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from-memphis-with-love · 27 days

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Magic Man

Summary: Elvis breaks in a virgin. Word count: ~2,200 words of pure, unadulterated smut inspired by this post. This is purely a work of fiction, and from what I have read of how Elvis actually treated his lovers in real life, is probably a lot less tender and loving than the actual Elvis would have been. But it's make believe and fun, so enjoy it! Warnings: 20 year age gap, dubious consent at some points, full intercourse, course language. Somewhat callous treatment of Elvis' taste for younger women.

His bedroom is a gilded cage, dripping with excess and the stench of hedonism. Elvis's entourage has left them alone, finally, after weeks of teasing glances and knowing winks. Tonight, it’s just him and his prey—sweet little Molly van Patton. All night, she’s tried to resist, but his primal aura is too strong to deny. He’s charming. Dangerous. A seasoned, world-famous rock star. And she's just a 19-year-old innocent, trembling on the edge of womanhood. Just like he likes ‘em.

Their meeting felt like some sort of strange, cosmic joke. She wasn’t a fan, hadn’t even intended to go see his show. But her best friend convinced her, one thing led to another, and now here she is, somehow lying in his colossal bed like a tiny helpless creature, her presence filling him with a burning desire to crush and destroy.

Now, he traces his lips down her neck, pausing to nuzzle at the hollow of her collarbone. Sweetly at first, then more insistently as she drags long, jagged breaths. Molly can’t help but gasp under the full weight of him, her body opening up in ways she’s never experienced before. It’s heady and intoxicating and dangerous and delicious and—

Oh. Oh.

Each touch sets off an electric current, making her arch closer. She runs her fingers through the thick hair on his chest, feeling the cool metal of his gold lion's head medallion pressed against her own breasts. But as he reaches for her waistband, she hesitates.

“Stop,” Molly trembles. Heat flushes her cheeks. "I’m not… I don’t…"

Elvis nuzzles her neck. His hand is dangerously close to unzipping her skirt. He’s in a taking mood tonight.

“Please,” she pleads. “Won’t they know what we’re doing in here?”

Elvis chuckles, a low, deep rumbling sound that vibrates through her very bones. “Baby, they don’t care. They’re probably already placing bets on how long you’ll last.”

Molly's heart plummets into her stomach. Of course they knew. All those knowing glances and hushed whispers, they’d known all along. Her face flushes and it's all she can do to grab her things and run.

But Elvis doesn't give her time to process this newfound knowledge. His insistent lips find her earlobe, nibbling it lightly as he whispers lewd suggestions she can't comprehend but her body understands. Against her better judgment, heat pools between her legs, and she bites back a moan of desire.

"Just one more," Elvis purrs, his voice thick with want, sending shivers down Molly's spine. "One more’n I'll stop.”

But one more turns into two, and then three, and before she knows it, she’s powerless under him. She feebly attempts to push him away, but his strong arms grasp her tighter. His grip is firm but not quite enough to leave bruises. Not yet at least. But she knows it’s coming. Braces for it. His lips find her neck again.

The heat between her thighs grows unbearable, and she clenches them together, as if that could stop the freight train that is Elvis Presley. As if it could cool the fire raging through her veins. She’s never felt so alive, so free, so needed and… so scared, as she does tonight in his arms. But as he inches lower, kiss by agonizing kiss awakening something primal inside her, Molly panics.

This is really happening.

She’s about to give herself to a man she barely knows, a man nearly twenty years her senior. One who could crush her like a fly if he wanted to. Her heart kicks into overdrive, adrenaline coursing as she manages to shove him off.

“No!” she cries out, the word catching in her throat. Molly’s outburst gives Elvis pause. Hurt and confusion flash across his face as he pulls back, propping himself up on one elbow.

“What is it?” his voice is gruff but not unkind.

Molly turns her face away, cheeks flaming. How can she tell him? That despite her adventurous friend and all the talk, she's never actually… that he would be her first.

Elvis regards her steadily. Impossibly long black lashes curtain the genuine concern in his eyes. Molly's pulse throbs in her ears.

"Please don't make me say it," she whispers finally. Molly squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall. But a single drop escapes, trailing down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's just… I've never…"

Understanding dawns on Elvis' face. He brushes the tear from her face with surprising tenderness.

"Never been with a man before?" he asks gently.

Molly shakes her head, a furious blush creeping up her neck. She expects anger, derision, rejection. For him to throw her out and call for the next girl.

But instead, Elvis tips her chin up to look at him. "Oh honey," he murmurs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Molly's breath catches in her throat as Elvis regards her with unexpected tenderness. His hands, which moments before seemed so insistent, now caress her face and arms with featherlight touches.

"I was afraid you wouldn't want me anymore," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elvis shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. "Oh darlin', that don't matter one bit to me. I want you, Molly girl. I want to make you feel real good."

He drags his thumb over her bottom lip and Molly shivers. She knows she should leave, should find Doreen and book it out of there before she does something reckless. But the way Elvis is looking at her, like she's the only woman in the world… it makes her feel powerful. Desired. Dangerous.

She... likes it?

"Just relax and lemme take care of you," Elvis murmurs, his breath hot against her ear. With that, the last of her resolve melts.

His hands, knowing and sure, explore her curves, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She moans, melting into him, her body betraying her. She's scared, yes, but she's also aching for more. He senses her hesitation, easing her back even further, parting her thighs with a tenderness belied by the impressive size of his hands. His eyes are hungry, admiring the perfect, trembling creature before him.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, running a calloused finger along her jawline. His words were like sweet poison, both thrilling and terrifying. "Shh, baby," he coos, "I gotcha."

He kisses her, his lips firm yet gentle, as if he can taste her innocence. Her first kiss, her first everything, all with him. She was born for him.

His lips trail down her breasts, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Molly arches into the sensation, the soft scratch of his stubble against her skin. His hand slides down to her stomach, fingertips tracing the sensitive flesh just below her belly button.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks hoarsely. She shakes her head, unable to form words. "Say it, Molly girl." He presses a kiss to her hip bone, nipping lightly at it.

"No," she gasps. "Don't stop."

He smiles against her skin. "Good girl," he purrs before lowering his mouth to where she's aching for him most.

