feels like every bridge the couple has crossed together has caught fire in some way. Yet, the two can't seem to commit to what so obviously needs to be done. Is it comfort? Routine? The expectation that they will find their way back to each other eventually? Or just the fear of doing life alone at 34.
Will couple therapy as their last option be their holy grail or a final wakeup call that their love did change?
Next
Time passed him slowly as Elijah sat in his chair during the peak hours of the evening, listening to the birds chirping and cutting through the open space between the trees. To him, this was the calmest part of the day—not because he found the hobby himself, but because he refused to let it go
It had been Sani’s thing first.
She had fallen in love with the birds that nested in the backyard—bought books, took notes, obsessed over species and songs. And like always, she pulled Elijah into it with her.
But her interest faded fast.
The songs grew too repetitive, the colors too familiar, the novelty gone. What started as theirs slowly became his, something only Elijah still held onto as if it anchored him.
He lifted his cup of Earl Grey—the tea Sani prepared an hour ago—and took another sip. A new bird landed just a click east of where he sat. Before it could start singing, he recognized it: the Red‑winged Blackbird—Sani’s favorite.
She once said they were resilient birds.
Birds that survived burned marshes.
Birds that flew even after disaster.
Birds that rebuilt what almost died.
Elijah stared at it until it took flight again, not sparing a single note for him.
“Are you getting ready for work soon? If not, you want to try something I made?”
Her voice was soft—too soft. Like she had to force it out.
Elijah lowered his gaze from the sky. Without responding, he stood up and nodded for her to lead the way.
The house was spotless, as always. Without kids or nearby family, there wasn’t much room for mess. What others might call peaceful and a blessing felt more like a reminder—one that cracked their hearts open every time a thought slipped through.
“Recently I started watching tutorials for pastries,” Sani said, walking toward the oven. “Since the place we like is thirty minutes away and I know traffic is really bad that way....Oh, and I substituted the blueberry muffin for chocolate. You want to try?”
She placed two baking sheets on the counter—croissants, mini chocolate muffins, macadamia cookies filled the pans
“You just did this?” He stared at the pastries like he wasn’t sure whether she baked them or secretly ordered DoorDash and reheated them.
“Yeah. I mean… they’re not perfect. But it saves a one‑hour drive every other day.” She shrugged lightly and handed him a muffin on a napkin.
“They look good, Sani. I’m just asking how long this took. I was only out there an hour or two.”
“Baking’s a good stress reliever. Didn’t even feel that long, felt more like thirty minutes.” She dusted off her apron and took it off.
Elijah nodded slowly, finishing the muffin—and grabbing another before leaving the kitchen. He passed through the dining room, then headed upstairs.
“I thought you didn’t have work today,” she said behind him.
“Why? I never said that.”
Sani shrugged, letting out a heavy sigh that he caught. “Just guessed.”
Elijah had no response for whatever she meant by that. “I’ll take all the Thanksgiving decorations down when I get back. I heard you last week. I’ve just been busy.” He ran a hand over the top of his waves and turned away.
She watched his broad back disappear up the stairs, waited for the bathroom door to shut, then slumped over to the couch.
She grabbed her phone, unlocked it, and scrolled through her contacts.
“Hello… yes. Hi. My name is Sani Moore. I ordered 30 balloons set to be delivered by 2 p.m.. Yes, that’s me. Can I cancel that, please? I know it’s late notice… yes. I don’t care about the refund. I just want to cancel the balloons. Okay. Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.”
She hung up and placed the phone down.
Then she moved back to the counter and quietly began cleaning the pans she used to bake.
Elijah stood under the shower, rinsing soap off his thick frame. When he turned to face the wall, the water and steam hit him with a memory he tried not to revisit—his operation in the Amazon Basin.
The last mission he ever saw his brother on.
He stood still longer than he meant to.
Salt touched his lips as they ran down his cheek—tears he didn’t even feel fall.
Four years had never felt so short until now.
He shut off the water abruptly, not bothering to dry off before stepping out. His bathroom floor was already used to being soaked—this was his bathroom now.
Two years ago, Sani asked for separate bathrooms.
Why?
Elijah didn’t know.
Sani didn’t either.
But ever since that night—and even after moving from Mississippi to Chicago—they hadn’t shared one
“You got a call from some electricity people,” Sani said from behind the cracked door. “They said they’re coming tomorrow for the backyard. Is something wrong back there?”
Elijah wrapped a towel around his waist and dug through his small manscape bag for lotion.
“You didn’t notice the backyard lights dimming? It’s bad for the cameras. Hard to see out there.”
“Oh… I didn’t notice. I would’ve told you earlier.” She apologized softly and stepped away from the door.
“I know,” he breathed under his breath, nodding like she could see him through the wood.
“And how are you today, Sani? Somehow, even after six months, you still manage to start every session talking about everyone instead of yourself.”
“Sorry. Today is… like every other day. Simple. Silent. Tight.” She paused, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Recently, Elijah invited me on a conference trip with him. It was… nice. Well, nice enough.”
“Mhmm.”
Ms. Carter crossed one leg over the other, her eyes soft but sharp.
“Same words as last week, but the tone is different. It's more abrasive. You used to say familiar and quiet. Now it’s silent and tight. What’s changed?”
“Maybe just this morning,” Sani shrugged, folding her hands in her lap.
“I liked this morning. Elijah woke up early, cooked breakfast, played low music in the kitchen. It felt like one of those rare days where maybe we’d talk… maybe things would feel right or warm...or something.”
She shook her head. “But that’s where it ended...”
Ms. Carter tilted her head. “Something else happened?”
Sani hesitated, her mouth parting before she exhaled shakily.
“The end of the year is the hardest for us. Today marks the four‑year anniversary of Elijah’s brother’s death… and next month will be three years since my mom passed.”
“Oh! I can see why this time would weigh heavily on both of you,” Ms. Carter said gently. “Losing tight family members that close together—it’s bound to break something or break someone. But tell me, how is it going… truly?”
“Elijah says he’s okay. He doesn’t avoid talking about his brother, he keeps pictures everywhere. And I do the same with my mother—”
“And how do you feel it’s going?” Ms. Carter cut in softly, but firmly.
It wasn’t rude—just intentional.
Sani had a habit of slipping behind Elijah’s feelings, or behind her friends’, when things got too hard to touch directly. It was a reflex Ms. Carter had noticed almost immediately. Untangling it, though, was proving to be the real challenge.
“Me?” Sani pointed to herself weakly, her voice small. She inhaled deeply, shoulders slightly trembling.
“I don’t think either of us is going to survive this,” she whispered.
“Physically? Sure—we’re fine. But I know… as a couple, as husband and wife…” She swallowed hard. “As parents, we’re struggling.”
Her eyes filled until they shined. That familiar burn rushed into her nose, and she sniffled, trying to keep herself from falling apart too fast.
“I know… that every night I sleep in that house with a weight on my back. It’s like I walk to the door—I reach for the handle, ready to leave—and I turn around every single time.”
Her curls fell over her face as she bowed her head, hiding behind them like a shield.
“I know, Diana,” she choked out, “that if I keep going like this, you won’t see me again.”
Ms. Carter’s eyebrows rose "If you're impl—
“Not because I’m going to take my life,” Sani added quickly, shaking her head. “But because I’ve been coming here for four months, and I do the same thing every session. I cry, I whimper, I break down, I get angry, I fall apart in every direction—every emotion under the moon.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve, frustrated.
“And then I leave here and do nothing about any of it. I tuck everything back inside the moment I walk out that door. I bury myself back into whatever place I think I belong.” Her voice cracked.
“But only until I sit here in this hallway… waiting to see your face and whatever papers are attached to that clipboard again.”
She didn’t notice when the first tear slipped free—but she felt the next ones.
They poured down her cheeks, soaking into her lap, her blouse, her hands.
Ms. Carter stood up slowly from her chair. “And I’ve been with you these four months,” she said, picking up a pillow and placing it gently in Sani’s arms. “I’ve watched you show up consistently. I’ve watched you tear down walls you didn’t even realize you built.”
She knelt slightly, so she was closer to Sani’s eye level.
“I see you,” she said with emphasis.
“Not as a client. As a hurting wife, a grieving daughter, a struggling mother. And I am proud of you—not for perfection, not for progress, but simply because you keep walking through that door twice a week. No matter how heavy it feels.”
Sani tightened her grip on the pillow, her breaths uneven and sharp.
“When you first came in,” Ms. Carter continued, “I couldn’t get a full sentence out of you. And if I did, it was something you heard from someone else. For two months, I never heard what Sani Mitchell actually felt.”
“But eventually, I did. Eventually, you spoke. And in due time… Elijah will hear these same words. He will feel these same emotions. You won’t have to hold all of this alone forever.”
Sani closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely this time—no hiding, no swallowing them back.
“I didn’t ask for this.” Elijah looked up from his computer, pausing his very lengthy email to the Department of Relations for a prior incident
He stared at the packet laid on his desk—REVISED MANAGEMENT DEAL stamped across the top.
“Why are you giving this to me?” His hand dragged down his face, slow and tired. Today had been a long enough day without his employees acting brand-new.
“You asked for this yesterday,” Gavon said carefully. “You wanted the clauses for dropping the company. They revised the plan with Mr. Ivin, so… that’s the updated version.”
Elijah paused, trying to recollect when this conversation Gavin was talking about happened, but it was just too much at the moment.
"Ight. Go on then.” Elijah waved his hand towards the door in a dismissive motion.
“Y’all need to be heading home anyway. It’s late.” He handed the papers back toward him. “Give that back to Marcus.”
Gavon nodded too quickly, clutching the papers like they were burning his fingers. He backed toward the entrance, trying not to look shaken, though his eyes couldn’t hide it — the way Elijah’s mood had shifted put everyone on edge.
Elijah wasn’t known for being harsh. If anything, people said he was too calm. too level-headed... and even too patient.
Always with that corporate smile.
Always willing to lend a hand.
Always buying lunch for the whole floor like it was nothing.
But today… none of that existed.
Today he was blunt, clipped, hollow — and everyone in the building felt it like a temperature drop.
And there was a reason. People whispered—Maybe it was his wife, maybe a death in the family, or maybe stress. And while all three were true, none of them came close to the actual weight Elijah was carrying
Elijah and his brother had built this company with their own hands — their money, their sweat, their belief in finally having something of their own.
It started with a small interest in investments. Elijah stayed up long nights reading articles on a laptop, and went to school for a business and finance degree, while Elias stayed overseas
With their combined $320,000 — the money they saved, scraped, starved for — bloomed into something real over years.
The day they bought their first commercial building, they made a promise to each other.
A stupid, big-hearted promise made by two brothers who finally felt the ground under their feet tightening into place.
“When you get discharged next,” Elijah had said, “you’ll have an office ready. Top floor. Penthouse view. A dog. A car. All the girls you want. Everything nigga, soon as you get off the plane.”
His brother laughed, told him he wanted three pitbulls and Halle Berry waiting for him at the airport gate. Elijah said he’d get both.
But promises don’t mean much when time decides otherwise.
That promise didn’t last long at all.
And now Elijah stood in the very office he once pictured his brother in — large windows, high ceilings, the city glowing beneath him like a world they conquered together — and the emptiness hit him harder than any bad business deal ever could.
This wasn’t supposed to be his office.
Not alone.
Not like this.
He sank into the silence, letting it swallow him whole....
The door clicked shut, and Elijah sat alone. He turned toward the ceiling‑to‑floor window in his chair, staring out at the bright city lights, the dark streets, the skyline stretching across the horizon. Yet, something that was meant to look so beautiful broke something small inside of him.
None of it comforted him.
It only made his mind wander.
And then, slowly—uncontrollably—he started to cry.
Quietly. Almost invisibly.
The kind of crying that didn’t shake your shoulders, didn’t make a sound—just spilled over because the hurt had nowhere else to go.
All he could do… was cry.
Cry for his brother.
Cry for the years spent.
Cry for every moment he wasn’t there, every second he hadn’t said enough, done enough, been enough.
Elijah wasn’t new to loss.
His childhood wasn’t exactly warm. Food wasn’t guaranteed. Clothes didn’t fit. Support was scarce.
But one thing had always been constant:
Elias Moore.
Elias wasn’t just his brother through blood, but they were brothers through sweat and tears.
They joined the Navy SEALs together as soon as they were old enough—no hesitation except the moment Elijah thought of Sani. But Elias had been there, patting him on the back, telling him to come. And he did.
Weeks became months.
Months became years.
They trained. They fought. They survived.
And when they finally earned that badge—when they finally held the proof that they made something of themselves—they shared that moment like a victory they both bled for.
While both bathed in that feeling, Elias soared in it.
More tours. More operations. More achievements. More Mertis
Elias couldn't say he felt like he belonged anywhere else.
Each brother bore the weight of the other as they were always present.
Until one day… he wasn’t.
The calls stopped.
The letters stopped.
No more navy and family photos swapped back and forth.
It went from years of noise—
loud love,
chaos,
brotherhood—to complete and unforgiving silence.
And that silence had been breaking him for the last four years.
Elijah wiped his face, but the tears kept coming.
Then, as always, another face moved into his mind.
Sani.
His wife.
The mother of his child.
His last remaining piece of home.
And yet he couldn’t even talk to her.
