hiii can i plsss request something with a VERY dom jj where reader is jhon b's little sister and it always felt like they were her two big brothers, and earlier that morning when the griup was talking it was mentioned some boy having a crush on reader because jhon b was teasing her about it, and jj played along but he couldn't quite understand why was he deep down a bit bothered by the idea. He told himself he was just protective of you since he known you since always. but later that night jj comes to the chateau kinda drunk to find reader watching tv on the couch (jhon b is sleeping) and when he sits with her there to talk whatever he realizes in his current state that he's actually jealous? And one thing leads to another and... Smut?š«£
a/n: loved your request, love. I did the smut a bit less appealing, hope you don't mind. I spent the whole night writing this, with my elbows holding myself up on the mattress and now my shoulder hurts like hell, but it was worth it. Lately I'm only able to focus on this request. Is it like a maniac episode?
For the next fics I'll only be working with requests, so send yours too. <3
Part I: The Ghost of the Marsh
The smell of marsh water, salt, and stale beer was the closest thing to oxygen you had ever known.
Living at the Chateau meant accepting a perpetual layer of grit under your fingernails and the constant, rhythmic thrum of the screen door slapping against its frame. As John Bās younger sister, you were woven directly into the fabric of the marsh. You were a Routledge, which meant you were expected to survive the heat, the humidity, and the occasional brush with the law. But while John B carried the heavy, obsessive mantle of their fatherās legacy, you had a different kind of shadow following you.
For as long as you could remember, JJ had been an extension of the house itselfāloud, unpredictable, and fiercely, almost violently, protective. When you were twelve and a group of Kooks had pushed you off your bike near Figure Eight, it wasnāt John B who had chased them down with a broken piece of driftwood; it was JJ, his eyes wild with a feral, protective rage that even then had terrified and thrilled you. He had adopted you as his official ward, a self-appointed duty that John B gladly outsourced. To the rest of the Cut, JJ was your second brother. The fiercer one. The one who didn't hesitate to pull a gun if someone breathed too heavily in your direction.
But somewhere between the endless summer nights of your seventeenth year and the suffocating heat of the present, the geometry of that relationship had warped.
It happened in the quiet spaces. It happened on the days when the Pogues scatteredāwhen John B was chasing leads, Pope was buried in books, and Kiara was protesting at the marina.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the heat index hit triple digits, rendering the Chateau a wooden oven. The air was thick enough to chew. John B had taken the Twinkie into town, leaving you and JJ stranded.
"If I stay inside this house for another ten minutes, Iām going to spontaneously combust," JJ groaned, dropping his legs from the back of the sofa. He was shirtless, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead in damp, golden rings.
"The waterās the only place that won't kill us," you muttered, looking up from the floor where you had been trying to catch the faint breeze of a dying box fan.
JJ looked down at you, his blue eyes tracking the way your hair was pinned loosely at the top of your head, a few stray pieces damp against the back of your neck. A strange, unreadable flicker crossed his faceāa brief shadow that he instantly masked with his signature, crooked smirk. "Come on, kid. Letās go hit the secret spot. If we drown, at least we die cool."
The "secret spot" was a secluded stretch of beach tucked behind a dense wall of sea oats and maritime forest, far enough from the public docks that the tourists rarely found it. You walked there in silence, the sand burning the bottoms of your feet until you reached the damp, packed shoreline where the Atlantic licked the coast.
Without a word, JJ shed his battered cap and dove straight into the surf. You followed, the shock of the Atlantic water drawing a sharp gasp from your lungs. When you surfaced, JJ was already there, shaking his head like a dog, spraying water into the afternoon sun.
For an hour, it was exactly like childhood. You wrestled in the surf, JJ deliberately dunking you until you choked on saltwater, only for you to exact revenge by climbing onto his back and dragging him under. He laughedāthat loud, unburdened laugh that only came out when he was miles away from his fatherās house.
But then, the tide began to shift, and the exhaustion of the heat caught up to you both.