His tongue flicks forward, teasing her entrance and Molly cries out, her fingers curling into the silk sheets. She looks down at him—somewhere down there—through one open eye.

"Is that what... are you supposed to be—"

Before she can finish her sentence, his hands grip her thighs. Fear and desire battle within her, but desire wins out as curious pecks and licks turn into long, languid strokes. Bracing himself, Elvis feasts on her, like she's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. She finally opens her eyes and there he is in all his glory: lapping at her, coaxing the desire out of her body and onto his waiting tongue. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through her. "Oh God," she whuffs out, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice wonders what everyone else must be thinking. But then Elvis's tongue buries itself deep within again, soft and wet, and all thoughts vanish into thin air. His hands grip the soft flesh of her hips, guiding her closer to him as he laps at her vulnerable center. She's never felt anything like this before, the pleasure so unbearable it hurts.

"That's it, baby," he growls into her glistening pussy, "ride it out."

And she does. His tongue flicks and swirls, plunging inside her, mimicking what she imagines is his impressive length.

By now, the whole house must hear her moans, but she doesn’t care. She’s coming undone whether she wants to or not, and she’s never felt more alive.

“Oh, Elvis,” she moans, her voice high and desperate, “Oh, I—”

Molly van Patton shudders and bucks against him, her first ever orgasm coursing through her body like wildfire. He doesn't stop though, not until she's sobbing and spent, her juices coating his face. He looks up at her through hooded lids, a satisfied smirk on his full lips.

“I ain’t done with you yet.”

He moves up her body, his manhood hard and throbbing against her thigh. Her entrance flutters in anticipation, and Elvis smiles at the sight. He positions himself there, large and intimidating.

“Relax, li’l girl,” he whispers in her ear. “I’ll be real gentle.” Molly looks up at him, eyes wide, pleading.

“You sure you want this?”

She nods dutifully.

“Say it f’me, now.”

“I want you inside me.”

That’s all he needs. Before she can take it back, he slides in an inch, and then another. He’s so big, stretching her so wide she’s certain she’ll split in half. Certain he'll pierce her and she'll never be the same again. Tears leak from her eyes, mixing with the mascara from earlier.

“Shh,” he soothes, “I got you.” His accent is thicker than usual, sweet like molasses. Slowly, bit by excruciating bit, Elvis works himself inside her tight heat. Molly bites her lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway.

At that, Elvis groans, and then he’s entering her more and more until he bottoms out. He's still for a moment, ensuring she can truly take in all of his length. “Tell me how it feels,” he grunts, as he slowly picks up speed.

“It hurts,” she pants out. But it’s a delectable sort of hurt. He’s filling her up in ways she never thought possible. Each thrust has her teeth bitting his shoulder tighter.

“I know, baby,” he coos into her ear, “but it gets better, I promise.”

And somehow, it does. The pain eases and is replaced with a delicious ache that has her hips rocking towards his.. Heat pools in her belly as he claims her with every thrust, like she was made for him and only him.

“You’re so tight,” he moans. “Made for me.”

It’s a mantra, a vow, as a he pistons in and out, breaking her in with every stroke. Her climax from before was nothing compared to this. She’s soon whimpering, clawing at his back, an evil sob stuck in her throat.

"That's it, baby," he pants, "give it all to me."

Elvis pulls out swiftly, leaving Molly empty and aching. In one smooth motion, he flips her over onto her stomach.

"On your knees," he commands.

Molly whimpers but obeys, presenting herself to him on all fours. Elvis groans at the sight, gripping her hips tightly.

He enters her from behind in one powerful thrust. Molly cries out, the new angle allowing him to penetrate her even deeper. Elvis sets a ruthless pace, pounding into her relentlessly.

The sound of slapping flesh fills the air as he claims her, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. He hits a spot deep inside that has Molly seeing stars. She pushes her hips back to meet his brutal thrusts, unable to get enough.

"That's right, take it," Elvis growls. His breathing is labored in her ear, hot and ragged. Sweat beads on his brow, dripping onto her shoulder blades, but he doesn’t relent. “You’re taking me so good. You love it, don’t you?”

She does. Oh, God, does she ever. Fuck it. If this was wrong, she didn’t want to be right.

He keeps pounding into her, and it's dizzying and intoxicating all at once. The room spins as she clings to the headboard for dear life, his name a curse on her lips, a talisman against the building pleasure-pain coiling in her core. His pace quickens, hot breath on her neck, and his thick chest hair tickling her back.

“El… vis…” she mewls. “Right there!”

He obliges, his expert hands massaging her swollen clit as he pounds into her from behind.

“Yeah, just like that,” he rasps as Molly bucks against him, working the length of his cock with her slick and pushing her hips back to meet his brutal thrusts, unable to get enough. It shocks him how quickly she took to his cock. Elvis’ fingers dig almost painfully into her hips, urging her on. “That’s right, take what you need.”

"Elvis, I..."

The pressure builds, coiling in her belly like a spring. “That’s my girl, let it go,” he growls in her ear, and that’s all it takes.

Her body explodes into a million stars, tightening around him as she screams her release. Just like that, it hits her all at once—from heaven and hell itself, crashing over her like a tidal wave and even more powerful than the first. Colors dance behind her eyelids.

Elvis’ nails dig into her back, and she can feel the delicious sting as they break the skin. “Unnngh,” he grunts, “I’m fuckin’ close.” The filthy words spur her on, and she clenches around him, the fluttering of her walls easing up, and suddenly she’s slowly floating back to earth and back to life and back to his gigantic bed in his gigantic mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.

He growls and buries himself even deeper, his thrusts erratic and desperate now. Harder and harder until he, too, splinters apart, shattering inside her like stained glass. He grunts, his release warm and sticky deep inside her.

Later, Elvis cocoons Molly in his strong arms and starts to rock her gently. As she drifts off to sleep, she knows there's no going back.

She's his now, body and soul. That’s the price she paid for giving in to her darkest desire.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #big daddy elvis

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cloverthebarbearian · 4 months

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Could I request a Rolan little one-shot where he realizes he has feelings for Tav/reader (your choice!) like hits him like a freight train kind of realization?