Not properly.
Not honestly.
Because what was the point?
He felt it—how the air between them had thinned, changed, soured.
He felt the distance widening.
He felt their marriage tilting, one breath away from breaking.
And Elijah, blunt as he was, didn’t sugarcoat it in his own head—
It wasn’t going to last.
Not like this.
He didn’t know whether death or divorce would burn the last bridge first, but he felt one or the other coming. Slowly. Inevitable. Like a storm already in motion.
Deep down, he had known all along that happiness wasn’t something he got to keep.
Not for long.
Not in this lifetime.
It hurt worst of all that something he knew he didn’t deserve—something too good to ever last—had found its way into his arms anyway.
He held it.
Loved it.
Let it grow roots in him.
And now it was slipping.
He closed his eyes.
Why couldn’t he be happy for just a little while longer?
author’s note; really angst, heartbreaking story line, mention of mary, mention of cheating, lots of tears
Pairing: modernhuman stack! x reader!
all the air was sucked out of my lungs when i read those messages.
my bones turned into jelly, my breath was caught in my throat, tears brim my eyes and with him right behind me, i had to keep my cool.
I quietly walked to the bathroom and sit on the toilet, just rethinking what i saw.
I should’ve said something. I should’ve blew up right? My brain running with a million questions and none of them has his answers. One of them was;
How can i be so blind?
I wished it was over before it started. But before i knew it, I was out the bathroom. My feet as moving before my brain. I find him packing up quickly.
He found out.
The whole night was a blur. Honestly traumatizing.
“Who is she?” I asked
Why not me?
“I finally had peace” he said
Without me?
I was carried by the events of the world for 2 weeks, with no one to talk to and the imaginary events of what happened between them is replaying in my head, every responsibility became secondary.
It’s not your fault
i repeat it to myself…like if i say it enough times, i’ll believe it.
Yet this wouldn’t have happened if i didn’t fuck up,
yet he can move on like nothing happened and i just wish i could..
“we can fix this.” he says like a record player now after i brought it up.
like it’s something simple. like it didn’t change the way i see everything. like it didn’t change me.
i nodded sometimes. say i’m trying.
because i am.
but what i don’t say is that i don’t know how to unsee it.
i don’t know how to feel safe in something that already broke once.
“It didn’t mean anything, i swear. She was just a one time thing, i never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t feel at peace with myself. It was all me honestly” Stack quickly said. he sighed.
not annoyed…just tired.
“H-How- Why do it then?” I uttered. I wish someone had a manual for this shit. “Feel at peace? Really? Like like like i thought everything was fine.” It wasn’t. “I was just just talking about great we were us the other day and now this has been going on” i feel like such a idiot
Ding.
His phone goes off and my eyes dart over, stopping my body to dart over to answer it. That damn phone. I hate it. I’ve been staring at it for two weeks straight. It was low of me to look through it in the first place, something else took over. I take a deep breath and put my focus back on him.
“i don’t know… things weren’t good between us.” He said,
“so you cheated? You lied? You didn’t tell me anything?” I said with a monotone voice. 
“YOU SEEMED TO HAPPY” he yelled. My body joints at the volume of his voice. He talks a deep breath, “it felt like the only way this relationship was gonna work was that you were happy, meanwhile i am still here, stuck in the past pain of how you treat me. Honestly, have you not noticed? I have been telling you for weeks and no change so what was i left to do”
“So why couldn’t you just leave forever? Huh? Why couldn’t you just broken up with me? So you can finally have your peace… so you can finally be with her.. so you can be UNSTUCK. Honestly, were you ever going to tell me?!” I uttered the last words, in fear of the real truth
He silently shakes his head. “i didn’t plan for you to find out”
A kick in the teeth hurt less than this.
I laughed harshly, “well your secret is safe with me,” i was moving again, fast too.
I have got to get out of here
I swiftly moved pasted him and i feel a strong grasp on my wrist, like a reflex i quickly swiped my hand out his hold.
“Baby-” he whines. Maybe he wish this fight was over too. 
“Absolutely NOT!” I cry. I am a mess now. Face feels hot, I stumble through our once shared bedroom like I was drunk and i quickly go into the closet to grab a suitcase, dropping my hanged up clothes into it. My knees finally give out, and I dropped to the floor in front of my suitcase. My head in my hands and heart broken in 2. 
There was nothing but my cries filling the room with him on the bed in the same position stressing out how he can turn back time. I really wanted him to hold me right now.
I wipe my tears away and turn to him. His low eyes looked soulless, once brown were now black. “Was i not enough?” I said quietly.
That instantly caught his attention and he quickly gets down on the floor to my level, carefully scooting over to me. “n-no, it’s not like that, i was just not happy.” He takes a breath, to gather himself. “ i was unhappy in ways i didn’t communicate and i avoided conversations that I should’ve had with you but instead I chose to go outside of our relationship and go to something easier. I never meant to hurt you. I was only trying to cope with myself in the pain that I was dealing with. It’s not on you” he pleads
Easier
“You say that as if it’s supposed to make me feel better, like it’s something to help us. “ I stopped myself. This isn’t going nowhere. “Elias, we just gotta cut this off.”
“I understand, I don’t expect you to stay, I don’t expect you to get over this quickly, just please don’t question if you were enough, please.” He steps back, giving my space to finally leave the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind me.
The one where Stack is so consumed with what he’s lost, he runs the risk of damaging what he has left.
A/n: I don’t want to ramble toooo much so I’ll make it quick. 1. Thank y’all 4 the condolences and prayers. I appreciate em more than words can express. 2. I miss y’all and creating very much. The writing shit comes and goes these days but when the spark is there, I’ll do what I can. Promise, pinky. With thattt being said, we got a little drabble today (6.k words). This is a world I’ve been building in my head for months, but I doubt I’ll ever sit down and really flesh it out sooo here’s a little taste of it instead. Fair warning, it’s not my usual ‘lane’ of writing sooo I don’t know how well it’s executed, but fuck it we ball. Enjoy 🫶🏾 or don’t 😬
C/w — Language, death, sexual themes, violence (against some old folks, lmao bare w/ me), angst, Stack is not the…best person in this?, lightly edited 4 now
Pressure – the burden of physical or mental distress; the constraint of circumstance; known by some to make diamonds; known by most to burst pipes.
It’d taken a week to find the house.
But he’d found it.
3bed, 1bath, tucked away far from the city. Tucked away somewhere, that wasn’t ever supposed to be found. At least not by a nigga like him — one with a score to settle.
One with a score, that would never be settled.
The outside of the house was picture perfect. Fern green sliding to match the door, white double hung windows, 5 steps that led up to a farmers porch. The lawn was a gardeners wet dream — manicured grass, flowers in full bloom, a fuckin’ apple tree standing front and center. There was no paint peeling on the house, no yellow patches in the yard, no cracks in the driveway or soft spots in the wood. This was more of a home than a house. One that was lived in. Loved. Taken care of.
One that, when he was done, would never be the same.
The inside was small, not cramped, just cozy. Comfortable. A mix of old and new.
One room was the master. The other had been turned into a guest room. Big oak dressers sat in both. Queen size beds. Floral print comforter sets. Flat screens mounted high on the yellow painted walls.
The master had more life — an unfinished book and a warm soda on one of the nightstands, a half eaten bag of caramels, loose change, and a little plaque that said ‘World’s Best Papa’ on the other. George and Louise were arguing on the tv, while the sound track of laughter rang out behind them. It looked like a good episode — one that nobody was watching.
The third room had been turned into an office. Instead of a tv, certificates hung on the wall. Certificates and a picture of ‘The Last Supper’. A long pinewood desk dominated most of the space. It was neat — organized stacks of paper on the right, desktop computer in the center, and a valve of holy water and bible off to the left.
The occupants of this house were right with God. Believed in him at least. Had faith. Today they’d find out if he was as real as they seemed to think he was.
The kitchen was towards the front. Clean ceramic tile made up the floor — an offwhite pearl color to match the backsplash behind the countertops. The appliances, from the fridge to the microwave, were sleek and shiny. Looked new. Expensive. The pot on the stove couldn’t say the same. Neither could the skillet sitting next to it. They both were worn down, with love and time, and the little table pushed against the wall had met the same fate. Its wooden surface was clean but it wasn’t as polished as it used to be. Wasn’t as smooth. And as of right now, it was also missing chairs. The table was meant to sit four, but only two seats remained pushed up. And both were unoccupied.
It was warm in here. Oven preheated to 350, both burners on the stove turned on. There was something sweet smelling simmering in that worn down pot, butter melting in that heavy ass cast iron skillet. Dough was rolled out on one counter, while half peeled potatoes rested on the other. Someone had been cooking. And then they’d gotten interrupted.
The kitchen was separated from the rest of the house by a half wall — one you had to step around before you could enter the living room. It was the typical space. Large sectional, leather arm chair, record player in the corner. A brick fire place sat under a mantle — one that was lined from end to end with framed photos. The pictures spanned through time — showing grand babies, cousins, graduations, weddings. They were family history. Told a story.
One Stack had already read.
He’d walked this whole house actually. From front to back. Had wanted to see exactly what he was about to take from the world.
“You don’t have to do this son.”
“Please don’t do this. My grandson has m–money. We have money! Whatever you want!”
Smoke wouldn’t have agreed with this.
Wouldn’t have allowed it.
They’d been running the streets since before their voices started cracking and his brother had always lived by a code. Had always operated off principle. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. But no children. No women. No family that didn’t need to be involved.
Smoke didn’t like theatrics. Didn’t like mess. He liked clean. Quick. Quiet. In and out. Settle the score, then get ghost.
Smoke wasn’t here though. And Stack? Stack ain’t play by rules. Certain shit was off limits, yeah.
Right up until it wasn’t.
“Son, you don’t have to do this.”
In the living room, along with the sectional and the arm chair and the record player and the fuckin’ family photos, were two kitchen chairs. Back to back, connected by rope.
Seated in the chairs were Everett and Jaynie Siger. One crying, one refusing to, both about to take their last breath regardless if their cheeks were wet or not.
“My daddy died a long time ago,” Stack focused on Everett. The one that kept calling him son. The one with the salt and pepper beard and tired eyes. Nigga was tired? It was his lucky day then. Stack would have him resting soon.
“May God rest his soul—”
Nothing had been funny since his brother was killed. That got a smirk out of him though.
“Nah. His soul not resting where he at.”
Stack was seated on the couch in front of them. Legs spread, elbows on knees, shoulders loose. Grip on his gun tight. He was wrapped in black from head to toe. Wrapped in anger that’d been thrumming beneath the surface for months now. Anger that was starting to leak out — that had him ready to put holes in any and everybody, until he got his hands on the nigga he was looking for.
The smirk on his face dropped. Body leaned in closer when he spoke next. “Hopefully you and the misses don’t end up where he at. Hopefully y’all been living right,” Stack let that sit for a beat. Then asked like he already knew the answer, “Y’all been living right pastor?”
“Oh my god,” that was Jaynie. Crying hard. Breathing harder. “Please, my grandson has—”
“Yo grandson gone be reunited wit’ you, soon as that fuck nigga stop hiding.”
You know this ain’t right brotha’.
They were the SmokeStack twins for a reason. Ying and yang. One egg, split into two. The literal definition of balance.
One without the other….one without the other was chaos.
Stack without Smoke was chaos. Hurt and rage personified. Unbridled. Unrestrained. Out of control.
This ain’t you brotha’.
Smoke had been in the ground for months.
Stack hadn’t felt like himself since they lowered the casket.
So, maybe it wasn’t him. But it was, what it was.
Niggas was gon’ pay. By any means necessary.
His jaw locked. Heart rate ticked up. Legs brought him from sitting to standing.
“Please no. Please God no,” Jaynie cried harder. Snot and tears mixed. Frail ass shoulders shook.
Old him? May have felt sick about it. But when that image flashed in his head of Smoke on the ground, bleeding out, eyes empty? He felt nothing. No sympathy. No remorse.
Wouldn’t be giving no grace either.
“This Zion’s doing? Because of something he did?” Everett’s shoulders stayed squared, voice firm, hazel eyes locked on Stack. He refused to waver. Refused to bend. But he was still trying to reason. Not for his sake. For Jaynie. “We don’t know where he is son—” he stopped himself. Corrected his words when Stack’s jaw ticked. “We don’t know where he is. We don’t know what he done did. We don’t fool with him and we don’t support the way he lives. We don’t got nothing to do with this.”
Stack could spot a liar. Cause he was one. And Pastor Everett was lying. He still talked to his grandson. Loved that bitch ass nigga very much. Was close to him. That was enough for his old ass to make Stack’s list.
All 32, golds included, shined as Stack’s lips stretched. As his dimples popped — deep and mean.
“You ain’t gotta lie to me.” He stepped closer, dropped his head to the side, still smiling all the while. Still hurting. Still hungry for blood. “Tell the truth and shame the Devil pastor.”
Everett said nothing.
Prolly’ knew he would meet the same fate either way.
Stack tsked.
“Or don’t. Bet I still get that nigga.” And suddenly, he wasn’t smiling no more. “And since he making it hard to find him, ima make him come to me.”
You gone do it, do it clean. One in the head for both of ‘em. No messy shit brotha’.
Smoke had barely blinked before 6 shots were buried in his body. His brother — his heart — was riddled with bullets by the time he took his last breath.