You swam back to the shallow water, sitting where the waves broke gently against your waist. JJ sat beside you, leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling. The sun was beginning its long, slow descent, turning the sky into a bruised palette of violet and deep gold.
"You got saltwater in your eyes," JJ said softly.
You turned your head to look at him. He wasn't looking at the horizon anymore. He was looking at you.
"I'm fine," you said, but your voice sounded smaller than you intended.
JJ didn't answer. Slowly, with a deliberate gentleness that felt entirely foreign to his usual chaotic energy, he reached out. His thumb was rough, calloused from boat ropes and manual labor, but as he brushed a stray, wet lock of hair away from your cheek, his touch was lighter than a feather. His fingers lingered at the edge of your jawline.
Your breath hitched in your throat. The water swirling around your hips felt suddenly scalding.
JJās eyes dropped to your lips, just for a fraction of a second, before darting back to yours. The playful, older-brother facade didn't just slip; it completely vanished, revealing something raw, heavy, and desperately hungry underneath. You could hear the faint sound of his breath over the crashing waves. He was so close you could see the tiny gold flecks in his irises, could smell the salt and the faint, permanent trace of tobacco on his skin.
"JJ," you whispered. You didn't know if you were asking him to stop or begging him to move closer.
The sound of your voice seemed to snap a wire inside him. He blinked, his hand dropping from your face as if he had just burned himself on a hot stove. He forced a laugh, though it sounded choked, and stood up abruptly, shaking the sand from his shorts.
"We, uh... we should probably get back before John B thinks we got eaten by sharks," he said, staring fixedly at the sand beneath his feet. "He'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."
"Yeah," you said, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Yeah, okay."
You walked back to the Chateau three feet apart, the space between you heavy with an unuttered truth. You had looked into the abyss of something dangerous, and neither of you knew how to look away.
Part II: The Green-Eyed Monster
The weekend brought the rest of the crew back into orbit. The tension of that afternoon on the beach remained buried, a hidden landmine that both you and JJ carefully stepped around. You went back to your roles: you were the protected little sister; he was the reckless protector.
By Saturday afternoon, the Pogues had gathered on the beach near the wreckage of an old fishing pier. A rusted cooler full of cheap beer sat in the center of a circle of mismatched beach chairs. John B was sprawled on a towel, balancing a beer on his stomach, while Pope was meticulously trying to fix a tangled fishing reel. Kiara was sitting on the edge of a overturned kayak, her eyes scanning the shoreline.
You were sitting on a driftwood log, your legs tucked up under your chin, watching the waves. JJ was a few feet away, leaning against a rotting pier piling, idly tossing a pocketknife into the soft sand between his feet.
"Hey," Kiara said suddenly, nudging your shoulder with her foot. "Look whoās coming up the beach. Don't look look, but look."
Naturally, everyone looked.
Walking along the shoreline was Topperās cousin, Ben. He was a Kook by blood, but he was one of the few who didn't actively sneer when he crossed the bridge to the Cut. He was tall, athletic, with clean-cut dark hair, wearing a pair of pristine designer board shorts that practically screamed country club membership.
"Oh, great. The country club infantry," John B muttered, squinting through his sunglasses.
"Actually," Kiara said, a wicked grin spreading across her face, "Benās not that bad. And more importantly, he has been asking Sarah about someone in particular." She leveled a significant look directly at you.
Your stomach dropped. You shot Kiara a warning look, but it was too late. The Pogue radar had been activated.
"Wait, what?" John B sat up, his beer nearly spilling. "What do you mean, asking about her?"
"I mean," Kiara teased, leaning forward, "he told Sarah at the wreck last night that he thinks your little sister is the prettiest girl on the island. He asked if she was seeing anyone. Apparently, heās got a massive crush."
John B let out a loud, theatrical groan. "No. Absolutely not. No Kooks allowed within a five-mile radius of my sister. Pope, back me up here."
"Statistically speaking, cross-distinction relationships on the Outer Banks have an eighty percent failure rate due to socio-economic friction," Pope supplied without looking up from his fishing reel.