Thank you for the request! I bestow upon you my holiday tidings with a gift I hope you enjoy hehe

Thank You (Rolan x GN Tav)

He didn't think it possible, and yet… Here he was. A well known, well respected Master of Magic, thriving in the city of Baldur's Gate. Successful, secure, and safe. Surrounded by family and friends alike. It truly is nothing short of a miracle. To think 6 short months ago, he would have been ignorant enough to have thrown everything away all for a huff of Lorroakan's dust.

Rolan chuckled to himself. Were the bastard still alive, he couldn't hold a candle to him now. He stood proud atop the balcony of Sorcerous Sundries, watching patrons and practitioners peruse the enchanted wares. Now more than ever, business was booming. With the help of fellow magic adept Gale of Waterdeep and Tav - the very Hero of Baldur's Gate themselves - they had managed to uncover quite the trove of hidden knowledge within the depths of Ramazith's Tower. After setting aside what they together deemed too dangerous for public exposure, they gathered the remainder of the collection to add to the Sundries shelves.

Were it too bold to believe this would usher in a new era of magic for the common mage? Rolan had been juggling the thought. After everything he'd gone through - everything Tav had done for him - he had been trying to catch himself in moments like these. Reminding himself to remain humble. He was a proud man, why shouldn't he be? This was something to be proud of! But he knew all too well how easily pride devolved into arrogance, and arrogance to hubris. And he didn't achieve any of this alone. Were it not for that queer collection of intrepid adventures, he would still be under Lorroakan's thumb. Still the punching bag of a cruel and selfish Master.

His grip tightened on the banister before him, until he heard the familiar woosh of a transportation portal activating nearby. Soon followed by the unlatching of the locked metal doors, and the spilling of said adventurers from the upstairs offices. Hands full of tomes and scrolls and bits and bobbles collected from within the tower chambers.

"Don't mind us!" Gale stated once he caught Rolan staring, his chin just barely peaking over the stack of supplies in his arms, "Just one last restock of the shelves below to keep this fortuitous business of yours flourishing and we'll be back on our way!" Nearly tripping over himself in the process, he managed to make it down to the ground floor of the establishment without any disastrous spills occurring.

Cal and Lia came shuffling through the doors next, bickering with themselves, significantly more manageable amounts of potions and alchemical ingredients in their own arms to add to the storefront collection.

Tav came from the small room last, a bundle of wands and staffs strapped to their back. After turning to lock the office door behind them, they caught Rolan's eyes with a smile. Joining him by the terrace edge, they too overlooked the bustling crowd below.

"Pretty remarkable what you've managed to do with this place," they commented. Rolan smiled and shook his head.

"What I've managed-?" He scoffed, "I don't think any if this was independently my doing. But... Thank you," he replied, still watching the patrons beneath them.

Tav nodded, smiling once more before stepping away. They had barely made it three steps down before Rolan called after them.

"Actually-!" His voice caught as Tav turned back and looked up at him. Rolan bit his lip in thought, tilting his head as to motion for Tav to return. They made their way back by his side, and he shifted to look at them.

"Actually, Tav… I don't think I've ever thanked you. Properly, thanked you."

Tav smiled, friendly and goofy, "Actually, Rolan, you have thanked me before. Quite a number of times," to that, Rolan smiled sheepishly.

"Sure, sure. I've thanked you for saving my and my family's lives a dozen times. I've thanked you for saving the city. But I don't think I've ever thanked you for… well, This," he gestured back out towards the bustling business.

Tav looked out, smiling once more in sincerity. Taking a deep breath in, they turned to Rolan again, "I would say 'you're welcome', but I'm not sure why I'd have anything to do with your trade being a success. You're the wizard here, not me," they nudged at the staffs on their back, "If anything, I'm your glorified errand-boy. Thank me by giving me a pay raise," they joked.

Rolan laughed, "You're much more to me than an errand-boy, Tav. You know this."

He looked them in the eyes again. For a moment, he felt as if he were seeing them for the first time.

The events of the Absolute incursion took their toll on everyone in Baldur's Gate - in Faerûn as a whole. But Tav was at the center. Rolan wasn't sure he'd ever see a day when they managed to drop their seemingly perpetual state of being Battle Ready. But in this moment, they seemed so relaxed.

Their hair was down, their clothes were loose and comfortable. Save for a small dagger on their belt, they carried no weapons. And more than anything, Rolan could feel the energy around them was… Calm.

Tav wasn't much for magic. They knew a few handy cantrips, but they were no seasoned spell-slinger. Perhaps it was simply Rolan's attunement with the Weave itself, but he always felt the energy surrounding Tav was… Bristling. Like a consistent build up of static shock one bad touch from being released. However, before him, in this moment, Tav was calm as the Gray Harbor at the break of dawn.

"Uhm…" Tav cleared their throat, breaking the silence Rolan hadn't even registered was building between them. Snapping back into reality, he noticed his skin was warm. Palms clammy and fingers tingling, "I'm going to put the supplies up. Maybe once things settle for the evening, we can discuss my salary over a pint," they joked, winking as they turned to descend the stairs once more.

Rolan watched them go, blinking as their words caught up with him, "Ah, u-um, yes! Let's do that!" He called out, likely not even loud enough to be heard over the crowds.

His heart was racing. Why was his heart racing? Why was he watching them maneuver the crowds, assisting guests as they unloaded supplies? Why was he so enraptured as loose hairs fell into their face, and they ran their fingers through the wisps that framed their travel worn features? Gods, why was he noticing their travel worn features?!

Rolan swallowed deep, though his throat was dry. Tav was indeed so much more than an errand-boy.

And oh, how his cheeks burned as he realized… He may have incidentally agreed to a date with them. Tonight.

#rolan #rolan x tav #tav x rolan #rolan bg3 #bg3 rolan #ty again for the request this was alot of fun hehehohohohhoho

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sandbees · 6 months

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Hello! If you’re doing requests can you make Headcannons of Yuu as Fluttershy? She was always my favorite!

OOOO I was going to write about FlutterYuu anyways, but I'll answer it in this ask anyways!

Alright, it takes like an entire minute for Yuu to get the Magic Mirror to say anything because thEY DON'T SAY THEIR NAME LOUDLY

Like, I just feel bad for them. Yuu's just dying because everyone is looking at them and they're super shy and they know no one and they're in a new situation and-

It's just a bad night for them :(

They get along very well with Grim. (...I mean, you'd think Grim would be very...Bratty? Idk the best descriptor for it, but Grim wouldn't be cocky with Yuu 'cause even though they're quiet and softspoken...Well, you know the Stare.)