Wasn’t shit gone be clean about this.
“Ima make that nigga come get me,” Stack spoke through clenched teeth. Went from standing straight to leaning over. So close to Everett’s face, he could smell the caramel on that niggas breath. “Gon’ drop body after body ‘till that pussy show his face. I don’t give a fuck if I gotta wipe the whole blood line out.”
And he meant it. Would take mamas, cousins, aunties, uncles, fuckin’ family pets if he had to. Was gone paint this city red behind his brother, now that he was functioning again. Now that he knew who was responsible.
“Oh God!” Jaynie was crying so hard she would have slid out the chair if it wasn’t for the rope holding her up.
Everett was breathing hard. Eyes stony — with regret and resignation. He swallowed. And then his lips parted.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul—”
Stack shook his head. Then raised up straight again. Arm holding the gun? Followed the same path.
Everett got louder. Kept going.
“—he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake! Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil! For thou art with me! Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me —”
Stack squeezed the trigger.
And didn’t stop, tell that bitch clicked.
Highland Park has experienced a tremendous loss in the community. 67 year old Everett Siger and 68 year old Jaynie Siger were found murdered last night in their home, both by multiple gunshots to the face and body. This is…absolutely shocking to everyone who knew the couple. Everett and Jaynie were pillars in the community, loved by all, and every single person that I’ve spoken to say they cannot imagine who would do this. As of now, investigators report no witnesses or potential motive — if you have any information at all please contact the hot line below. Investigators stress that no detail is too small. What has happened is gruesome and the violence rippling through the community has to stop. Back to you, Stanley.
Everyone says the first body is the worst. Supposedly, it turns you inside out. Makes your pulse stutter. Steals your sleep for weeks.
They say it’s cause you can’t forget the eyes — the fear you see in them right before you send a nigga up to God, the dilation of the pupils, the helplessness that floods a gaze when a mufucka realizes their luck just ran out.
When bodies drop, the spirit moves on, for better or worse. But the eyes of the dead? They stick around. Follow you. Like a fucked up token, for every life you take.
It’s why so many like to shoot from a distance. Why niggas rather drive by and light up a block, than walk a nigga down one on one. It makes it less….personal. A lil easier to deal with.
Stack didn’t look for easy. Not when it involved taking life. Every breath he stole from a nigga was personal, so he made it a point to get up close. Always had. And every life he took for his brother would be handled the same way.
The lil white lady on the news shoulda’ saved her breath, cause as long as Smoke was in the dirt, there’d be no stop to the ‘violence rippling through the community’.
Not when Stack hadn’t even really got started.
Around him, people talked. Wandering who did it and why. Speculating on if 12 would actually put the work in to find who was responsible.
Stack wasn’t worried either way. The only mufucka who’d know the real, was the nigga he was sending the message to.
“That is so sad,” Emery stood behind the bar — big eyes, freckles everywhere, skin so light it made you side eye her when she said ‘nigga’. Her gaze was on the news, hands busy mindlessly wiping down a glass, while she yapped. “Makes me wonna call my granny right now, just to hear her voice. I could not imagine what I would do if something like that happened to her. I know their whole family is sick right now.”
Stack didn’t chuckle. Not really. Just sipped from his glass and let his mouth move without thinking, “Yeah, niggas love they grandma huh?”
Emery frowned, head jerking from the direction of the small flat screen towards Stack. “Are you laughing?” She blinked rapidly, just knowing she was imagining the curve to his lips. “I know we call you Nutty, but that’s not funny. That’s someone’s family.”
He was Stack to most. Nutty to some. Elias to one — when she wasn’t mad at him.
Tighten the fuck up brotha’. What’s funny about a dead granny? Stop bringing attention to the shit.
Stack wiped the smirk off his face. Then cleaned that shit up.
“Nah Em, I ain’t laughin’ at that,” he waved her off. “I was just thinking ‘bout some other shit. What happened is fucked up. Rest in peace to ‘em.”
Emery acted how she looked — innocent, a lil naive, sheltered. A mufucka could convince her the sky was green if they tried hard enough, so she let Stack off the hook easy. Believed what he’d told her, without much thought.
That was his cue to go though. He’d been here long enough.
It was the next night, a Wednesday, going on 10, and he’d been at Heat for a couple hours. It was where he went when he wasn’t hugging the block or playing God. Where he went to sip and try to forget.
Just as he threw a handful of bills on the bar-top, his phone vibrated, and killed any thoughts about forgetting tonight.
“You found my package?” He had the phone to his ear and was shouldering the door open within seconds. He moved swift, easy. Had glided through the small crowd, like smoke glided through cracks.
“Nah,” Lou’s voice was low and gritty. Accent just as thick as Stack’s and hugging every word he dropped. “I’m still tracking it for you. When I know wussup wit’ it, you’ll know.”
There was a beat of silence.
“That ain’t even why I’m calling though,” Lou kept speaking, as Stack hit the lock on his blacked out Mustang. “Taz went to handle that business he take care of every month.”
Stack paused, body stilling in the drivers seat, head cocking in question even though nobody could see him. “And?”
“And she ain’t want it. Well shit —” Lou backtracked. “She ‘ont ever want it. But she refused to take it this time. Told him to get his skinny ass away from her door or she was gone call the bitches in blue,” Lou chuckled like something was funny.
Stack tongued his cheek. Flexed his jaw. Felt his stomach do that weird shit it always did when he was thinking ‘bout her. Then he spoke.
“I’ll handle it. Just keep yo’ focus on tracking what I need.”
“Will do.”
The line clicked and Stack was left in silence.
It’d been a while since he’d seen her. Since he’d let her see him. It hadn't been long enough and at the same time — it’d been too fucking long.
He’d stepped back for one reason. Had stayed away for another. Ain’t allow himself to think about it much. Ain’t have the capacity to think about it much.
The way he felt about her never changed though. Even when he ain’t show it. Even when she couldn’t feel it.
Stack sat there, mind jumping from one problem to the next. Zion still hiding. Annie making shit harder than what it had to be. Smoke in the ground — gone forever.
He got stuck in his thoughts. Had the car turned on, just idling by the curb like he didn’t know better.
You a sittin’ duck right now Stack. Move brotha’.
Stack moved. Pushed everything but her out his head as he shifted gears and hit the gas. He pulled off reckless, bullying his way into the flow of traffic.
He had to deal with this tonight, because he couldn’t afford distractions right now. And Annie was his biggest one.
He’d barely knocked before the door swung open.
Before Annie was standing in front of him — dark skin, narrowed eyes, set jaw. She had her curls pulled away from her face, natural hair twisted back into her signature style. Had on all black — lounge pants, tank top, long fluffy cardigan — that matched the dark jeans and hoodie he donned. In different circumstances, Stack would have been ready to sink into her. Pull her close, even while she was acting like it got on her nerves, and use her soft ass as his own full body pillow.
Doing some shit like that didn’t even cross his mind tonight. Sleep, comfort, relaxing — all that was for people who ain’t have a dead brother and a pile of bodies about to accumulate in his honor. Apparently Annie agreed, because when she finally spoke, it wasn’t to greet him with pleasantries.
“I’m gone tell you like I told yo’ lil errand boy earlier. Get away from my door Stack, before I call the cops.”
She looked just as mean as she wanted to. Had her arms folded over her heavy chest, her full lips pinched up hard, her shoulders held so tight she was straining her neck.
She was fuckin…perfect. Even when she spit his name like poison.
“You know you ain’t calling no cops Annie.” Stack had his hood pulled low, protecting him from the light drizzle that’d started on his way over. Had his eyes focused intently on her face. Like he was drinking her in. Or — like he was scared if he let his gaze wander, he’d never wonna leave. “What chu’ threatening Taz for?”
Taz was a young nigga. Had no daddy, a mama that worked three jobs, and too much heart for his own good. Stack looked out for him. Trusted him. Had him dropping money off for Annie every month. Had him taking turns with some other niggas to look out for her.
Annie’s lips tugged when she heard Stack’s words — not into smile though. Not into anything close to it.
What you threatening Taz for.
That’s what he was standing in front of her talking about.
“You and Taz, can stay y’all asses away from my apartment.”
Stack shook his head, ignored the shot she’d thrown at him. “Taz ain’t did nothing to you Annie —”
“Ain’t did nothing but be connected to you,” Annie said it like he was the worst mufucka in the world. “He moving off yo orders. That’s doing enough. I don’t want yo’ money Stack. Don’t want you sticking people outside my complex to watch me. I don’t want shit from you. And I done told every nigga you send over here that.”
She had. And Stack had ignored it. Would keep ignoring it.
His eyes squinted, “I done always had people sitting on you. You know that and you know why. This ain’t nothing new. What you makin’ waves fo’?”
Audacity is what he had. To show up at her door like he hadn’t been missing in action for months. To still expect her to go along with whatever he wanted, like their last conversation hadn’t ended the way it did.
Annie was mad. Was hurt. And she was also dissecting. Couldn’t help it. No matter how much she wanted to act like she ain’t care, her eyes started roaming anyways. Not hungrily. Carefully. Concerned.
She was checking for new scars, both seen and unseen. Watching his shoulders and gaging if the weight he’d been carrying had eased any. Studying his hands, like she could see all the damage they’d been causing. All the blood they were about to leave behind. She was taking note of every minute change in his appearance — taking note of the circles under his eyes, the hard lines of his face, the grown out facial hair around his lips.
He wasn’t taking care of himself and that fact — one she’d already known — did something to her chest. Made it ache. Made it burn.
For some reason, her gaze kept dropping to his hands. And she didn’t snap out of it, until he slid them in the front pocket of his hoodie, hiding them from view.
When she looked back up, Stack saw it. Pity. Or at least what he interpreted as pity.
His jaw locked. And he was ready to get out of her space. Something he’d never wanted to do in the past.
“I ain’t bout to argue wit’ you. When I send somebody by here wit’ money, take it. If my niggas outside watching you, let ‘em. That salt you keep in front of yo’ door ain’t gone protect you from no real threat.”
It was a talent of Stack’s — the emotions he could pull out of her. How quick he could do it.
“You heard me?” He stepped in when she ain’t answer right away. Impatient. Like he wanted to hear her voice — hear that soft Louisiana accent he’d been missing. Or — like he wanted to get this over with so he could be on his way. So he could get from around her before he fell into her and broke. “Let that nigga do what I send him too. Stop actin’ like this ain’t routine.”
“It ain’t routine,” Annie matched him step for step. Getting closer. “Having a bunch of niggas taking turns doing yo job. Or what used to be yo’ job. I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t need yo money. You not my man. We not together, remember?”
The last time they talked, it’d gotten loud. Annie screaming about wanting to be there for him. Wanting to be let in. Stack screaming back that what he needed was vengeance, not a punk ass pat on the back. Not talk about prayers and ancestors and healing.
Stack had spent weeks after Smoke died moving around like a zombie. Like he ain’t even know how to function without his big brother. And then he’d gotten a phone call and snapped out of it. Had went from a zombie to a ghost. Out all hours. So deep in the streets he wasn’t bothering to come up for air. Plotting. Planning. Hurting. And never letting Annie in all the while.
She’d double down that day they were arguing. Had told him she couldn’t watch him destroy himself. Couldn’t keep trying to be there for someone, who didn’t want it. Couldn’t keep letting him act like she’d died with Smoke. Stack had responded like Stack. Like an asshole. Telling her to get the fuck out if that’s how she felt. Telling her that if she couldn’t ride this shit out with him until he got the niggas who did his brother, she ain’t need to be around — and then nothing. For weeks, until now.
He still sent money. Still had niggas keeping an eye on her wherever she went. Still had her tabs paid up at the restaurants she frequented. But that was all.
There’d been no conversation. No apology. No acknowledgment.
And now he was in her face, talkin’ bout routines. Talkin’ bout what she needed to let happen. And looking worse than he had, the last time she saw him.
Annie wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him.
Annie wanted to slap the fuck out of him.
—
You not my man. We not together, remember?
He didn’t actually. He’d told her to get from round him that day. Cause that’s obviously what she’d wanted to do. But he’d never said she wasn’t still his.
And Stack ain’t really understand why him trying to drop off some money, was turning into this.
“You really doing this right now?” He had a list of shit he could be taking care of. Had a whole empire to run by himself now — had traps he needed to check on, money to count and distribute, leads to follow because he knew some shit wasn’t right with the way Smoke went out. Knew Zion’s slow ass hadn’t pulled that hit off by himself.
And instead of handling business, he was here. Going back and forth over some trivial shit.
“This really how you actin’?” He stepped closer, looked down at her while his brows furrowed. “When you know what I got going on? My brother just bled out in my arms, Annie and you wonna bring up old shit?”
That wasn’t fair. But Stack didn’t fight fair. He never had.
And even as guilt pooled in her stomach, Annie ain’t back down. She never did.
It was why they worked. Or — why they didn’t.
“You don’t get to do that Stack,” her words were as sharp as his. Feet brought her a step closer to him, leaving them chest to chest. She kept stepping in cause she was mad. Kept stepping in cause she missed him. “You don’t get to make me out to be the bad guy, when you ended shit with me—”
“How I end some shit and I’m right here??” His voice was climbing.