Everyone laughed. John B started making kissing noises, leaning over to shove your shoulder. "Hear that? Pope says itās scientifically a bad idea. Sorry, sis, youāre grounded from the rich boy."
You flushed red, laughing to cover the sudden, intense awkwardness that pooled in your gut. "Shut up, John B. I don't even know him."
"Hey, heās looking over here!" Kiara hissed, waving subtly.
Down the beach, Ben caught her eye, looked at you, and offered a polite, genuine smile, tipping his head in your direction before continuing his jog.
"Oh, look at that! The Kook prince bows!" John B yelled, laughing. He turned toward the pier piling. "JJ, look at this guy. You gotta put a hit out on him. Heās trying to move in on your territory."
It was a joke. John B meant territory in the protective, brotherly sense. But the words hung in the humid air like a lead weight.
He didn't even look up from the sand. He flipped the pocketknife, catching it by the handle with a sharp, practiced snap. "Yeah," JJ said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual manic energy. He forced a lazy, synthetic smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Guy looks like he uses a ruler to part his hair. Probably cries when he gets salt in his eyes."
"Spoken like a true hater," Kiara laughed.
"I'm just saying," JJ continued, his tone shifting into something sharper, a little too loud, a little too biting as he finally looked up, his blue eyes locking directly onto yours. "If she wants to go out with a guy who wears pastel polos and probably has a trust fund for his hair gel, thatās her business. Just don't come crying to me when he takes you to a yacht club dinner and you realize he can't even change a flat tire."
The sharpness in his voice caught everyone off guard. The laughter died down a fraction. John B frowned slightly, looking between JJ and you. "Whoa, J-Boy. Relax. Itās just a joke."
JJ shrugged, his jaw tight. He jammed the knife into the wood of the piling, leaving it vibrating. "I am relaxed. Just saying. Kooks are Kooks." He reached down, grabbed a beer from the cooler, popped the top with his lighter, and took a long, aggressive swig.
You stared at him, your chest aching. The jealousy was rolling off him in waves, thick and toxic, masked poorly behind a wall of bravado. He wouldn't look at you now. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, his knuckles white around the glass.
You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to tell him that you didn't care about Ben, or the yacht club, or anyone else on this godforsaken island. But you couldn't. Not with John B sitting right there. Not with Kiara watching. So you sat in the suffocating silence of what wasn't being said, watching JJ drown his anger in warm beer.
Part III: The Breaking Point
The storm hit the Outer Banks around midnight, bringing a torrential downpour that rattled the tin roof of the Chateau like a machine gun.
Inside, the house was dark. John B had crashed hours ago, exhausted from working a double shift at the marina, his heavy, rhythmic breathing audible from his bedroom.
You couldn't sleep. The heat from the day had broken, replaced by a damp, electric chill that rolled in with the thunder. You were curled up on the threadbare couch, wrapped in a faded quilt, watching the rain lash against the screen door. The world outside was pitch black, lit only by the occasional, violent flash of lightning that illuminated the skeletal branches of the live oaks outside.
At 2:00 AM, the headlights of a fading motorcycle cut through the trees, throwing long, distorted shadows across the living room walls. The engine cut out, followed by the heavy, uneven thud of boots on the porch steps.
The door flew open, letting in a gust of wet wind and the unmistakable scent of cheap whiskey and rain.
He was soaked to the bone. His clothes clung to his frame, and his blonde hair was plastered wildly against his face. He didn't notice you at first. He shut the door behind him with a little too much force, the wood rattling in its frame. He leaned his head against the door, letting out a long, ragged breath that smelled of alcohol.
"JJ?" you whispered into the dark.
He flinched, his head snapping up. In the faint light of the kitchen nightlight, you could see his eyesābloodshot, unfocused, and dark with a volatile mix of exhaustion and emotion.
"What are you doing up?" he demanded. His voice was thick, slurred at the edges, but raspy and low.
"I couldn't sleep," you said, sitting up, the quilt sliding off your shoulders. "You're freezing. You're completely soaked, JJ. Where have you been?"