At first, Yuu doesn't get along well with anyone, due to their shy and gentle nature, which NRC kind of...doesn't emanate.

However, as the year progresses, the students learn to respect Yuu.

Like as in everyone in NRC is actually indebted to Yuu because Yuu goes out of their way to help anyone who seems to be in trouble, no matter how difficult the task is or if it's blatantly apparent that someone is just using them. (The perpetrator feels bad anyways in the end)

The beast men and merfolk are s h a k e n when Yuu expresses their knowledge of animals and how to properly care for them (It just...oddly translates, ig)

Only a handful of people know of Yuu's singing voice, and they are blessed because of it. (The only people who know - Malleus, Act, Deuce, Grim, Kalim, Jamil, Vil, Rook, and Epel)

When Vil learned of Yuu's talent for singing, he tried to get them to join the VDC

Yuu rejected the offer, by stating that they're uncomfortable with public performances and how they get stage freight. Vil still tries to get them to join in anyways, but Yuu gets firm on their stances.

This is one of the few times people have seen Yuu get angry/annoyed. It was an experience.

#twisted wonderland #ask #twisted wonderland imagine #twisted wonderland yuu #twisted wonderland headcannons #Fluttershy! Yuu #FlutterYuu #MLP x Twisted Wonderland

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yandere-daydreams · 1 month

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think one of the most under-discussed topics when it comes to smut reading/writing is that it makes u embarrassingly full of very specific anatomical knowledge of male/female reproductive organs? like seeing people getting asked to point out parts on a chart and knowing without a doubt that i would get them all right even though i got a c in biology. mortifying.

truly it does give you such a warped perspective of the human body in general,,, i generally try to make sure i don't have an opinions about any woman's body ever, but as soon as i started writing smut, my attraction to men went from maybe .05% to an absolute 0. like what do you mean no man is ever going to ethereally feminine and 6'7 and built like a freight train and have a 14 inch cock and also effortlessly charming. none of you will ever be geto suguru and the world is worse for it.

#personal #anon ask

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lord-of-0blivion · 1 year

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"How. Dare. You." Those three words resounded across the gathering of ghost with the force of a freight train and yet, the gentleness of a butterfly. The tone of said words quieted the crowd, but what truly brought everything to a grave like stillness was the emotion behind them. It was indescribable, it was oh, so... so much more then pure hate and, at the same time so much less then indifference.

"How dare you." They wrang out again. Followed by a "You finally piece it together and this is how you repay him?!"

"You plot and scheme against him as if he is not the sole reason why you even exist!" A tierd huff escaped the figure, now recognized as the master of time. "You wine and complain about the inaccuracies and errors in your history as if this is not how you have alaways been!" "Might I remind you that this all came from the mind of a DYING CHILD!" He gesture all around, to the infinite green void. "The fact that we have ANY correlation to the mortal world is a miracle and a testament."

"At the very moment of his death, Danny's mind recognized that, according to the laws of his world, his univers, he had no way to survive;" An intense glared was directed at the waste of ectoplasm gathered below him. "And, sensing his desire to Live, to not abandon the only three people who have shown him compassion, it does the only thing it can." A sigh escapes his lips "It creates a door, it makes a universe, a multiverse, infinite realities. It makes it out of all his hope, compassion, love and determination, sadness and despair... It gives birth to DEATH itself, just to beg it to keep him alive."

The crowd stills completely, as if suddenly turned to stone. "It is a testament to his willpower, knowledge and... his compassion." Another sigh rings out, filled with something between sorrow and and the burden given by knowledge. "Prior to his death, there... there were no afterlives, there was nothing awaiting but Oblivion, true death. And then he created all afterlifes, he created all of you."

A long pause soon followed, as if to allow Clockwork to catch his breath, but it was more to allow all the ghost beneath him to process the information.

And then he continued "In the very first moment of its birth, Death knew what it had to do... It took its very purpose and the very laws that should have binded it to said purpose and discarded them with no hesitation." Another pause. "Without a care for itself, and alongside Magic, who was born at the same time as the Realms, it set out to helps its father like any good child would do for a loving parent"

Not even allowing a word to escape the crowd, CW continues. "Would any of you even dare to THINK about striking your mothers or your fathers!?" Before they can even flinch Clockwork hammers the point in "Answers me this: Is there anyone among you who can say, with any amount of certainty, that Danny would even hesitate to... give up what little remains of his life, his existance! To save yours?"

Having made his point he turned his back to them. "Like any parent would do?" Not paying attention to the trembling and sobbing ghost, Clockwork, the master of time made to leave, but not before saying one last thing.

"From the highest peaks of Haven to the deepest VILEST pits of Hell, there exist no language in which I can express my disappointment and disgust in you. Have a good afterlife, and don't forget WHO you have to thank for it you vain children"

[This] post inspired this. @five-rivers Thanks.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dp prompt #ghost zone #danny fenton #dp clockwork

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loslentesdepedrito · 9 months

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I'm Your Wife- Chapter Three

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Two

Next Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Four

Word count: 9.6k+

Chapter summary: Jack faces the consequences of his actions, and his past once again, haunts him and you. (Picks up directly from ch. 2. The flashback scene is bold and italicized.)

Rating: 18+ no explicit content but I'd rather not have minors read these types of subjects. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles.

Warnings: ANGST, language used by the characters is harsh and contains strong emotions, mentions of cheating, toxic marriage, no explicit content, but suggestive, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease. (I hope I didn’t forget anything, it’s been years since I wrote this.)

A/N: Some of 2017 references. Huge, huge, huge apologies for the late chapter! Long story short, a colleague had to take emergency leave, and I stepped in to manage a project that will be presented in two weeks. My work is pre-written, this one in 2017, but I have to add the translations, and I love making the graphics, even if it takes me way too long. I'll be out of the country for the presentation, but I'll try my best to upload something before then. Thank you to everyone for their patience, and I hope you enjoy this part!

She's pregnant?... She's pregnant... Jack's mind whirls with a mix of surprise and jealousy, the revelation hitting him like a freight train and igniting an uncontrollable fire within his chest.