She matched him. “You here to toss yo’ weight around. To tell me what you expect me to do. You not here cause you want to be. You not here to talk—”
“What the fuck is there to talk about Annie?!”
“You! Us! Smoke!”
0 to 10. That’s how it went with Stack. Cause he didn’t do nothin’ half way. Whether that was lovin’, or fightin’, or making niggas pay.
Restraint was not his game.
And Annie had a bad habit of feeding off that.
“I know yo brother died! I know you —”
Stack cut her off then, words dead calm. Final.
“We not talking ‘bout my brother Annie.”
Annie kept going.
“—hurting! I know it feel like yo whole world done stopped, Elias. I know you—”
Stack talked over her.
“We not talking ‘bout my brother Annie.”
And Annie kept going.
“—feel alone. I know you miss him so fuckin’ much, baby. But you’re not alone Elias. I’m here and I just want to —”
“We not talking about my fuckin’ brother Annie!”
His voice boomed like thunder. Hard, strained, loud enough to wake the dead.
Loud enough to stop Annie in her tracks.
Loud enough to make both of them still.
The only thing moving on Stack was his chest, rising up and down fast. He was breathing hard, had his eyes boring into hers, pupils blown wide with panic and hurt and something else that screamed he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t talking about his brother. Not with her. Not with anyone.
You ain’t right brotha’.
He wasn’t talking ‘bout it.
And Annie…she could accept him not wanting to talk. But she couldn’t accept everything else. Couldn’t accept the shell he was becoming. The distance he’d created between them. The way their relationship was dying, right along with Smoke.
She didn’t bother hiding the hurt in her voice the next time she spoke.
“Then we ain’t got nothing to talk about at all ‘Lias,” she said it soft. But firm. “I can’t keep doing this —”
“I’m not asking you to do nothing Annie,” Just as fast as the fire between them started blazing, it died out. Stack had his own flame sitting in his chest though. Stepped even closer to her, voice low. Urgent. “I just need you to be here while I work through ‘dis shit. Need you to stay down.”
“The pro’lem is you don’t want me here Elias.” It hurt to meet his stare. She kept looking anyways. “You don’t want me here — not forreal, not in the way that matters — and I ‘ont know what to do with that no more.”
When Smoke died, it felt like the world stopped. But that’s only what it felt like. Truth was, time didn’t stop for nobody, dead or alive. Stack was forced to keep going. Forced to handle the business he and his brother started, and he’d never admit it, but he’d been drowning under the weight — the pressure, the anger, the loneliness he felt in a world without his twin. And now this girl was in his face, tryna take the last good thing he had on earth away from him?
Nah.
Fuck that.
“So what,” the rain started picking up as he spoke, Annie’s garden style apartment leaving them open and exposed. “You leavin’ me now?”
There was a beat of silence.
Stack’s eyes grew dark. Dangerous. Possessive.
And Annie….Annie just sounded tired the next time she spoke. Like all the sleepless nights without him were finally catching up to her.
“You already half way out the door Stack. I’m just closin’ it.”
He said nothing. Until —
“Nah,” he spoke the words out loud this time. Stepped forward when there was no room for him to. Stepped forward and forced Annie back into her apartment. “Fuck that.”
Two words. Dropped with so much weight, they couldn’t be argued with.
Stack wasn’t losing her. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever.
Everyone always talks about the first body.
No one ever mentions the first loss though.
The first real one.
Stack had been knee deep in the streets since he was 13 years old. Had been breaking into cars and robbing houses, while other niggas his age was at school, participating in science fairs.
Had been on the block, exchanging drugs for money, while his peers went house to house selling chocolate bars.
Had felt the pain of burying a patna that got caught on the wrong block at the wrong time, while other niggas were bitchin’ ‘bout they first heart break.
Point was, you didn’t stay in the game as long as he had, didn’t get yo hands dirty and climb yo way to the top, without experiencing loss.
He was never supposed to lose his brother though.
Was never supposed to have the sound of Smoke choking on blood memorized.
Was never supposed to know what it felt like to have do this shit without Smoke.
That’s what kept Stack up at night. Not the lives he took, but the life that was taken from him.
That’s why he was up now, staring at the ceiling while Annie laid sprawled out on his chest. She was out cold — had her hair all in his face, her leg tucked between his, soft titties pressed against him firmly.
She was on him like she knew he didn’t plan to stay.
And she was right.
Last night, Stack had long stroked her until her eyes were watering and she was takin’ back all that shit she’d said ‘bout quitting on him.
—
5 hours ago
Annie’s mouth fell open as slick, sloppy, wet sounds filled the room every time he pulled out and dropped dick back into her. Every time he hit that spot she kept on reserve just for him.
“I said, where the fuck you going?”
His hips snapped forward rough.
“Nowhere!”
Stack felt like he was catching his breath and losing it at the same time. Felt like she was cracking him open and making him whole.
Annie didn’t feel like anything. She really couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t keep her eyes open, couldn’t stop the sounds climbing out of her throat, and it made her mad — how good he felt inside her. How good they felt together.
This wasn’t going to fix them. Wasn’t gon’ make him talk to her. Wasn't gon’ convince him to let her be there. Wasn’t gon’ pull them back from the edge they were teetering on. Wasn’t gon’ solve anything.
And yet —
“I’m not going nowhere Stack — fuck!”
It felt like it was solving everything.
“Nah, what’s my name?”
His hand went to her throat. Not to hurt her, but to feel her. Feel that pulse kicking up against his fingers. Reminding him that she was alive. Whole. His.
He squeezed gently. Grinded into her nasty.
“What’s my fucking name Annie?!”
“Lias please,” Annie was scratching at his back. Her breath mixing with his. Eyes on their way shut again.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
That was skin on skin. Wet pussy wrapped around hard dick. Souls remembering who they belonged too — even when worldly shit tried to get in the way. Tried to intercept destiny.
“You leaving me?” His teeth were clenched. Sweat dripping off his temples. Dimples caved in deep.
She should.
“No Lias.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“Yo’ pulse going crazy Annie.” His hand flexed. “That’s what a nigga do to you?”
“Yes Lias.”
“Open them pretty ass eyes.”
She listened. Felt her heart rate kick up more.
Stack’s stare was frozen on her. Lids low, deep brown orbs hot and unblinking.
“I love the fuck out chu’,” his hips never stopped moving. Dick never quit hitting her spot. “Let me focus. Let me get these niggas Annie. Let me figure out how to run this shit witout Smoke. Then I swear you got me baby. I swear I got you.”
Annie didn’t believe that. Didn’t believe she’d ever really have him again. Not all of him. Not with his brother gone. But she clenched around him anyways. Pulled him closer and nodded her head, because Elias always managed to make lies sound so sweet.
—
Present
Stack wasn’t sure he had a heart no more. Felt like that mufucka got left in the dirt with Smoke. But whatever he did have left was Annie’s.
So when he told her he loved her last night, he wasn’t lying. He did love her. Loved her the best way he could.
Don’t fuck up a good thing brotha’.
But he couldn’t stay. Couldn’t pour into her the way she wanted. Not right now. Not with all the shit he had on his plate. Not with certain niggas still walking around breathing. Not when he needed to figure out what the fuck happened that night.
And she had to understand that.
He’d managed to slide out from under her, had pulled his shirt back over his head, grabbed his hoodie, and was ready to hit the block when the sun hadn’t even risen yet.
That was the type of timing he was on these days.
Annie shifted in bed, sighed in her sleep, and Stack threw a long look at her over his shoulder. She was sprawled out, hugging his pillow now, lips frowned up like she could sense he wasn’t next to her no more.
“Luh’ you,” his voice was low, wasted, cause she wasn’t even awake to hear it. He took her in for a second longer and then moved. Out of her bedroom and into the kitchen. He grabbed a water out the fridge, left a thick stack of hundreds on the table, and was locking up behind him before she had the chance to open her eyes.
They’d be ight.
Wouldn’t nothing else be though, if he ain’t get back to business.
You need to check on the trap over east brotha’. Money ain’t been right wit’ it.
Stack closed his eyes. Let his throat tighten. Just for a second.
And then he started his car. And headed east.
A/n — Ummm RIP Everett and Jaynie? 😬 If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed. I would actually really love to hear yall thoughts on this lol I was very nervous to post it, so if you feel so inclinedddddd let me know sumn 👀🫶🏾
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dean sneaking in through your window because he cant sleep!
tw. fluff. slight angst. slight sub dean? teasing.
the tap against your bedroom was so gentle you convinced yourself you’d imagined it.
but then it came again- a soft tap tap tap, more insistent this time like whatever is waiting on the other end is getting impatient.
groggily you peeled yourself from the cozy duvet, rubbing your eyes as you crossed the room to the windows ledge. pulling back the curtain you nearly jump-
“you’ve gotta be kidding me…”
dean winchester grins up at you from outside- all pearly and proud with a pile of stones in his hand. he waves smugly as you unlatch the window, pushing it open enough to feel the cold breeze.
“dean,” you whisper trying and failing not to smile. ..”what are you doing outside my window?”
“i..” he rubbed the back of his neck. “didn’t wanna wake your dad up..”
“you woke me.”
“yeah.. sorry bout’ that.” he huffed leaning back on his heels.
despite it being nearly midnight and the weight of getting into trouble hanging heavy on your shoulders- you laugh curling your finger at dean to climb up.
a few grunts and “fuck..” under deans breathe is all you hear before his boot curls over the window, then his hands as he pulls himself over before landing on your floor with a soft thump. his dirty boots leave a print on your carpet making you scowl.
his brown hair was a mess like he’d been running frustrated hands through it for hours, wearing an old led zeppelin shirt and gray sweatpants instead of his usual jeans. you shut the window behind him.
“you know you could text..” you murmur.
dean pats his pockets. “i lost my burner phone- sorry.”
with your arms crossed you watch as dean walks around the room- fingers trailing on the desk before reaching for the picture of you and sam sitting in the back of the impala. he laughs under his breathe before placing it back down gently.
something wasn’t right, noticing his tense shoulders and how nervous he seemed to be. the complete opposite of the annoyingly cocky dean you know.
“i came to ask you something.” he says suddenly turning back to you. you shift on your feet hoping dean cant sense how fast your heart is racing.
“okay..”
his embarrassed smile made your chest ache- something you’d never seen before. “i was wondering if i could y’know.. sleep in here, with you. i sleep better when theres somebody there-“
you didn’t answer immediately, a little shocked and flushed at what he just asked.. how it would work. the dark circles under his eyes are what finally convince you.
“sure, d.” you mumble.
relief washed across his face so quickly it nearly broke you. your heartbeat finally slowed as his shoulders relaxed.
“i don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
“you wont.. just take your boots off. i dont want dirt in my bed.” you teased while dean chuckled, kicking off the boots and leaving them at the window.
silence filled the room after- you could tell dean was nervous about sleeping with you even though he seemed to brag about having a lot of experience.
you grabbed his hand gently, calloused skin pressing against your soft as you climbed into bed- dragging dean along with you.
he hesitated looking between you and the cot before crawling in next to you gently- like even the mattress will push him away with rejection. for a man who usually carried himself with so much confidence, he somehow looked uncertain about where to put his arms.
you reached out first slipping an arm around his waist. he seemed to tense up- like a beaten dog feeling soft pets for the first time, then almost instinctively melted into you.
he buried his face carefully against your shoulder like every muscle in his body had finally been given permission to let go.
“you okay?” you whispered.
a tiny nod- before his arms wrapped carefully around your torso, thumb brushing against your flushed skin.
his breathing slowly began to even out.
“you know..” you murmured into his hair “next time you don’t have to climb through the window.”
his sleepy voice came muffled against your shoulder.
“…yeah?”
“you can knock.”
he hugged you just a little tighter. “…can i come back?”
you brushed your fingers through his messy hair, the scent of his shampoo mixing with your pillow.
“you never have to ask, d.”
dean didn’t answer- his breathing slow and steady, the tension finally gone from his body. within minutes the hunter who looked like he’d been up for days was fast asleep, held close in your arms where you know he’ll finally be safe.
$ log - after a bitter breakup, dean winchester finds himself in a mess between a wrong-spell-infused you and the sultry consequences building up quickly after. he ended it on his own terms; his body is still devoted to you!
$ warn --nsfw --dubcon --fem!reader --dom!reader --witch!reader --sub!dean --devoted!dean --sex-pollen --teasing --dry-humping --finger-sucking --fingering --clit-play --praise --worship --begging --p-in-v --missionary --overstim-ish --creampie --hair-pulling --nails-scratching --mocking --dirty-talk
$ wc -w 4.5k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo “can you tell I’m ovulating” > authors-note.txt
$ vi request
Thick, heavy with the scent of dried sage and the bitter tang of resentment, you slammed the pestle into the mortar, the rhythmic thud thud thud echoing the pounding in your chest. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Dean’s smug, grouchy face, and it made your blood boil.
"Fuck you, Dean," you hissed, grinding the herbs with enough force to snap the wood. "Just... fucking die or something. Or just stay the hell away from me."
The anger was a physical thing, a hot, liquid weight in your gut. You were feeling more vengeful than sad. You threw the last of the crushed roots into the cauldron, muttering a string of curses aimed directly at his bratty, stubborn ass.
The cauldron hissed, a swirl of violet smoke rising from the brew as you finished the final incantation.