"Out," he muttered, kicking his wet boots off. One of them hit the wall with a loud thud. He didn't seem to care. He stumbled into the living room, swaying slightly as he stopped at the edge of the coffee table, looking down at you. "Don't start with the lecture, okay? I get enough of that from Pope."
"I'm not lecturing you," you said softly, standing up. The sight of him like thisāvulnerable, angry, and clearly drowning in whatever thoughts had consumed him since this afternoonāmade your throat tight. "Come here. Let me get you a towel."
"I don't want a towel," he snapped.
You paused, looking at him. "JJ, you're drunk. And you're acting like a jerk."
"Yeah, well, maybe I am a jerk," he countered, stepping closer into your space. The distance between you vanished. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his wet shirt. "Maybe Iām exactly what everyone thinks I am. A screw-up. A Pogue from the Cut whoās good for nothing but picking fights and driving a boat."
"Nobody thinks that," you said, your voice rising in frustration. "John B doesn't think that. I don't think that."
"Don't lie to me!" JJ suddenly yelled, though he checked himself instantly, his eyes darting toward John Bās closed door before dropping his voice to a fierce, venomous whisper. "Don't lie to me. I saw the way you were looking at that Kook on the beach today. I saw it."
You stared at him, incredulous. "Are you serious right now? Ben? I don't even know him, JJ! Kiara was just messing around!"
"But you liked it," he accused, his voice trembling now, a raw edge of pain cutting through the alcohol-fueled anger. He took another step, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders. His fingers were cold, dripping wet, but his grip was frantic, tight enough to bruise. "You liked the idea of some clean-cut guy with a future taking you away from this dump. Taking you away from... from me."
"Why do you care?!" you cried out, the frustration that had been building for months finally exploding. You pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. He felt like solid stone beneath your hands. "Why do you care who looks at me, JJ? Youāre supposed to be my brotherās friend! Youāre supposed to be my friend! Youāve spent years telling me what to do, protecting me, acting like you own me, and then the second someone else even looks in my direction, you treat me like Iām some kind of traitor!"
"Because I'm losing my mind!" JJ roared, the confession tearing out of his throat like a physical wound.
The room went dead silent, save for the roar of the rain outside.
JJās breathing was ragged. His grip on your shoulders softened, his hands sliding down to your arms, his fingers trembling violently. The anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving behind something so devastatingly broken that it broke your heart to look at it.
"I am losing my mind," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper now, cracking under the weight of it. He stepped so close your foreheads almost touched. "Iāve been losing it for a year. Every time you look at me, every time you smile at some guy who isn't me, I feel like I'm dying. I'm supposed to protect you. That was the deal. Iām supposed to keep you safe from the bad guys. But I can't protect you from me."
You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe. "JJ..."
"I'm crazy about you," he whispered, his eyes searching yours in the dark, desperate and terrified. "Iāve been crazy about you for so long, and itās killing me because youāre John Bās sister, and you deserve someone who can give you a real life. Not a guy who lives on a couch and has a dad who hates him. I tried to keep my mouth shut. God, I tried so hard. But seeing you today... thinking about some Kook touching you..."
He let out a ragged sob, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. He was shaking. "I can't do it. I can't pretend anymore."
The walls you had built up, the fear of John B finding out, the fear of ruining the Poguesāit all dissolved into the dark room.
You reached up, your hands cupping his wet face, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks were wet, a mixture of rain and tears. "JJ, look at me."
He looked up, his blue eyes wide, waiting for the rejection he was certain was coming.
"I don't want a Kook prince," you said, your voice fierce with a certainty you had never felt before. "I don't want anyone else. Iāve been waiting for you to realize that for months."
JJ stared at you, his brain trying to process the words through the haze of the alcohol and his own self-loathing. "What?"
"I love you, you idiot," you whispered.
Part IV: The Fire in the Dark
JJ didn't answer with words.
He lunged forward, his mouth crashing against yours with a desperate, starved intensity that took your breath away. It wasn't gentle. It was the release of months of suffocating restraint, a dam breaking after a torrential storm.