"Did you fuck him while we were married?" The question escapes Jack's lips, driven by irrationality and a mix of hurt and anger. If he were more collected, he would have realized the insensitivity of such a question, but his emotions are spiraling out of control.

He doesn't even get to hear what you have to say because, in an instant, Jack gets up from his chair in a sudden burst of emotions and sends it flying backward into the wall.

His thoughts and emotions collide, just like the chair and the wall, and he feels like he's drowning in a storm of feelings he can't control. Jack constantly thought about you and his child, but without knowing the gender or having a name, his child remained an elusive figure in his mind. A fleeting thought that now lingers is how he always referred to your child as his little angel, never imagining how close to the truth it was.

Just as he discovers the existence of his son, he's confronted with the harsh reality that you've moved on. In the purest sense of the word, you have moved on. She's truly moved on, he repeats in his mind. The pain is overwhelming as he realizes you married Javier, probably raised Ángel with him, and now you're expecting another child—a child that belongs to another man.

Jack had hoped that maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance for him, you, and his child to form a family together. But that hope has been crushed. He knows deep down that you would never leave the family you've built, especially not for someone who treated you like an afterthought.

His heart aches at the knowledge that you have built a life without him. You're carrying another man's child, and it cuts deep into his soul. The thought of you and your husband raising a family, laughing and sharing moments together, stabs at him like a knife.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that he missed out on so much. That he wasn't there to witness the joy of your pregnancy, to see your belly swell with the life you both created. He can only imagine the moments he lost, like not being able to go to the obstetrician with you, to witness the miraculous sonograms that reveal the tiny life growing inside you.

Tears sting his eyes as he recalls the sonogram of Ángel that you had given him, and how he carelessly threw it to the floor in a fit of anger. The regret now gnaws at him, realizing he'll never be able to relive those moments he cast aside.

A heartbreaking sense of loss envelops him, knowing that he wasn't there to hear Ángel's heartbeat resounding in the clinic. He wasn't there to hold his son for the first time, and thank you for giving him such an extraordinary gift. It's like watching a movie of his own life, but he's only a viewer, a stranger to the beautiful moments he should have been a part of.

He knows he hurt you, and Jack knows he doesn't deserve your forgiveness. But he can't help but wish for the chance to make things right, to be there for you and Ángel, to be the man you need him to be. Yet, deep down, he knows that ship has sailed.

Ya treated her like gum stuck to the sole of your boots, a cruel voice whispers in his head. Why would she ever wanna be with ya again?

As the emotions continue to swirl inside him, Jack glances at Javier, your husband, the man who has taken his place in your life. The sight of the wedding band on Javier's finger is a cruel reminder of the life they've built together.

That coulda been me, Jack thinks bitterly. I coulda been the one to marry her, to raise our child, to create a family.

But it's not him, and he can't change the past. He can't go back and be the man he should have been. All he can do now is face the consequences of his actions and accept that he missed his chance.

His heart weighs heavy with regret and sorrow, knowing that he let go of something precious. Your laughter, your smile, your love—all lost to him now.

But amidst the storm of emotions, there's one thing that remains crystal clear: he has a son, Ángel, a part of him that he didn't know existed. And while he may not have the chance to be the father he should have been from the start, he can still try to be there for his son now.

Jack knows that he can't change the past, but he can choose how to move forward. He can decide to be a father his son deserves, to be a better man, even if it's not the fairytale ending he once dreamed of.

"I meant it. I'll get tested." Jack finally says. It's a small step, but it's the first one toward building a relationship with his son. He knows it won't be easy, and there will be obstacles to overcome, but he's willing to try.

You look at him, your eyes filled with tears. Honestly, when you first contacted him, you didn't know what to expect. But the fact that he's willing to take this step means something to you.

Jack replies, his voice resolute, "I want to be there for him, even if it's late. I want to be a part of his life."

Javier, still seething with anger, glances at Jack cautiously. He's protective of you and Ángel, and he won't let anyone hurt you again. But he also knows that this is a difficult situation, and he's willing to give Jack a chance to prove himself.

"I hope you mean it," Javier says, his voice stern but not without understanding. "Ángel deserves a father who will be there for him."

"I do," Jack says. "Sorry, I overreacted. I've been going to therapy, I swear." He lets out a dark chuckle. "I'm just... it's hard."

"Of course, I'll get tested, and I hope to God- I'm a match." He adds sincerely.

"Thank you, Jack," you say, your voice softening, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have implied in any way that Ángel's illness is your fault because it's not. But thank you for doing this- it means a lot to us."

Just then, Dr. Navarro enters the room, breaking the tension. "Woah," he exclaims, looking at the scraped wall. "I never noticed that before. We'll have to get maintenance to fix it."

After Jack agreed to get tested, Dr. Navarro sent him to get a physical to determine if he was in good condition to donate stem cells. Jack passed the tests with flying colors and was then sent to get tested for HLA markers. The doctor explained to Jack that this would determine if he was able to donate his cells to Ángel.

As he leaves the pathology department with his sleeves rolled up and a cotton ball taped to his right arm where the puncture was made, he's taken by surprise to see you waiting for him at the front desk. With his grey suit coat draped over one hand, he quickly tries to adjust his appearance, but the look on his face betrays his attempt to appear composed.

"Here." You say, handing him a red heart candy lollipop.

"Where did you get it?" He laughs, touched by the sweet gesture. Jack reaches out to take the lollipop, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

"From Mrs. Kroos." You say, pointing behind you.

His brows furrow, giving away his confusion.

"The lady that works at the front desk loves Ángel, and she knows he loves these candies. So she always gives him a few whenever she sees one of us. But be careful, don’t drop it. I won't give you another one.” You warn.

"I'll guard it with my life, sugar." Jack clutches the candy tightly, cherishing this small token of kindness from you. His eyes soften, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. It's as if, for a brief moment, he's transported back to the early days of your relationship.

To steer his thoughts in another direction, he examines the lollipop's wrapper, fingers absently tracing its red heart shape. But his eyes instinctively draw to your stomach, where the faint curve is evident beneath your clothes. It's a closer look than he's had before, the first time he's seen it up close since learning of your pregnancy this morning. His eyes linger there, and you can feel him searching for words to say or questions to ask.