A small, triumphant smirk tugged at your lips. You felt a sense of profound satisfaction, believing you had finally cast the perfect hex to sever the tie and leave him rotting in his own misery.
You leaned back, wiping a smudge of soot from your cheek, feeling a sudden, strange lightness in your chest.
But as the smoke cleared, the satisfaction didn't last. A sudden, sharp jolt of heat shot through your core, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It wasn't the heat of anger anymore; it was something far more primal, a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your hips and made your breath hitch.
The spell hadn't cursed him. Instead, it had turned the vengeance inwards. Suddenly, all you could think about was the exact way Dean felt when he pressed his body against yours.
The cabin was quiet, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional clink of Dean’s beer bottle against the coffee table. He was slumped in his chair, eyes glazed over as he stared at the screen, trying to drown out the guilt. The breakup had been a mess — all sharp words and slammed doors.
He knew he’d fucked up, leaving things so jagged between you two, but the constant arguing had been wearing him thin.
He caught a movement in his peripheral vision and shifted, expecting to see nothing but shadows. Instead, there you were, leaning against the doorframe. A sly, almost predatory smirk played on your lips, and for a second, his heart skipped. He expected a lecture or a glare, not... this.
His eyes involuntarily drifted downward. His breath hitched in his throat. You were wearing his old leather jacket, but underneath? Nothing. Just your underwear, your skin glowing in the dim light of the cabin.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean’s voice came out a low, gravelly rasp, thicker than usual. He gripped his beer bottle a little tighter, his knuckles turning white.
He wanted to look away, to give you the space he thought you needed after the way he'd handled things, but his eyes were traitorous. They kept sliding back to the swell of your chest beneath the open leather, the way the dim light caught the curve of your waist. "You look like you're looking for a fight... or a date. Which one is it?"
You didn't answer with words at first. Instead, you moved, your hips swaying with a heavy, deliberate grace as you crossed the room. The heat in your blood was a pulsing, demanding thing, making every inch of your skin feel hyper sensitive to the cool air.
You stepped into the space between his spread knees, the scent of his leather, gunpowder, and cheap beer hit him like a physical wave. You leaned forward, the heat from your body practically radiating against his chest, and looked down at him through heavy, hooded lids.
"Maybe a little of both, Dean," you purred, your voice dropping into a sultry, honeyed register that made his throat go dry. The spell was screaming in your veins now, a frantic, rhythmic throb that demanded he touch you, pull you closer, and strip that jacket off your shoulders.
You didn't care about the argument anymore; you didn't even care about the breakup. All you cared about was the way his eyes were darkening, tracking the movement of your lips.
Dean took a long, desperate swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. He was caught in a tug of war between the man who wanted to apologise for being a bastard and the man who wanted to wrap his hands around your waist and pull you onto his lap.
"You're playing games, sweetheart. You can't just walk in here looking like... like that and expect me to act like we didn't just tear each other apart three days ago." He set the beer bottle down on the table with a heavy thud, his gaze finally snapping from your chest up to your eyes. He looked wrecked, caught between the urge to be a gentleman and the primal instinct to devour you.
"Maybe I want to play games," you whispered, leaning in closer until the heat of his breath fanned over your lips.
The spell was a fever now, a relentless, pulsing ache in your pussy that made you want to grind your hips against his denim clad thighs just to feel the friction.
You reached out, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw, your touch light but intentional. "Or maybe I just wanted to see if you were still as grouchy as you were when you walked out."
Dean let out a low, frustrated groan that sounded more like a growl, vibrating deep in his chest. He reached out, his large hands hovering just inches from your waist — hesitating as if he were afraid you were a hallucination born of too much beer and too much regret.
"You're dangerous," he muttered, his eyes finally dropping full to the skin visible around your underwear . "Coming in here, acting like you didn't just spend the last week making my life a living hell. You think you can just... walk in here half naked and make me forget everything?"
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound thick with the magical heat coiling within. You leaned in even closer, the tips of your breasts nearly brushing the front of his flannel shirt, making the friction of the air feel like a caress.
The spell was demanding more; it was a starving, pulsing thing that wanted to bridge the gap between you. You didn't just want him to look; you wanted him to ruin you.
Driven by a sudden, frantic impulse, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of your underwear, a silent, desperate invitation that made Dean’s breath hitch so hard it sounded like a gasp.
"Forget everything?" you breathed, your voice trembling with the sheer weight of the lust coiling in your belly. You leaned down, pressing the heat of your sheer chest against his flannel, feeling the hard, frantic thud of his heart through the fabric. "Then stop talking, Dean. Stop thinking about the fights, and the bullshit, and the way we ended. Just — fucking look at me. Feel me. Ruin me."
Dean’s restraint snapped like a dry twig. The "gentleman" who wanted to apologise was swallowed whole by the man who had been starving for the taste of you.
You leaned in closer, the heat of the spell making your skin feel electric, your eyes locked onto his with a predatory intensity. "You're still mine, aren't you?" you whispered, your voice a low, teasing vibration that seemed to vibrate in his very bones. "Even after all those bratty, stubborn words you threw at me — you're still mine?"
Dean let out a ragged, frustrated breath, his head tilting back against the chair as he looked up at you. He wanted to argue, to bring up the fight, to defend his pride, but his body was already a lost cause.
"You're a goddamn menace," he muttered, his voice cracking. "You can't just say shit like that when we're supposed to be done."
But he didn't pull away; he just nodded, a helpless, hungry movement.
"I want to fuck you, Dean," you said, the words, blunt and heavy with a demand that left no room for debate.
His eyes widened, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the green of his irises.
"You... what?" he stammered, his brain struggling to catch up with the sheer audacity of the statement. "The hell happened to the woman who was ready to hex my soul into the dirt three days ago? You were ready to kill me, sweetheart. Now you're just —"
"Now I'm here," you interrupted, cutting him off by sinking into his lap. Your weight settled heavily against his thighs as you began to grind, a slow, rhythmic friction that made him let out a choked sound somewhere between a groan and a swear.
"Jesus," Dean breathed, his hands acting on instinct before his mind could even process the confusion. He slid his palms, his skin searing against yours
He fumbled for a second, his fingers grazing the soft swell of your waist before sliding lower, his large hands hooking into the flimsy, lace edge of your underwear.
He was completely lost, his mind spinning in circles trying to reconcile the person who had screamed at him in the driveway with the one currently devouring his mouth.
"Wait, wait — " he gasped against your lips, though he was doing absolutely nothing to stop you. He tried to pull back just an inch, his eyes searching yours with a frantic, bewildered intensity. "You were — you were swearing you didn't want to see my face for a month. You said I was a 'stubborn, grouchy bastard' and that you were over it."
You didn't give him the chance to finish his logic. You crashed your lips against his again, but this wasn't the soft, apologetic kiss of a reconciliation.
It was a desperate, hungry lashing of teeth and tongues that felt more like a conquest than a make up session. You bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw a sharp, startled hiss from his throat. He responded by pulling you even tighter against him, his hands bruising the soft skin of your hips as he tugged at the lace of your underwear.
"You're being aggressive," Dean managed to grunt out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess as he broke the kiss to catch his breath. His eyes were wide, searching yours for a hint of the anger that should have been there, but all he found was a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, his thumbs tracing the line of your hip bones with a frantic sort of reverence. "You were ready to hex me into the next century, and now you're — you're practically trying to climb inside my skin."
Despite his confusion, his hands were doing the talking. The moment his fingers brushed the heat of your skin, the last of his hesitation dissolved into pure, unadulterated need. He didn't care if this was a trap, or if you were playing some elaborate game to punish him for being a prick.
All he knew was that the way you were looking at him with that dark, unhinged hunger was making his head spin.
You didn't give him time to finish his thought. You were past the point of talking; the spell was a roaring fire in your veins, demanding a release that only he could provide. You leaned back just enough to look him in the eye, your expression fierce and unyielding.
You weren't just asserting the version of you he knew was a firecracker, but this? This was something primal, something almost predatory. He could see it in the way your eyes didn't blink, the way your skin seemed to hum with an invisible energy.
"Get to work, Dean," you commanded, the words a sultry growl.
You began to grind against him, a slow, agonisingly deliberate movement that targeted the hard length of him through his jeans. You knew exactly how to move, the exact rhythm that used to drive him to the brink of madness, but now you were doing it with a frantic, desperate edge.
Dean let out a strangled groan. "God, what is wrong with you today?" he managed to rasp, his head falling back against the chair. "You're acting like you've been starving for a month, not just a few days."
He was trying to make sense of it, trying to find the logic in how you could go from wanting to hex him to wanting to devour him, but his brain was losing the battle to his senses.
You reached down, your fingers curling around his wrist with a strength that surprised him, and guided his hand toward your mouth.
Before he could ask what the hell you were doing, you pulled his fingers past your lips. You sucked on them with a slow, deliberate intensity, your tongue swirling around the tips, wetting them just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pure heat straight to his groin.
"Baby, you're gonna be the death of me," he choked out, his eyes rolling back as he felt the slick, hot friction of your tongue. He was completely unmoored, his mind a frantic mess of why are you doing this? and don't you fucking stop.
As soon as his fingers were sufficiently wet, you didn't wait for permission. You guided his hand downward, sliding his fingers past the thin barrier of your underwear and sinking them deep into your heat.
You let out a sharp, needy moan as he filled you, and then you began to ride his hand instantly, your hips moving in a frantic, demanding rhythm that left him breathless.
"Jesus, you're... you're soaking," Dean gasped, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He watched you, mesmerised and utterly bewildered, as you used him like a goddamn toy.
The uninhibited confidence in your movements was intoxicating. He was a man who prided himself on being in control, on being the hunter, the one who set the pace, but here you were, completely unhinged and utterly dominant.
He felt like he was being swept up in a storm he couldn't predict, a whirlwind of heat and slick, wet friction that made his head swim.
"You're driving me crazy," he groaned, his fingers curling deep inside you, trying to find a rhythm that could match the frantic, desperate pace you were setting.
He watched your head tilt back, your eyes fluttering shut as you let out a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his very core. "Is this some kind of payback? Are you trying to make me lose my goddamn mind?"
He wanted to ask a thousand more questions why you were so hungry, why you were acting like the breakup had never even happened. But the unadulterated heat radiating from your skin made logic feel like a distant, unimportant memory.
"Maybe it is," you gasped, your voice breaking as you arched your back, driving yourself even harder onto his hand. The friction was becoming unbearable, a delicious torture that made your vision blur. "Maybe I just want to see if you can actually handle me when I'm not holding back."
The mattress groaned under the frantic, heavy rhythm of your bodies. Dean was hovering over you in missionary, his muscles corded and straining as he tried to keep up with the relentless, unhinged pace you were setting.
His eyes were wide, dark, and utterly bewildered, darting across your face as if searching for a sign that the woman who had screamed at him in the driveway was still in there.
"Seriously, what the hell is going on in that head of yours?" Dean rasped, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He sounded like he was losing a fight with his own sanity. "One minute you're telling me to go to hell, and now you're looking at me like you want to eat me alive. You're acting like we didn't just tear each other apart."
You didn't answer with logic; you answered with a sharp, needy moan, your fingers digging into his shoulder, deep red gouges. You arched your back, pulling him closer, your voice a sultry, breathless whisper that made his heart hammer against his ribs. "Shut up and just, fuck me, Dean — get on with it.."
Dean let out a strangled sound, a mix of a groan and a curse. "You're driving me crazy," he growled, his voice thick with a desperate, confused hunger. "I don't get it. I don't get any of this. You were so goddamn angry at me, and now you're —"
"I'm right here," you interrupted, your voice low and honeyed, a sharp contrast to the violence of your nails in his shoulders. "Right here, baby. Stop thinking. Just feel me."
He tried to keep his eyes on you, trying to find the anger, the spite, the woman who had broken his heart and his pride. But all he saw was a beautiful, terrifying void of pure lust. The woman who wanted to kill him was gone, replaced by this creature of heat and friction that seemed to exist only to consume him.
"God, you're... you're something else," he choked out, his eyes finally losing the battle to close as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
He let out a long, shuddering groan, his breath hot and frantic against your skin. "I can't — I can't even think when you look at me like that. It's like you're a different person. A much, much more dangerous person."
"Then stop trying to think," you whimpered, your voice breaking as a fresh wave of magical heat crashed over you. You pulled his head closer, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin of his shoulder, your hips working in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm that was purely instinctual. "Just be mine.”
The magical heat had reached a fever pitch, a relentless, thrumming roar in your veins that made every nerve ending feel like it was being scorched by liquid gold.
Your clit felt like it was literally on fire, a pulsing, hypersensitive centre of gravity that demanded constant, punishing attention. Your hips bucked wildly, driven by a frantic, uncoordinated need to meet every one of his thrusts.
You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to force his head up. A mocking, breathless laugh escaped your lips, even as your eyes rolled back in a haze of pleasure. "What happened, honey?" you gasped, your voice thick and honeyed with a teasing, crass edge. "Did the breakup mess up your methods? Are you losing your touch?"
Dean let out a low, dangerous growl, his eyes snapping to yours. He didn't even flinch at the jab; he just leaned back, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He wasn't an idiot. He’d spent enough time around the supernatural to recognise when the air itself felt heavy with a spell, and he knew your body better than he knew his own. This wasn't just the passion of a reconciliation; this was something unhinged, something driven by a magic that was making you crave him with a ferocity that was almost frightening.