His lips were hot against yours, tasting of salt, whiskey, and pure, unadulterated desire. His hands flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no air left between you. You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, and he took advantage of it, his tongue sliding past your lips, deep and demanding, claiming you in a way he never had before.
A low, guttural groan escaped the back of his throat. He lifted you effortlessly, your feet leaving the hardwood floor, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you back against the wall of the living room, the wood thudding softly behind you as he pressed his entire body weight into yours.
Every point of contact was electric. His wet shirt was freezing against your chest, but the heat radiating from his skin was scorching.
"Tell me to stop," JJ gasped, tearing his mouth away from yours for a fraction of a second, his lips brushing against your jawline, down to the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath was hot, sending shivers down your spine. "Tell me to stop right now, because if you don't, I'm not going to be able to."
"Don't you dare stop," you breathed, arching your neck as his mouth found a particularly sensitive spot right beneath your ear.
He sucked sharply, leaving a mark you knew youād have to hide from John B in the morning, but in this moment, you didn't care. You didn't care about tomorrow. You didn't care about the consequences.
JJās hands slid down your thighs, his grip tight and possessive, anchoring you to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a fierce, primal hunger. "You're mine," he growled, the alcohol making his voice deeper, more dangerous. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you whispered, your hands sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his ribs before gripping the hem of his wet shirt. "Take this off. It's freezing."
He let you drop back to your feet, his eyes never leaving yours as he ripped the wet cotton over his head and threw it onto the floor. In the shadows, his chest was beautifulālean, muscular, marked by the scars of his life but moving rapidly with his labored breathing.
You didn't wait. You stepped back into him, your bare palms flattening against his warm chest. He shuddered at the touch, his hands instantly finding the hem of your oversized t-shirt. He lifted it slowly, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach, causing your muscles to tighten. He pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside.
When his eyes fell on you in your undergarments, the heat in the room seemed to double. JJ let out a shaky breath, his gaze traveling slowly down your body before snapping back to your face.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his voice completely devoid of its earlier bravado. It was pure reverence.
He stepped forward, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. You could feel the hard, undeniable ridge of his desire pressing against your stomach, a stark reminder of just how much he wanted you. He leaned down, his mouth finding yours again, but this time, the desperation morphed into a slow, intoxicating heat.
He backed you up toward the couch, his knees hitting the cushions. He shifted, pulling you down with him, mapping your body with his hands as you tangled yourself together on the narrow sofa.
The cushions groaned under your combined weight, but the sound was drowned out by the thunder outside. JJ was on top of you now, his heat enveloping you completely. His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts, drawing a sharp, ragged breath from your lips.
"JJ," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders, tracking the line of his spine.
"I've got you," he murmured against your skin, his lips traveling down your collarbone, his hands moving to the waistband of your shorts. "I've got you, baby."
Every touch was a revelation. For years, he had been the boy who held your hand when you were scared, the boy who stood between you and the world. But tonight, he was someone entirely different. He was the man who loved you, who wanted to consume you, who was pouring every ounce of his hidden devotion into the way his skin slid against yours.
When the tension finally boiled over, he didn't hesitate. JJ guided your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders with a firm, unyielding grip that asserted complete control over your body. He positioned himself between your thighs, his knuckles white as he caressed the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his thumbs smoothing over your flesh in a stark, breathtaking contrast of absolute gentleness against his raw power. Then, with a low, ragged growl, he drove his hips forward, entering you in one deep, demanding thrust that made you arch off the cushions. It was a strong, dominant claimāunapologetic and consumingābut as he buried himself completely inside you, his composure fractured. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he anchored his weight above you, his hands anchoring your hips to his. Every powerful, deliberate stride of his hips met yours with a desperate intensity that felt less like a conquest and more like a profound, protective surrender, proving with every deep shift of his body just how fiercely, and how deeply, he loved you.