"How far along are you?"

"Five, almost six months." You reply, your hand instinctively resting on your baby bump.

He stays silent, unsure of what to say.

"Oh," he recovers, "Do you know what you're having?"

"Another boy." You answer with excitement.

"Oh." He clears his throat, trying to hide any hint of disappointment.

"That's good. Congrats." Jesus, Jack, can't ya quit bein' an ass for just one minute?

As you stand before him, Jack can't help but feel a pang of pain. It's envy and jealousy, but it's also the sadness for what he missed out on with you and his son. The family he could have had, the love he could have shown and the joy he could have shared are now experienced by Javier, not him.

"Excuse me for a moment." He says suddenly, and you hear his voice trembling. He nearly runs to the restroom, needing a private space to let his feelings pour out.

Inside the stall, Jack allows himself to cry, and release the pent-up emotions. The tears are a mix of sorrow for the time lost and the regret of not cherishing the moments he had with you and your first child. Memories of the past flood his mind—moments he should have cherished, words he should have spoken with love, and gestures he should have made to make you feel valued. It's a cathartic moment, a release of the pain and the realization of what could have been.

As he wipes away his tears, Jack takes a deep breath and leaves the stall. He washes his hands and gets a good look at himself through the mirror. He prays you won't comment on his red and puffy eyes, but as expected, your concern for him is evident as soon as you see him exit the restroom.

"Everything alright?" You ask, worried about his sudden departure.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Jack replies, his voice still shaky but trying to regain composure.

Shortly after, you both take a deep breath and in a moment of eagerness on Jack's part and haste on your own, you attempt to speak at the same time, your words overlapping:

"Can I mee-"

"Do you want to mee-"

Jack's desire to meet Ángel is unmistakably clear in your eyes.

After a moment of contemplation, you speak first. "Yes, you can meet him," you say, voice filled with caution, "But we have to be careful about how we approach it. I think we have to take it slow with the official introduction."

Jack nods, understanding the need for caution. "Yes, ma'am. I get it. I don't want to do anything that might upset him."

"We'll take it one step at a time. Maybe we can start by introducing you as a friend, someone special to us. We can see how he reacts and take it from there. But you have to promise not to push him away," you continue, your gaze locking with his, "As a parent, I know the love one has for their children. I know you will always love the baby boy you lost, but you cannot compare him to Ángel. Each child is special and deserves their own place in your heart."

Jack takes a moment to absorb your words, realizing the truth in them. "You're right," he says, his voice softer now, "I don't want to make the same mistakes again. Ángel deserves better than that."

"He does," you affirm, "And I think you'll be a positive influence in his life. Just take it one step at a time, be patient with him, and be there for him. It won't be easy, but I think it's worth trying."

Jack nods, grateful for your understanding and guidance. "Thank you," he says sincerely, "I really appreciate you giving me and Ángel a chance."

"I want what's best for my son," you say, your love for Ángel evident in your eyes, "And if that means having his biological father in his life, then I'm willing to support it."

"Thank you," Jack repeats, his heart feeling true hope for the first time in years.

"C'mon. He's on the 16th floor." You say guiding him to the elevator.

This time Jack is more collected in the elevator. Not that he's any less nervous, in fact, his heart is pounding with anticipation. Because he can't believe that after all these years, he has the opportunity to meet his son.

As you guide Jack down the hospital corridor towards the elevator, he takes in his surroundings. The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow, and the muffled footsteps echo through the hallway - that's what Jack tries to focus on. Ideally, he would reach out to take your hand in his, and that would settle his racing heart. He gives it a little more thought and correctly assumes that you would probably smack him, so he decides against it, not wanting to upset you. Again.

You can sense his nervousness as you walk beside him, and it amuses you how, in the past, you would have done absolutely anything to make him feel better. Yes, a part of you feels for him because there was a point in your life when you were in love with him more than anything, more than you had been with anyone. But another part of you is screaming, Don't care, don't let him in, remember all you went through?

The truth is, it feels almost unfair that you still have the instinct to comfort him when he never extended the same care or compassion toward you. It's a reminder of the one-sided nature of your past relationship, where you gave your all, but he held back. You hate that reminder. You hate how he made you feel. You hate how he made you act. You hate how he still makes you feel when you think about your past.

You try your best to settle your thoughts as you walk together toward the elevator. Therapy had been helpful after the divorce, but it took a backseat when Ángel got sick. Now, considering how you feel around Jack, you realize it's time to prioritize your emotional well-being again. You make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Dr. Ordoñez soon, even if it means being on the phone for an hour and sitting on an uncomfortable hospital chair during the session.

You'll soon be co-parenting with Jack, and you want to get to the stage where you don't appear like you want to kill him. If it weren't for your son, you would have been just fine never seeing Jack again, but you don't want your son to resent you or miss out on having a relationship with his biological father.

Ángel already has a father and a wonderful father at that. Javi has been a fantastic father as well as a good husband. He loves Ángel, which is why, when you discussed Jack, he felt that his son shouldn't be denied the option to have another parent.

You both keep walking, and when you make it to the elevator, you press the button, and the polished metal doors slide open with a soft ping. Jack places his hand on the door, and with a gracious gesture, he extends his other hand, signaling for you to walk through first. It's a small gesture, but it stirs a mix of memories and emotions within you. Before the divorce, you would have melted at such chivalry. His southern charm seemed to vanish right after you married. You had hoped that Jack would return to the man you were once head over heels for, but now, with hindsight, you can see a field of red flags that you had overlooked, perhaps purposely. Looking back at your relationship with Jack, there are moments when you can't help but cringe at your own behavior, realizing you held on desperately, not wanting to let go. Your yearning for him to love you was so intense that you settled for the bare minimum, hoping things would change. But as you stand there pressing the button to take you to the 16th floor, you can't help but acknowledge how much has changed, how much you've changed. You've known how you felt about him for years, but looking at Jack now, without any remnants of love in your heart, brings you a sense of liberation.

As the elevator door glides open with a soft ping, you step out, and Jack follows closely behind, his footsteps echoing lightly as you lead the way down to the front desk. The receptionist warmly smiles as she recognizes you and, with a press of a button, she buzzes you in without any need for further verification or questions. This special perk is granted due to your frequent visits to receive food and welcome visitors.