"Oh, you think so, do you?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, predatory rumble. "You think you can talk to me like that and not get what's coming to you?"
He didn't waste another second on questions. He knew there was a spell in you he could practically taste the ozone and the raw, sexual energy rolling off your skin but he didn't care about the 'why.'
Whether it was a botched hex or a sudden surge of old desire, he wasn't going to play detective while you were looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
If you needed to be fucked, if you needed to be driven into the mattress until you couldn't remember your own name, he was going to give you exactly that. Dean was devoted to you, even when you were a beautiful, chaotic mess of magic and spite.
He leaned back, his gaze intense and unwavering as he watched your eyes roll back in pure, unadulterated pleasure. He reached down, his hand finding the slick, swollen heat of your clit. With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to trace smooth, punishing circles with his thumb, perfectly timed to the heavy, deep thrusts of his hips against your G spot.
"Is this better, sweetheart?" he growled, his voice a gravelly vibration that seemed to echo the thrumming in your veins
You couldn't even answer him. All that came out was a broken, high pitched keen as his thumb hit the perfect spot, sending a lightning bolt of sensation straight to your brain. The sex pollen was a demanding god, and Dean was its most willing disciple.
"It's better when you beg in my ear," you managed to choke out, a breathless, mocking chuckle vibrating in your throat.
For a split second, the hazy, magical fog of the pollen parted, and a flicker of your old, sharp tongued self returned the woman who knew exactly how to push his buttons and drive him to the edge of insanity.
That spark was all it took.
His eyes darkened to a near black, his large, corded muscles tensing as he hunched over you, framing your body with his sheer mass. The bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate devotion.
As he thrusted into you, his rhythm becoming a frantic, punishing necessity, the words he’d been holding back the guilt, the apologies, the "I'm sorry" he hadn't been able to say in the driveway began to pour out of him in a broken, gravelly stream.
"God, you're so beautiful," he choked out, his voice cracking as he slammed into you, the friction of his skin against yours feeling like a brand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so fucking sorry for being such a goddamn idiot. Just — don't go. Don't leave like that again."
The apologies were raw, unpolished, and laced with a vulnerability he only ever showed to you. He was fucking you with a desperate, frantic energy, his hips driving deep to meet your frantic bucking, but he was holding himself back from the edge, fighting the urge to just lose it.
"Please," he groaned, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He sounded like he was pleading for his life. "Let me stay. Let me finish. Let me fill you up, sweetheart. Just one more time. Let me do this right. Please, let me fucking finish inside you."
Dean was still rambling, his voice a low, frantic murmur against your skin as he fought the last of his restraint. He was practically vibrating with the need to finish, his hips twitching instinctively against yours. "I'll do it, sweetheart. I swear. I'll shut the hell up every night, let you take whatever you want, let you drive me crazy... just don't use those damn spells to push me away when you're angry. Don't make me feel like you're a thousand miles away when you're right in my arms. Just please — "
He was begging, his pride completely discarded on the floor of the cabin alongside his clothes. You watched him, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth as the last of the pollen's heat surged.
You didn't say a word; you just tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him in deep and guiding him to the finish.
With a final, heavy thrust, you felt him finally break. A guttural sound tore from his throat as he surrendered to the sensation, his entire body stiffening as he filled you, his release so intense it felt like it was vibrating through your very bones.
He collapsed against you, a heavy, warm weight, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted hitches against your neck.
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, filled only with the sound of your synchronised, frantic breathing. You lay there for a moment, the lingering heat of the spell still humming in your veins, feeling the weight of his devotion pressing you into the mattress.
But the sex pollen wasn't done with you yet. The fire in your blood hadn't died down; it had only simmered, waiting for the next spark.
Before he could even fully recover, before he could even mutter another desperate apology or try to find his bearings, you reached up. Your fingers tangled firmly in his hair, your nails digging into his scalp with a sudden, demanding force that jolted him out of his post orgasmic haze.
He let out a startled, breathless grunt, his eyes fluttering open to find yours dark, hungry, and entirely unyielding.
"Fuck, let's go again," you commanded, your voice a low, sultry rasp that left no room for protest. The magic in your veins was screaming for more, the pollen demanding a second round before the first had even fully settled.
Dean stared at you, his mouth slightly agape, his chest still heaving as he tried to process the sheer audacity of your demand. "Again?" he wheezed, a delirious, incredulous laugh bubbling up in his throat. "Sweetheart, you're gonna kill me. You're gonna actually fucking kill me."
But even as he complained, his body was already responding to the command. The unadulterated hunger was already reigniting in his eyes.
The exhaustion was there, written in the heavy slump of his shoulders and the way his lungs struggled to catch up, but the moment your nails grazed his scalp, the Winchester grit took over.
He wasn't a man who could say no to you — not when you looked at him with that terrifying, beautiful desperation.
"You're a goddamn demon, you know that?" he growled, though the sound was thick with a sudden, renewed heat.
He shifted his weight, his hands sliding back down to your hips, gripping you with a bruising intensity that signalled he was more than ready to dive back into the storm. "Fine. You want it? You got it. Just don't blame me when you can't walk tomorrow."
He leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that was less of a reconciliation and more of a declaration of war. The friction, the heat, and the sheer, unadulterated madness of the moment surged back to the forefront.
There was no trace of the fight from a week ago, no lingering bitterness from the breakup, and no space for the logic of a "clean slate."
In this bed, under the influence of your magic and his unwavering devotion, the past was simply being burned away by the intensity of the present.
It was as if the fight had never happened at all. Nor, your spiteful spell.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
⧼ older sub ! dean x fem ! reader . . . sex in the impala. ⧽
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it’s raining as you drive the impala back to the bunker.
you insisted on driving, since dean had been doing all the driving for the two of you the entirety of the hunt. he’s been acting a little needy since you both finished up. both of you decided to go back to the bunker tonight since your own bed in your own… somewhat house couldn’t compare to anything a motel had to offer.
as he’s gotten older, you’ve noticed, dean has somehow gotten simultaneously more shamless and more reserved. he’s still horny as fuck a lot—he’ll basically hump you like a dog in public sometimes with no reservations, or he’ll blush like a schoolgirl when you squeeze his bicep at a bar before sitting down next to him. it’s a tightrope that dean balances on daily, how much he can get away with, but also how much he can take.
dean’s been keeping his hands to himself so far—but before you’d both gotten in the car, he begged for a quickie before you left. almost got down on his knees in the motel room, too. you hadn’t had a chance to have sex this entire hunt, which is rare, but it comes with the job.
so dean’s needy.
for you.
you’d coaxed him enough, you’d thought, to last until you both got home. but even though you’re focusing on the road, you can still feel him. looking at you, shifting on the impala’s bench every so often. he’s already closer to you, because that’s just who dean is—always wanting to be as close as possible to you. he’s much further away from the passenger side window than he was before when you initially started driving, and you can feel the heat eminatng off his body.
you want to say something, but the truth is, you want dean to be close to you, too. maybe just as much as he does with you.
you haven’t been talking much. dean’s dozed off a couple times since you started driving, but he doesn’t sleep for long. you steal glances at him when you hear his breathing get deeper, more slow. sleep breathing. most of the times you look over, his lips are parted just a little.
he looks younger like this, with all his lines on his face smoothed out, his brows only a little furrowed instead of being deeply set like they seem to be permanently stationed at when he’s awake. you imagine a younger dean when you see him, imagine what he looked like when it was just him and his brother back in the day. you wonder if he preferred being young over the life he’s living now. it was probably easier, you think. maybe not easier, but less of a toll.
you’ll never know the answer.
dean’s chin rests on your shoulder, at some point. he relaxes into you, slumping into your side. you take your right hand off the wheel and wrap your arm around him, which causes him to further nuzzle himself into you, too. he sighs softly, but he’s not annoyed. he’s just safe. he dozes off again, the rain hitting the top of the car lulling him under. he snores, but just a little—it sounds more like a cat purring on you than anything else. you sometimes call him your ‘little personal lawn mower’.
he stirs once more, and his hand rests on your thigh after a little bit of him being awake. it’s not too high up on your jeans that you’re raising a brow, but you know he’s getting ansty from being so close to you. he lets his mind wander, especially when you’re alone together, or just when he’s alone. you assume he’s doing that right now.
and he is.
dean fantasizes often about you, sometimes and most of the time when you’re literally right in front of him. it’s a little humiliating for him, though, because you’d coaxed the information out of him a while ago, and he was so embarrassed telling you that he daydreams about you when you’re right next to him he almost ran out into traffic. now, he’s still aware he’s pathetic for it, but he just doesn’t really care all that much.
the most recent daydream he’s been fixating on lately is you in a dress. the dress changes color and fabric type often, since you look good in anything, but what doesn’t change is you sitting on his car, waiting for him. sometimes he takes you right on the hood of the impala, right out in the open. sometimes it’s in the backseat, sometimes it’s in the front—but it always starts the same. the sun’s behind you, and you look like a dream, looking back at him. well, obviously, it is a dream—but dean knows one day, it’ll be real: just you, him, baby, and an open road.
kind of like now, actually.
minus the dress.
he’s mostly wanting to kiss you, currently, he thinks. just a few pecks. and maybe a little tounge. okay, maybe some over-the-clothes action, too. okay, maybe he just wants you to pull the car over and ride him into next week. whatever. he shifts his legs, trying to ignore what his thoughts are doing to his body, but it’s not really working. he nuzzles his face further into your neck, breathing you in. his hand on your thigh moves up a little higher, and he lifts his head off your shoulder just enough so his nose brushes your neck.
dean doesn’t say anything. you freeze up when his nose grazes on a sensitive spot, shivering a little as his hand simultaneously gets closer to the inside seam of your jeans. you almost say something to him, but you don’t. you just tighten your grip on the steering wheel, trying not to melt in a puddle. dean notices, of course. he nudges his nose against your neck a little more, inhaling deeply. it sends another, more heated shiver down your spine.
he murmurs your name into your neck, while his hand reaches the seam of your waistband, tugging on it gently. you shiver again, leaning into dean subconsciously—and he takes advantage of it, the bastard, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind your ear he knows makes you dizzy.
“baby,” he almost moans into your neck, shifting against the leather of the seat. “…need ya.”
“dean, we—”
“please.”
and dean winchester doesn’t say please. not to anyone.
except you.
so after an embarrassingly short amount of time contemplating, you glance in the rearview mirror before pulling off the main road, taking the dirt road running parallel to it until you reach a more secluded spot. you don’t think twice after you put the car in park, the windshield wipers pausing halfway through the motion—because you know he’s really going through it to be this needy.
dean’s on you before you can turn to face him, making it his personal mission to kiss your breath away, it seems. his lips mold over yours immediately, your hands going to his face and the back of his head as he pulls you into his lap. you let him deepen the kiss, straddling him. he’s getting squeamish already, you can tell—because he’s fumbling for your waistband.
dean makes quick work of your clothes—probably the quickest he’s ever been, and that’s saying something—and soon enough, your bra is the last to go. he mouths at your left breast, then shoves his face in your chest, kissing whatever skin his lips reach first. his rough, warm hands trail up your waist, sending tingles throughout your skin. he nuzzles his face further in between your boobs before kissing up your chest and neck, finally finding your lips again briefly before pulling you closer to him.
“can’t believe y’re mine,” dean murmurs quietly. he says it just for you. he looks up at you—and you can’t see him very well due to the rain and it being pitch-black outside the impala, but you can see the way his eyes shine at you, even now.
and you know what he means by that.
you know it means dean doesn’t believe he actually deserves you. you know it means he feels like he has to prove himself to you, over and over again, in order to be worthy of your love and attention. it’s just how he’s wired. how he compartmentalizes things, how he deals with everything. and it won’t change.
but you won’t stop trying to make it change.
you take dean’s face in your hands, and he immediately softens more, sighing and melting between your palms like you’re a warm pan. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his shirt. dean buffers for a second, still caught up in the kiss before realizing you want his flannel off. he pauses after you remove his flannel, almost hesitating before putting his arms up for his shirt underneath.
you know why. the past few years, dean had been… more filled out, recently, in his torso. nothing crazy, but you noticed. some punk-ass kid said something stupid to him on a case a few weeks ago, nothing worth repeating. and you know despite his gruff, uncaring exterior, he takes those things to heart. you know he’s been spiraling over it, over the fear of losing you not because of something out of his control—but because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fit enough to make you stay.
after tugging his shirt off, you don’t let dean shy away from you, even though you know that’s where his instinct goes. he looks down almost immediately, but your hands return to his face, keeping him steady. keeping him looking at you.
“m’yours,” you assure dean. and you know he needed to hear it, based on the way his entire body shakes when he closes his eyes.
you know it’s not an ownership thing, at least not completely. you know dean just needs to hear that something, someone is just his to keep for his own, and no one else’s. he nods once, then buries his face in bewteen your boobs again, inhales like he needs you to breathe. he sighs, pulling you flush against him, and your hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders. you stay like that in his lap, holding each other for what feels like a century.
eventually, dean pulls away—just enough to look up at you again. his hands brush their way down to your hips, and you know where they’re going: to get you ready. your own hands find his wrists, stop them in their tracks. he tilts his head back up to you, confused.
