✨ head in the clouds ✨

"We're not together!" You hiss.

"Not... Don't play with me," he snarls as he forces his knees between yours.

The din roars from the next room as you stand in the flickering light of the back hall. Glasses clink loudly and pool balls clack. No one can hear your whimpers.

"We're not--"

"You come into my bar and tell me how it is?" He sneers as he brushes his nose along your temple. He inhales your scent and growls. "You could go anywhere else, sweetheart."

"Get off of me." You dig your nails into his shirt as his leather jacket tickles your knuckles.

"You don't have to be here..." He bends and nips your ear. "You're toying with me, huh? Want me to show you how bad I need you."

"No, get-- I'll-- I'll go." You push on him helplessly. He's too strong, too big.

"Fuck, I need you. I hurt so bad for you." He grits. "Is that why you came, huh? To make me beg?"

"No, I didn't... I didn't know--"

You wriggle and turn your head away from him. He bows down and bites your neck. You whine.

"Stop, Andy. I wanna go--"

"Too late, baby. You knew what you were doing to me." His hand stretches around the other side of your neck. "I'm not gonna apologise for wanting you."

"Please, please," you beg as you slap his shoulders.

His other hand creeps up your leg. You bat your lashes, tears tingling along the brims of your eyes. You didn't come here for him. You just wanted a drink.

"I'm not sorry." He growls as he rubs the front of your panties. "Not for this."

He pushes against the sheer thong and groans. "You didn't wear these for me, huh?" He leans his pelvis against his hand and tilts his hips. He breathes you in and exhales along the crook of your neck.

"Say your sorry, honey."

"Andy," you gasp as his fingers slip under your panties.

"Fucking say it." He flicks between your lips and back to your entrance. He teases you as his hips pump in perfect mimicry of fucking you. Each thrust has his fingers slipping a into you. "Say your sorry."

You whimper and grip the seam across the shoulders of his jacket. "I... I'm sorry. Please, I wanna go home--"

"What the fuck..." He runs his nose up your neck and along your chin. "Are you sorry for?"

You wince and your tears spill over. "I don't know."

He crushes his mouth to yours and snarls. You shake against him as your arms collapse from the pressure of his weight. He tugs your lip between his teeth between he parts.

Characters: Jake Jensen Reader Fandom: The Losers (2010) Pairings: Jake Jensen x Reader Word count: 1202 Gender/Ethnicity/Body: Any/Neutral Type: One-shot Warning: Fluff, angst, vague mention of panic attack, brief description of surgery and stitches Author's Note: Thank you to @ellethespaceunicorn for the prompt, and @adulting-sucks for the beta! And thank you for those of you sticking with me through my horrendous writer's block. Tried to keep reader as Neutral as possible to be inclusive. Summary: Jake Jensen comforts you after a minor panic. Ask Box: Open Masterlist

“Hey, Sugar Bumpkin,” Jake calls as he enters your shared home after his errand.  You hear the shuffle of grocery sacks as he closes the door, locking it.  “They had your favorite strawberry ice cream,” he continues as he walks towards you, or at least towards where he left you on the couch.  “They were out of..... Hey,” he stops, and you could almost picture the confusion on his face as he looked around the living room, glasses slid down his nose, forehead adorably wrinkled.  “Where did you go, babe?”

You only sniffle from your hiding spot, but he’s on you like a bloodhound, quickly dropping his purchases to the coffee table.  

“Babe?” he calls again, this time heading down the hall to where you are.  “What’s going on?”

You don't even bother to look up at him as he stands in the doorway of the bathroom.  You wipe your face with your good hand, possibly the only good hand you have left.  This thought brings the tears back up as you curl your other arm tighter against your chest, keeping it carefully  cradled with your knees drawn up.  The fat tears you were crying while he was gone are suddenly back and you hide your face with your good hand.  

“Oh, shit,” Jake softly says, and you can almost hear the conversation in his head about how he was gone for maybe 20 minutes and he wasn’t sure what could possibly have gone wrong in that time.  You were happy on the couch when he left you, well drugged and happy. “Baby cakes,” he starts as he gets on his knees in front of you where you have yourself expertly wedged between the toilet and the shower, drawn in on yourself.  “What’s going on? What happened?”  

You just shake your head a little, sobbing into your hand as you continue to lament about your predicament.  You try to draw in a little breath, enough to start speaking.  “They are going to have to take my arm off,” you wail.  “Wait what?” He sounds very disoriented.  “Did the surgeon call while I was gone?”

You shake your head, the tears getting heavier, your breathing getting shallower.  “Gangrene,” is the only word you can push out between your lips. 

“Gangrene?” Jake echoes, bewilderment still in his voice. “You had surgery less than a week ago, babe.”  It is then he looks around the room and notices the bandages and gauze on the closed toilet lid.  Anti-everything creams open on the counter and around the sink.  Blood tinged water in the sink. 