Unfortunately, you know the path to Ángel's hospital room like the back of your hand. You could be blindfolded and make it to room 43 without bumping into any obstacles- that's how long your son's been here.

You make your way through the corridor, the hallway branching into two sides. Rooms 1-20 are on the left, and rooms 21-45 are on the right. You direct Jack to the right, to room 43, where Ángel is.

The walls are adorned with a burst of bright colors, courtesy of the children's paintings. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the left, where three adorable minions holding bananas are doodled. Next to it, a watercolored rainbow stretches across the length of the wall.

As you continue to room 43, your gaze shifts to your favorite artwork on the 16th floor- a bright red bear wearing a dapper top hat and a crooked, thick mustache. One eye is bigger than the other one, but you love it. To the left of the bear, there are princesses in their glitter-covered gowns. The last piece of the row is Spiderman. He's shooting webs, and his hand is drawn in the classic pose - his right hand extended with his index and middle fingers bent, touching his palm.

I haven't seen this one before, you think, as you notice mouthwatering donuts, likely drawn by an older child. Each donut has different glazes and toppings, so realistic that they almost look good enough to eat, leaving your taste buds tingling. Weird pregnancy cravings.

Every inch of the corridor is decorated with these precious works of art. The sight brings a smile to your face as you think about the children who must have carefully crafted their art with love, making this corridor bearable to walk through.

As you walked past the 30's, admiring the colorful artwork adorning the walls, Jack's mind was filled with thoughts of his son. ' Does he have her hair or mine? Whose eyes does he have? Lord, I hope he has her nose.' He couldn't help but subconsciously trace his nose's bridge.

You steal a glance at Jack while walking to Ángel's room, and his expression says it all. His brows are slightly furrowed, and his eyes dart around. His neck seems a bit tense, and you can see his jaw clenching and unclenching. Esta comiendo ansias. (He's worrying too much.) You think, looking at the mixture of eagerness and anxiety written all over his face.

"We're almost there." You tell him, your voice gentle, as you approached the 40's.

43. Jack's heart skips a beat as he sees the number on the door. It's as if time stands still for a moment before his heart starts racing with nervous excitement. A million thoughts rush through Jack's mind, and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes. I'm going to meet my son. All those years of longing, of wondering what his child would be like, of yearning for a connection he thought he might never have - it's all happening.

As you reached for the doorknob, Jack's hand was slightly trembling. Don't trip, don't say something stupid, he mentally coached himself, trying to calm his nerves. With a mix of trepidation and hope, Jack stepped into the room behind you, taking in his surroundings. The room felt a bit cold, but the soft sunlight streaming in from the window cast a gentle glow over everything.

The room had that familiar hospital scent, a combination of antiseptic cleaners and the comforting aroma of fragrant flowers placed in vases around the room.

He hears a movie playing in the background and looks at the TV to see little yellow characters with overalls he doesn't recognize. The animated movie's sounds mix with the soft beeping of medical equipment. He can see Javier getting up from the couch to the right of his son's bed, and your husband sends Jack a small, discreet nod of acknowledgment. You step in front of Jack, giving him a reassuring look, and he waits for your cue, staying near the door.

From this angle, Jack can't see Ángel; he only sees you and Javier to the right of the bed. He moves slowly, staying hidden beside the wall, not wanting to startle his little boy. He can't help but feel his heart pounding in his chest, his emotions swirling in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

"Mi niño, estas despierto?" ("My boy, are you asleep?") You call out in a soft, tender voice.

"Sí, no se quiere dormir. Quiere minions." (Yes, he doesn't want to sleep. [He] wants minions.) Javier replies playfully, his eyes widening with a playful expression as he tickles Ángel, eliciting sweet laughter from the boy.

That sound, Jack thinks, it's the most beautiful sound I've heard.

"Se llama Despicable Me, Jav." ("It's called Despicable Me, Jav.") You correct him with a soft smile.

"Es lo mismo." ("It's the same.") Javi playfully groans, earning a swat from you.

You look at your husband, and he knows what you need to do. Javi gives you a smile and gives your hand a squeeze. With his reassurance, you turn back to Ángel.

"Papi, queremos que conozcas a alguien." ("Baby, we want you to meet someone.") You tell your son as you gesture toward the corner where Jack is waiting.

You send Jack a look, and with a deep breath, he steps forward. His eyes immediately draw to Ángel, like a moth to a flame. Time seems to stand still as Jack takes in the sight of his son. He's perfect, Jack thinks.

Ángel is a sweet little boy, with jet-black hair that curls gently at the ends. Behind his black-rimmed glasses are a pair of brown eyes that mirror Jack's. At that moment, Jack feels an indescribable connection, an everlasting bond. He's the perfect combination of both of us, but I think he resembles me a little more, he thinks, his heart happy that his phenotypes seem to have won.

As he steps closer, he notices Ángel's nose and lips, traits that are identical to yours.

A rush of emotions overwhelms Jack as he looks at his son. His heart swells with love and joy, but there's also a twinge of sadness at the time he missed. His eyes start to water, blurring his vision a bit, but he tries to blink the tears away, wanting to see Ángel clearly, to memorize every precious detail.

"Hi!" Ángel cheerfully says, and that breaks Jack's dam. He starts crying, unable to contain his tears.

"Mami," Ángel whispers, leaning to your side, "¿Por qué está llorando el señor?" ("Mommy, why is the man crying?")

Jack's voice wavers with emotion as he speaks, "Sorry," he says, his voice cracking slightly. He tries to wipe his cheeks and regulate his breathing, "I'm sorry."

"Ángel, this is Jack. He's a family friend." You introduce.

"Hey, buddy," Jack manages to say, his voice still trembling, "Sorry 'bout the tears, I just... I found out a lot this morning."

Ángel stares for a second and then reaches for his bedside drawer. He pulls out a mini-wrapped Crunch bar and extends it towards Jack, saying with a caring tone, "It's okay, Mr. Jack. Here, this will make you feel better. I love chocolate, and this is my favorite candy." He smiles warmly as he extends the mini Crunch bar towards Jack.