“not tonight,” you murmur to him, releasing your grip as you shake your head. your hands go to his jeans that are unfortunately still on and start to undo his belt.
dean wants to protest. usually, he always gets you ready. it almost feels weird to not eat you out, or at least finger you. not do something. he really wants to say something—jesus, he needs to get you ready before he can be inside you—but you’re already tugging down his jeans enough so that his dick springs out, so all his attention is immediately focused on the throbbing in his lower region. he almost forgot how hard he was. up until now.
it is then that it dawns on him that you’re doing this for him. he was so needy for you all this time, and you’re not teasing him about it, or making him suffer. not that you ever did, but dean willingly suffers in silence with pretty much everything else. he always expects you to do the same, but you never do. you almost always give him what you want.
he thought you might give him a handjob. but you don’t—you just stroke him a few times, and notch him to where he’s been dying to go for the past two weeks. no teasing, no witholding. dean could cry, from how it feels to just be inside you. and he has cried, more than once, while buried deep inside you.
he can’t belive that you just let him have you like this. he would’ve been proud to get you ready, get you soaking, dripping wet for him like you always are after he’s through with you. but you don’t let him, this time. he didn’t have to really do much to get you, even though that’s how he’s lived his life all this time. he’s always had to sacrifice something, always had to give something up in order to get what he wants. and more than half the time, it’s not even what he wants at all. but he’s never done that with you—or never had to, that is. you always just… give him what he wants when it comes to you. sometimes it’s sex, but it’s really just you he wants. just to be near you, to see you, to hold you.
just like he’s doing now.
you found out dean was a whimperer on beleive it or not, the first sexual encounter you both had together. he’d been eating you out, humping the mattress like a dog in heat, and whimpering right into your pussy. his eyes were all glazed over, and he looked a little drunk—but most importantly, he looked at peace. like this was what he was meant to do his whole life: lick and suck on your folds and clit for the rest of his days.
he spends so much time down there, worshipping you, night after night, day after day—and you know that while it comes from a place of devotion, it also stems from needing to provide you with something so you’ll have a reason to stay. you also know that while you are unable to rewire dean’s brain, it won’t stop you from keeping him close to your heart. it won’t stop you from loving him right back, the way you know he craves to be loved.
dean’s face is buried in your chest as you start to slowly grind down on him, and he lets out his first whimper. it’s gotten a little deeper, rougher over the years you’ve been together, but it still sounds natural. it sounds like dean. his big arms tighten around your waist, then unloosen again so he can look up at you. he gets like this sometimes—like he’s unsure where to look or put his hands when you’re in control like this. he settles on your hips, not guiding, just holding as you move them. you take the oppurtunity to lean down just a little as you grind again, kissing a few freckles dusting on his cheeks. they’re starting to show more, with the sun being out longer. a broken, beautiful sound leaves him, and you know he’s already close, just from a few passes of your hips.
he feels like a young man again sometimes, already so close to blowing his load this early, but his age is also daunting on him, looming in the darkness like a bunch of clothes over a chair. he’s nearing his father’s age when he died—and in a few years, he’ll be older than his father ever was. older than most hunters ever came to be. it’s a terrifying thought—but knowing that you’ll be there beside him is a comfort no one else can satiate. nothing could come close.
because dean feels safest with you. it’s a known fact—it’s like his body can relax a little. like he can hang up whatever he’s dealing with at the door, and dive into the warmth and comfort that is you, and actually feel like the weight’s off him, just for a brief moment. even in sex, he’s safest with you.
it’s indescribable, how he’s able to just let go when he’s with you. he doesn’t have to put on a show, even though he usually does—and he doesn’t have to worry about sounding ‘manly’ when you’re milking him for all he’s worth. he can let himself be as loud as he wants, as shameless as he wants, and he knows you won’t judge him. he knows you’ll just hold him like he’s always wanted to be held. like he’s one of a kind. like he actually matters.
like he’s actually loved by someone.
it’s astonishing, really, how dean has given up on love so many times, yet continues to have hope in it. he had his reservations, when first getting with you. the usual: that you’ll finally peek behind the curtian and see the real dean, then leave once you figure out who he truly is inside. or maybe that you’ll realize he’s too much work. yet, he still wanted to know. what if this thing with you worked out? so once more, he decided to try and love again. he decided to stay instead of go, and it seemed like it worked in his favor. you’re still here beside him. he has those doubts, of course, and the fear that one day, you’ll be taken from him by something that’s out of his control—but the love, finally, finally outweighs the pain. it’s worth being with you now, than have never been with you at all.
dean’s holding off on coming. he wants this heavenly feeling to last as long as possible, but it’s starting to hurt now. he’s holding you in spurts—your hips, then your waist, then the curve of your back. you notice, obviously, that he’s holding back.
your hands find his face once more, leaning down to kiss his freckles on the bridge of his nose this time, clenching around him as you do so. dean whines, nuzzling his face into yours as you continue to press kisses to wherever your lips land. your hands remain on his face, keeping up your rythym as dean slowly starts to unravel below you.
he finally comes, loudly—but the sound is buried in your skin as you ride him over the edge. his arms had found their way around you again, holding on for dear life, whimpering and panting and groaning into your damp skin as he spills into you.
he blinks hard a few times, still breathing heavy as he moves his head to look up at you, eyes hazy and half-lidded from his orgasm. usually, he’d stay close, face nuzzled into you—but he needs to look at you right now. the impala’s windows are all fogged up from your activities, but dean can still make out your face in the dark. not that he needs to really see your face—he’s memorized it, by this point. he knows every dip and curve of your face and your entire body. he can name every scar, every divot.
he knows his home.
he knows every part of you he can hide away in, just for a little while. just enough to keep his head above water.
you look down at dean, too, and you want to be somehow closer to him, even though it’s not possible. you’re as close as can be—he’s literally inside you. so you settle for nudging his nose with yours, then wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
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okay so i’m CRAVING some tooth-rotting fluff where dean saves reader in a hunt and later when he’s cleaning readers wounds he starts ranting to her about how dangerous it was for her to put herself at risk like how she did and he accidentally says too much, something that makes reader realise deans feeling towards them leading to a full blown confession (and maybe a light makeout sess). i love your work so much!
⋆｡ ˚ patched up
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after dean saves you during a hunt, his angry little first-aid rant turns into a confession neither of you can take back.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x hunter!reader ( f ) ; friends to lovers
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 606 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical hunt violence, minor injuries, wound cleaning, dean being emotionally constipated, confession, kissing, suggestive ending
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the motel bathroom is too bright for how late it is.
the light above the mirror buzzes and flickers every few seconds, turning dean’s face sharp, then tired, then sharp again. he’s standing between your knees with the first-aid kit open on the sink, one hand holding your wrist steady while the other dabs antiseptic over the scrape on your forearm.
“ow,” you hiss, trying to pull back.
“yeah, well, next time don’t throw yourself in front of a werewolf and maybe we can skip the stingy part.”
you scoff lightly. “you’re welcome, by the way.”
dean gives you a look that usually comes before a lecture, a bad joke, or both. “you’re welcome? seriously?”
“i saved your ass.”
“i had it handled.”
“you were on the floor.”
“temporarily.”
you roll your eyes, but the motion tugs at the bruise blooming along your cheekbone, and dean sees it. his mouth shuts for half a second, anger snagging on concern before he can hide it.
then he goes right back to being unbearable— “you don’t get to do that,” he says, lower now, pressing clean gauze to your arm. “you don’t get to jump in front of teeth and claws because you think you’re faster than death. you’re good, alright? damn good. but you’re not bulletproof.”
“neither are you.”
“don’t give me that crap.”
you blink up at him. “dean—”
“no, i mean it.” he tapes the gauze down with more force than necessary, then smooths the edge with his thumb, guilty about it immediately. “you scared the crap outta me back there.”
“breaking news—hunts are scary.”
“don’t be cute.”
“can’t help it.”
his eyes flick to your mouth. quick. stupidly quick, but not quick enough. your teasing falls apart a little.
dean turns toward the sink, grabs another cotton pad, and mutters, “i can’t keep doing this.”
the room seems to shrink around the two of you. the dripping faucet. the wet towel shoved under the sink pipe. your boots knocking lightly against the cabinet when you shift.
“doing what?”
“watching you get hurt.” you’re quiet now. he drags a hand over his face, leaving a faint smear of your blood near his wrist. “watching you bleed and pretending i’m not losing my mind every time something gets close to you. telling myself it’s the job. telling sam i’m fine. acting like i don’t—” he stops, jaw working around the rest.
you sit up straighter. “like you don’t what?”
“nothing.”
“dean.”
“drop it.”
“no.”
he looks at you then and all the fight drains out of his shoulders in the ugliest, softest way. “acting like i don’t care about you more than i should.”
your fingers curl around the edge of the sink. “more than you should?”
“yeah.” he laughs once, no humor in it. “stupid, huh?”
“very,” you whisper. his face shutters. you catch his wrist before he can step back. “because i thought i was being obvious.”
dean stares at you. his hand comes to yyour cheek, careful around the bruise, and he kisses you with all that leftover panic still under his skin. it’s not smooth. his nose bumps yours, your fingers grab the front of his flannel too hard, and he makes this rough little sound when you pull him closer.
the cotton pad drops into the sink.
“you’re still hurt,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“then be gentle.”
his thumb moves along your jaw, slower now. “gentle?”
you hook your ankle behind his calf. dean’s smile touches your lips before he kisses you again, and the bathroom light keeps flickering above you, buzzing away while neither of you bothers to move.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
content: smoking. shotgunning. gentle n' loving Dean. kisses. fem!reader. established relationship. pet names. suggestive antics.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Dean had pulled you under an awning when the rain started pouring on your way to a bar late at night, just enough to shelter the two of you, water droplets glistening on both of your hair, the shoulders of your jackets already felt heavier as the water seeped in between the stitches. Watching you as you gaze out into the darkness of the night with your hand sticking out to feel the rain on your hand.
The sound of your laughter is muffled as the clouds made their presence loud and clear with a flashing smile, thundering through your heart to let you know that she likes the attention that you give her, how you were never scared of her loud speeches, if anything, you always told her to talk more, and sometimes she would reply, just so she could hear the giddiness through your smile.
"You'll freeze, sweetheart." He nudges, his own smile creeping in as he props his weight on the wall behind him, one leg over the other while he fidgets with his lighter. The first time you gasped when a thunder rolled into town, he thought you were scared, was ready to throw his heroic embrace around you, til he saw how you would do a little happy dance whenever thunder announced its arrival. His heart beat was ringing louder in his ears that night than any thunder.
The sound of metal clanks behind you, catching your attention to find that he was lighting up a cigarette, the amber glow of the small flame illuminating his features like an oil painting, making the green in his eyes more pigmented, the distant light coming from a lamp post creating the perfect contrasting background, his gaze locks with yours, tugging at your heartstrings like a moth shamelessly drawn to the flame.
Smoke billows out into the sky, mixing in with the milky way, his cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger, the cherry looking like a firefly every time his hands move. His lips twitched into a smile, asking you "what?", silently. Your eyes drop to the packet in his hand before raising back up to him and his smirk only widens, putting out his arm for you to take.
He pulled you closer towards him, his hand, calloused and warm yet still the most gentle when it comes to you, always gentle, moved your wet hair away from your forehead, "Your lips 're turning blue, princess." He notices, pressing a steady kiss to your temple. "They're naturally that color." You jab and feel his chuckle against your skin more than hear it.
His free hand finds your side, his warmth anchoring your shivering to a mild shake. He flips the packet open with one hand and lets you pick between the last two sticks, eyes gazing at how the filter sits between your lips while he fishes for his lighter, flinging it open to clank just like it did earlier, the flame dancing while he lights up your choice of poison for the night.
The smoke fills your lungs ardently, kissing every concave wall behind your ribcages. Dean flicks the butt of his into the corner, pulling out the last stick and crumbling the packet back into his pocket. "C'mere, baby.." his hand tilts your chin upward, bringing your cigarette to his level before he aligns his over it. Your eyes flutter weakly as you watch him inhale a few times, letting your cherry light up his own before he finally exhales the smoke away from you.
A gush of wind howls while thunder sings, letting your heightened senses flinch for the first time at your friend, making your still shaky hand drop the cigarette into a puddle, a quick hiss before drowning completely into a sheer iridescent film.
Dean chuckles at your surprised disbelief before you join him, laughing at the situation. He holds his cigarette in one hand while he takes yours in the other, blowing warm air over them and pressing featherlight kisses to your knuckles. Making you even more putty under the warmth of him.
"I can't believe I dropped it.." You pout, already missing the lightheadedness that came from the smoke tingling your brain while he takes your other hand and repeats the process. "We'll share mine, hm?" He coos, rubbing your back and arms while you wrap a lazy arm around his waist. Wishing you could turn into a cat just to be able to curl into his body heat.
Unbeknownst to you, he takes a long drag and holds it in, his hand cupping your face to bring your gaze up to him, "Open up, baby." He whispers, already resting his forehead against yours, and your lips part for him while he hovers over them, blowing into your mouth slowly. His thumb caressing your cheek tenderly.