The heat broke over you both like a wave. In the dark, cramped space of the Chateauās living room, surrounded by the ghosts of your childhood and the roaring storm outside, you lost yourself in him. The movements were frantic at first, fueled by years of denial, but as the minutes stretched, they became slow, heavy, and deeply intimate. Every sigh, every quiet gasp that you muffled against his shoulder, was a secret kept between the two of you.
Part V: The Morning After
When the sun finally broke through the clouds, it didn't look like a storm had ever passed.
The marsh was quiet, the air clean and washed of the heavy humidity. Golden morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the Chateau, casting long, peaceful squares of light across the living room floor.
You woke up with your head resting on JJās bare chest.
The quilt was pulled up over both of you, shielding you from the morning chill. JJās arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, his fingers idly twitching against your hip even in his sleep. His face was soft, the hard lines of his jaw relaxed, his blonde hair a messy halo around his head. He looked younger when he was asleep. He looked safe.
You shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but his grip instantly tightened, pulling you closer into his chest.
"Don't move," he muttered, his voice incredibly deep and gravelly from sleep and the lingering effects of the whiskey.
You smiled, resting your chin on his chest. "You're awake?"
He opened one blue eye, squinting against the morning light. A slow, genuine smile spread across his faceānot his usual smirk, but something warm and deeply contented. "Yeah. Have been for a few minutes. Just didn't want to ruin this."
He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray hair from your forehead, mimicking the gesture from the beach, but this time, there was no fear. No retreat.
"How's your head?" you asked softly.
"Hurts like hell," he admitted, wincing slightly. "But the rest of me feels better than I have in years." He paused, his eyes turning serious as he looked down at you. "You don't regret... any of last night, do you?"
"Never," you said firmly, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Never, JJ."
He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since midnight, kissing you back thoroughly before pulling the quilt higher.
Suddenly, the floorboards in the hallway groaned.
The sound of John Bās door clicking open echoed through the quiet house.
Panic, sharp and immediate, shot through you both. JJās eyes went wide. In a flash of silent, chaotic coordination, you scrambled off the couch, grabbing your discarded t-shirt from the floor, while JJ lunged for his wet shirt, realizing with horror that it was still a damp ball of denim and cotton.
"Hey," John Bās voice called out from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the refrigerator door opening. "Either of you guys see my sunglasses? I swear I left them on theā"
John B walked into the living room, a half-empty carton of orange juice in his hand.
You were sitting on the edge of the couch, wrapped tightly in the quilt up to your chin, trying to look like you had just casually been enjoying the morning light. JJ was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, completely shirtless, his damp hair sticking out in every direction, casually flipping his pocketknife into the coffee table as if he hadn't just been entangled with your body five minutes prior.
John B stopped, looking at the two of you. He blinked, his eyes tracking the general air of absolute chaos in the room.
"Why do you look like you just survived a shipwreck?" John B asked, pointing the orange juice carton at JJ.
JJ didn't miss a beat. He offered a lazy, perfect version of his signature smirk, leaning back against the cushions. "Storm woke me up, man. Bike got soaked. Came in late and crashed on the floor. Your couch is lumpy, by the way. You need a new one."
John B sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, tell that to my bank account. You want some juice?"
"Nah, I'm good," JJ said.
John B turned back toward the kitchen, completely oblivious. "We gotta hit the boat docks by ten. Pope says the carburetor on the HMS Pogue is acting up again."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there," JJ called out.
The second John B disappeared back into the kitchen, you let out a massive breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You looked over at JJ.
He was staring at you, his eyes sparkling with a wicked, dangerous amusement. He leaned across the short distance of the couch, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.
"Weāre going to have to get really good at lying," he whispered, a brilliant, happy grin breaking across his face.
You reached out under the quilt, your bare foot nudging his leg. "I think we can manage."
JJ caught your ankle under the blanket, his thumb tracing the soft skin there, a secret touch in a house full of noise. The future was uncertain, the Pogues were bound to find out eventually, and John B would probably lose his mind. But as you watched JJ smile in the morning sun, you knew that for the first time in your life, the marsh wasn't just a place you were surviving.
It was a place where you were loved.