You feel his massive hands brush over your upper arms as you continue to cry.  “It’s gonna be ok, my love.  I promise,” he shushes you, laying a kiss on your forehead for extra measure.  “Can you tell me what happened?”  

You sniffle and draw in a bigger breath, lifting your head to face him.  You see the look of concern on his face shift behind those owlish glasses.  Worry morphs into loving care as he tugs on the long sleeves of his shirt, pulling it over his hand as he wipes at your cheeks, attempting to clean up the tears.  “Can you tell me?” he asks again, softer this time as he settles back on his heels.  

You nod and untuck your arm from your chest and hold it out to him. He is careful to hold your forearm just right, knowing where the stitches are on your arm.  He rotates it enough to bring the site of your recent surgery into view.  The skin is a bit more irritated than it was last time he looked, and there might be a sight of blood around the one stitch where the knot is on the end.  The skin around it is puckered and appears to be a healthy healing color.  “Looks good, babe,” he admits.

You repeatedly shake your head and look up at him with pleading eyes, looking like a scared little child.  He searches your face for more, hopeful for another clue about what is going on and why you think the surgeon is going to amputate your arm.  After a moment of nothing, he sighs, running his thumb over your soft skin below the stitches, not over them.  Your skin feels normally warm, not abnormally hot.  It all seems ok to him.  

“I need you to use your words, love,” he finally concedes defeat. “I can’t figure this out on my own.”

Clearing your throat, you wipe at your cheeks with your own hand, blinking up at him.  “There’s... well, there was pus,” your voice wavers slightly but you continue.  “Right there.” Your shaking finger points at the stitch that’s got the tiny amount of blood around it.  

“And?”  Your boyfriend is infinitely patient, and god, you love him for that.   Especially when your brain gets tangled and messy like this.  

You sigh softly, now seeing you might have maybe, in the new light of someone else’s view, overreacted a teensy weensy bit.  Just a little.  Nothing too much. “Pus means infection,” you reason. “And infection is bad.”

Jake’s patient and handsome face seems to follow your logic.  When you stop, he fills in the blanks.  You saw the pus, and tried to clean it up as gently as you could, then debated the best course of action with all the bandages and creams in the bathroom while your brain tried to tell you the doctor was going to amputate your arm.  With a genuinely loving smile, he leans over and kisses your cheek softly, his stubble gently scratching your skin, making you hum softly as you lean a bit into his lips.  “Sweetpea,” he starts. “Pus isn’t always bad.  It just means your body is healing, doing its thing, white blood cells grouping together and....” he pauses, looking up at the ceiling as if the medical jargon he was looking for was written across the ugly popcorn ceiling.  “Well doing their thing.  And you’ll be fine. I promise.”  

“How’s your hand?” he asks, still holding your forearm with one hand while the other scoots under your palm, cradling it in his own hand. You find it oddly soothing to feel his fingertips gently touching your palm, your own fingers dangling against his palm.  He gently nudged your pinky finger with his thumb, your finger twitching in response, drawing a small smile from your lips.  “How’s the numbness?”  Your surgery was because you had numbness in your last two fingers of your hand that occasionally blossomed into unbearable pain.  You had a pinched nerve, which the doc fixed during a quick surgery a few days ago.

You nod and give him a little smile. “Better,” you allow.  Your fingers had feeling in them again, and not the excruciating kind.  

“Good,” Jake states, bringing his lips down to your ring and pinky finger for a quick kiss.  “How about I go make you a bowl of ice cream before it melts out of the box?  And I’ll clean up this mess?” He vaguely gestures around the bathroom as he gets to his feet.  Giving you that boyishly shy half smile of his, he reaches down offering you his hand.  

Your small hands wiping away the juice that drips from the corner of your mouth. One finger dips into the crème before it disappears between your lips. The rich flavor and velvety-smooth texture inspire you to dip a piece of strawberry into the pillowy topping, utter joy sparkling in your eyes as the golden hour emphasizes your gossamer wings and the hint of shimmer just beneath your skin. 

It’s only when Dennis is lost in watching you that he accidentally alerts you to his presence. The quick exhale of air through his nose breaks through the silent evening, your pointed ears twitching at the sound. 

Your eyes snap to the tall human standing behind half-open sliding glass doors. Dishwater-blond hair and biceps that threaten to stretch a pink polo shirt to its limits make it difficult to look away or even breathe, especially as his gemstone-blue eyes twinkle in the evening sun. 

This bashful, bespectacled man must be the one who left this wonderful feast for you. A slow smile spreads across your lips as you imagine how easy it would be to lure him into the garden. It’ll be even easier for him to give you his name. 

And once you have his name, you hold his world in your hands.

After all, humans have a strange habit of introducing themselves to whoever they meet—be they human, animal, or mischievous fae. 

☀️🍓✨🧚🏼☀️🍓✨🧚🏼☀️🍓✨🧚🏼

A/N: Holy crap. This is the first thing I’ve written and posted since 2024. It's been a minute! But Dennis is just too irresistible! 🤭