The smoke fogs up the bubble you two were in, inhaling it like a whispered secret that's made of all elements Dean; tobacco, leather, motor oil, and the remnants of apple pie, nicotine luring your brain away from functioning, making you addicted to the feelings you were under, his gaze and smirk getting you lightheaded more than carbon monoxide ever could.
"Again.." you whisper, your weight dropping more onto him, his knee slides in between your legs, his hand moving to your waist to keep you up. He searches your expression for a moment, seeing how dazed you were and if only he knew how much of it was about him.
His thumb runs along your bottom lip, resting his forehead against yours, "Say please.", he teases, his own eyes turning heavy from the sight and feel of you, the ashes falling off his stick and flying in the wind while the fire simmers along the vines of tobacco.
"Please, Dean, baby.." you drawl out, feeling the heat in your body move to your cheeks, earning you a chuckle that spills out of him and makes you giggle, "That's my girl." He takes another drag, the last puff before the fire eats at the filter, flicking it away while he aligns his lips over yours once more, exhaling into you, just to lock his lips with yours in a soft but not any less hungry kiss
The smoke dances around your lungs for longer, making you even more lightheaded but all you could feel was Dean, his warm hands pulling you closer against him while sharing the metallic taste of smoke. He pulls back, letting you breathe out what was left while catching his own breath. "You ok, sweetheart?" His hand rests above your chest, feeling how hard your heart was pumping, hoping that he didn't get lost in the moment for too long.
"Mhm.." was all you managed to put out, smiling up at him, still entranced and lightheaded. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple as he wraps you up in a hug, the two of you exchanging body heat, the rain finally starting to go from a downpour to a drizzle.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖
ᝰ.ᐟ taglist: @islaymonsters @honeybeechestnut — 𑣲 (still can't believe this is actually happening, insane, wdym!? thank you sm for being here <3)
Warnings: kissing, fem!reader, down bad Michael, set in the summer of 1975.
A/N: I swear these were supposed to be headcanons..
ꜜ♡⃕ needy.ᐟMichael who doesn't easily take no for an answer
Hushed whispers and Michaels eager pacing, were the only audible sounds coming from your bedroom. You sat at the edge of your bed. Hands nervously picking at your nails.
"No way! This is trouble."
His pacing comes to a stop, walking over, ever so carefully. As if to not scare you away.
"I promise this'll all work out fine." he murmured, slowly grabbing a hold of your shaky hands.
Falling to his knees in front of you.
He was so close now, his sharp floral scent flowing to your nostrils.
Why'd he have to make it so hard?
"I don't care if bill doesn't approve, I wanna give you all my lovin', Is that so bad?"
"Mickey.." you whisper, flustered at the thought of something real. Not just the teasing from the Jackson brothers, nor the yearning glances you've convinced yourself to mean nothing.
But something, wholeheartedly real.
A strained groan fell from his throat "I know, I know. But I just can't help it no more.." Impulsively holding onto your face. stroking your cheek, as you lean into the palm of his hand. "Ion wanna help it."
Your lack of protest gave him the confidence to lean in, Feeling his soft lips brush yours, sent goosebumps to your skin, you shove the need for him down,
the guilt overbearing.
You leaned away hesitantly. Regret washed over Michael's face. the thought of losing you, scared him more than ignoring the love burning in his chest. "I'm- I'm sorry. Gosh I'm sorry- just tell me to stop. Please tell me to stop, so I can get over this... get over you." His voice cracked,
so whiney.
That was it. You couldn't deny yourself anymore. Pressing a tender kiss to his lips. he shifts into you, trailing his hands from your face, to the curve of your chest, and onto your hips.
"My pretty girl" Michael praises, hand resting at the low of your waist. "you don't know what you do to me." Only quiet whines escaped your mouth, buzzing with excitement at his words.
"You're mine now."
ꜜ♡⃕ smitten.ᐟMichael who overly spoils you. despite trying not to be obvious, he could never deny his girl.
"Mickeyyyy" you purred, holding up a game of twister. "Can we get this one too?" You questioned softly, although already putting said game into the cart.
"You already picked out 5 bored gam-"
Jermaine was quickly cut off.
"Of course we can." Michael blurted, interrupting Jermaine's brainless remark.
"Oh I see, my little brother's all smitten by the young lady." Jermaine chuckles, along with Jackie and Tito.
Michael couldn't help the blush creeping onto his cheeks, no way to defend himself.
"You're all annoying" you state, trying not to sink into the floor.
ꜜ♡⃕ Sneaky.ᐟclingy.ᐟ Michael who can't help but love the adrenaline of getting caught.
Makeout session in his room? He'll leave the door cracked, just enough for anyone to walk by and see exactly how close in "friendship" y'all are.
Always sneaking you away from the others, trying not to be suspicious.
You and Michael sat at the edge of the pool, legs halfway in, Cooling you down from the bright summer sun. Latoya and rebbie yelling at the boys to not get their hair wet.
"Why wear a bathing suit if you ain't gonna get in?" Randy questions innocently.
"Oh shush ran" rebbie groaned wishing she had more sisters than brothers.
Hayvenhurst, encino. Was chaotic, around this time the most.
Always some argument or gossip between the Jackson's, something gliding over your head, barely missing your face.
You loved it.
Michael looks over at you, more than once, thinking how different it'd be if they knew. maybe he'd be holding your hand, telling you how much he adored having you over, his girl. Sitting with him by the pool mindlessly.
Reading his mind, You push a wet curl out of his face
"are you thinking too hard again, Mickey?" You whisper teasingly, adding to his anguish. Michael doesn't respond, instead pushes himself up off the floor, walking towards the sliding doors, before turning to you.
"Applehead, could you help me with something in the kitchen?" the corner of his lip is already lifting into something far from innocent.
You wonder what he'll pull out of his sleeve, Slyly following him inside and towards the kitchen.
"Are you alright?" before you could ask again, his hands were already on you. Guiding you back until you hit the kitchen island, causing A shriek to escape you.
"Michael! Are you crazy?" He shushed you with his lips, you could feel him smile against you, soft giggles in-between even softer kisses. tangling your hands in his dripping curls, slowly forgetting how out in the open you both were.
Your movements are turning more, and more passionate, the smell of chlorine, surrounding you, and the marble island cold against your lower back.
"Don't you hate it?" He asked after each kiss, You almost missed what he said, too occupied to listen. "Hm?" Humming a question, he stops his movements, "I mean, don't you wish we could do this with everyone around?"
"Everyone is around" you state, looking around at the very open kitchen, with a big family like Michaels, anyone could walk by at any second.
He frowns at your sarcasm "ya know what i mean." His slender hands never leave your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles over your stomach.
"Angel face, you wouldn't be this confident around the others." He looks truly offended by that, you laugh at his attempt to convince you he's not the shy Michael you've grown to love.
"I'm quite the lady's man, ya know!" He
exclaimed
"oh really?"
"Yes! Well no, you know what I mean, if I could- no, when I can. I'll kiss you anytime and anywhere!"
Your laugh was cut off by footsteps approaching, voices getting louder and louder each step, Eyes widening at the familiar voice of your father.
Michael pushes off of you, quickly grabbing a paper towel, suddenly focused on cleaning a stubborn spot on the counter, his ears have turned completely red. Hands slightly shaky,
Oh yes, mister confident.
ꜜ♡⃕ Sneaky.ᐟclingy.ᐟ Michael who disspite the many times you've almost been caught, he'll never learn.
You had dragged your father to take Michael and you to the store, your mind set on buying way too much junk food,
"it's not a fun sleepover if you wake without a stomach ache, of course!" You blurted, stepping into the car,
Great convincing.
Michael and you both sat on a window seat,
Comfortable silence filled the car, before Michael decided he couldn't wait any longer.
Scooting closer to you every 10 seconds,
You pretend not to notice. That is, until his thigh was touching yours, he intertwines his fingers with the hand resting on your thigh.
You pray your father is as oblivious as you think he is, because you don't want to push Michael off, and you don't.
Michael looks up, making sure bill isn't glancing at the rear-view mirror, with a clear view shot of
the handholding going on with his daughter.
He's too busy driving to notice anything,
he thought, giving his focus back to you.
"Michael. Joseph. Jackson, get your paws off my daughter."
This definitely wasn't the store trip you had planned.
•┈┈┈┈⋅🪩⋅┈┈┈┈•
First time writing fiction, probably not the best, But this blog is for shytz n gigglez.ᐟ
─ ⟢ A/N for those that are new to my smau’s, I don’t have a fixed face claim for reader so as to make it as inclusive as possible | yes there will be a part 2, but bear with me as exam season is just around the corner so I might not get it out as fast!
part 2
whatsyndoing • 20m
whatsyndoing
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whatsyndoing angels have pink hair 🪽
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zaralarsson no man deserves this • ♥︎ by author
whatsyndoing @/zaralarsson you’re so right mama let me break up with my bf 💔
user_ @/whatsyndoing bf….? 😒
username06 @/whatsyndoing I have an idea but everyone needs to be really open minded 😅
gayz4y/n @/whatsyndoing computa…
yasminwijnaldum my girl 🥹• ♥︎ by author
whatsyndoing @/yasminwijnaldum 💋
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whatsyndoing @/slayyyter CRANK ITTTTT
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bamb1_ if your man ever messes up I’m here bbg
user09 @/bamb1_ I feel like I’m not part of this inside joke…? what man you guys?????
randomuser @/user09 do you live under a rock omg
userrandom oh I’m not hungry
whatsyndoing • 5m
gayz4y/n
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gayz4y/n mother at the @/michaelmovie premiere @/whatsyndoing
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username_ she’s stunning don’t get me wrong, but why is she there lol? 😭
gayz4y/n @/username_ she’s actually been a really huge mj fan for YEARS so maybe that’s why they invited her 🤷♀️
randomuser SHES SO HOT • ♥︎ by author
user_ now who made this guest list cause why we inviting randoms….? 😂
gayz4y/n @/user_ model of the year 2025 btw…what have you accomplished besides being a troglodyte?
bamb1doll @/user_ you’re a chris brown fan pls shut up
4ngelsarebrunett3 waittt her and jaafar jackson would be such a cute couple 🙈🙈🙈 • ♥︎ by author
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y/nsangelsss jaafar jackson and y/n talking at the @/michaelmovie premiere
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user_ THEY HIT THE FUCKING PENTAGON • ♥︎ by author
username777 he want that cookie baddd 😭 • ♥︎ by author
gayz4y/n me when I’m trying to remain calm in front of the huzz: • ♥︎ by author
y/nsangelsss @/gayz4y/n LMAOOOO
userrandom @/gayz4y/n yall are so odd….cant women & men be friends these days??
gayz4y/n @/userrandom if this is how you look at your friends then you have your own issues to sort out lmfao
randomuser_ he smiling wide asf I’m crying 😭🤣• ♥︎ by author
4ngelsarebrunett3 twt gonna have a field day with this
user888 I’m irritated asf I’m irritated asf
user666 my butt fulla shittt 😂😂
y/nsangelsss @/user666 ???
user_ the way he’s looking at her….she took my man omg 💔💔💔💔💔
user82920202 yall are late to the party, they been my OTP since we saw her in his got me singing MV 🙂↕️
𓈒⟡ ׅ ݁₊ . thank you for reading 💋
𓈒⟡ ׅ ݁₊ . tags: @cinnamoncunt @wiinterz @rockabieesstuff @youwannabestartingsomething @myrrh-dock @lov3lylxvender @featheredfawns @fandomfaerieprincess @prettypearlpom @nealifeandsuicii @andhypen @swe3tyann @axlrosesgirlfriend2007 @m00nd0v3 @neighbourscat @jackiekae @janyiahsucks-blog @grapejceblues @iheartfolkloreee @nsaqlx @blondekisses [not an official taglist, I’m just tagging mutuals or those who I think might be interested in this]
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( ﾟдﾟ) “what’s ur password?” “Oh, it’s your birthday!” “Aww.. wait what?” 
Content: oblivious!reader || and they were roommates.
Roommate!jaafar masterlist
Jaafar was busy, typing on his laptop while you were in the kitchen cooking up a nice meal for you. You finally decided not to be a bum and just do it. (You thought of the meme ‘do it’ while getting up but that doesn’t matter)
As you poured the rice among the fried chicken, Jaafar called out to you.
“Y/n! Can you open my phone, there’s a code for me.” You hummed and lowered the stove dial.
“Sure! Where is it?”
“On the bar counter!” He yelled from the living room.
You walked over and held the black phone that was his with stickers you put on it due to being bored.
“What’s your password?” You questioned, going to the living room and standing two feet from the brown-skinned male who pauses before saying it out loud.
“Oh, it’s your birthday.” He said with a shy smile, glancing at you.
“Aww!!! …Wait what?” Your face had changed from adoration to shock while you actually put in your birthday. And to your shock, yes it was your birthday.
You blinked, mind reeling across questions as you handed him his phone.
Jaafar gave you a small, “thank you” while you just stood there.
He could’ve had a random passcode, or his birthday as his passcode. Or like some random movie he liked as a passcode even though you didn’t know how that would even work.
And in the back of your mind, you felt a little guilty that you couldn’t have done it first to show appreciation for your roommate.
You walked back to the kitchen to finish your chicken fried rice, not seeing how Jaafar was watching you clearly.
You just didn’t know how important you were to him.
gracieabrams
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