Jack is touched by Ángel's kindness and accepts the chocolate with a grateful smile, "Thank you, Ángel." Pull it together, Jack, don't start cryin' again. He mentally lectures himself, fighting back the feelings threatening to rise again. "This is my favorite chocolate too." He says honestly.

"Here, I brought this for you." Jack says, his heart pounding with anticipation. He removes the jacket from his free arm, revealing a medium-sized gift bag that he had kept hidden underneath. Damn, how long has he been hiding that? He's had the coat in his hand since I saw him after the blood draw, you think, touched by Jack's thoughtful gesture.

Ángel turns to look at you and Javier for permission, and you both give him an encouraging nod.

Jack hands his son the red gift bag, and Ángel eagerly receives his present. Excitement dances in the little boy's eyes as he quickly removes the tissue paper. Jack can't help but overthink, What if he doesn't like it? Is he too big for-

Ángel gasps, and Jack's heart sinks for a moment, fearing the worst. But then, a radiant smile lights up Ángel's face as he pulls out a teddy bear, dressed in overalls and a black cowboy hat. The bear's dark brown coat is fluffy, and there's a heart stitched on the front pocket of the bear's overalls, right in the middle.

"Cool! Thanks!" Ángel exclaims, clutching the teddy bear to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Jack's worry melts away as he watches Ángel kiss the bear's hat. "It's perfect!" Ángel shouts, looking up at Jack with gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you so much!"

Relief washes over Jack, replaced by overwhelming joy at the sight of his son's delight. It's as if Jack's heart has grown tenfold, witnessing his son's happiness.

Jack's heart swells with happiness as he sees the joy on his son's face. He can't help but smile back, his eyes glistening with tears of joy. "You're welcome, Ángel," Jack says, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm glad you like it."

"My dad gave me a Spider-Man teddy, now Spidey has a cowboy friend!" Ángel cheerfully exclaims, proudly showing off the Spider-Man build-a-bear that Javi had gifted him earlier this year. You don't miss the way Jack's face falls a little at his son calling Javier his dad.

Ángel shares all the details of when Javier gifted him with the Spidey teddy, and you watch as Jack listens attentively to every word. A mix of emotions is evident in his eyes - happiness at finally meeting his son, but also a hint of sadness and longing for the title of "dad" that Ángel has already bestowed upon Javier.

You give Jack a reassuring smile, silently telling him that it's okay, that Ángel's heart is big enough to love both of them eventually. Jack sees your expression and shifts his focus back to his son. He may not have the title of "dad" right now, but he's building a connection with his son, and that's what matters most.

After finishing his story, Ángel immediately turns to you and Javi, his eyes filled with hope. "¿Se puede quedar para c-o-m-e-r?" ("Can he stay to e-a-t?") He spells out the word, not wanting to vocalize it in case his parents don't agree, and wanting to avoid any potential disappointment for Jack. He doesn't want Jack to feel unwelcome or like he's being kicked out by not being asked to stay for lunch.

You can sense that Ángel has taken a liking to Jack and wants to spend more time with him.

Javi smiles warmly at his son, understanding Ángel's hesitation. "Claro que sí, mijo." ("Of course, my son.") He says, not wanting to deny his son this request. You notice the joy that lights up in Ángel's eyes, grateful for the opportunity to spend more time with Jack.

Turning to Jack, you extend the invitation, "Jack, would you like to stay for lunch?"

"Of course, thank you." Jack replies, and Ángel's face lights up even more at his response.

"Danny and Heidi dropped off Pozole earlier." Javi informs.

Pozole, why does that sound familiar? Who are Danny and Heidi? Jack thinks.

You exclaim with delight, "I love your cousin and his wife, and I love Pozole!"

"And Ángel does too. He gets that from you," Javi says, giving you a small kiss on the cheek before going to the table across Ángel's bed. He reaches for the bag with the Tupperware containers, clearly eager to eat.

As Javier opens the bag, he can't help but playfully tease, "You know I'm more of a menudo guy."

"I know. Your only flaw…" You jest.

Jack observes the easy love between you and Javier, feeling a bittersweet sense of heartbreak. He can't help but compare the deep connection you share with Javier to the time when he was your husband, witnessing the loving moments that once belonged to him.

Javier opens one Tupperware, and the air fills with the rich, savory scent-a tantalizing blend of chicken broth, hominy, and a mix of earthy spices and aromatic herbs. Suddenly, the smell transports him to a distant memory, back to a time when he was your husband.

It was a cold winter evening in December, one of your favorite times of the year when you could savor warm and comforting food and drinks. Tonight, you had finally convinced your husband, Jack, to try Pozole, one of your favorite dishes. You gathered the ingredients and set to work in the kitchen, hoping to create a special meal for him.

The pot was filled with water, and you added onions, garlic, salt, and chicken, allowing the savory aroma to fill the room. In your blender, you carefully blended the sauce, a perfect mixture of chile ancho, chile guajillo, garlic cloves, onions, vegetable oil, oregano, and salt, mindful of not adding too many chilies so it wouldn't be too spicy for Jack, just enough for flavor.

As the broth boiled, you took the time to prepare the fresh toppings, washing and slicing the lettuce, jalapeños, white onion, lemon, cilantro, and radishes. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the simmering Pozole and your music was playing softly in the background.

With the hominy added to the pot, the Pozole was nearly ready. You carefully ladled it into bowls, adding the toppings to each one, making sure to skip the jalapeños in Jack's bowl to avoid any spiciness.

When Jack came home, you could tell he wasn't having a great day. He didn't greet you, not that he usually did, and there was a hint of frustration in his expression. But you hoped that your efforts would brighten his mood.

"Hi, Love. Welcome home." You said with a smile, hoping to receive some affection in return.

He glanced at you briefly, barely acknowledging your presence. "Yeah." Was his only response.

You tried not to let his lack of enthusiasm affect you and continued, "I made something different for dinner tonight. Pozole, one of my favorites. I hope you'll like it."

Jack glanced at the simmering pot on the stove, but his expression remained indifferent. "Right, you said you would."

As you took the bowls to the dining table, you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. It seemed like no matter how much effort you put into making him happy, he rarely showed any appreciation or love in return.

He sat down to eat, and you watched eagerly for his reaction. But as he took the first spoonful, his face turned red, and he exclaimed, "You said it wasn't spicy!"

You insisted, "It's not, honey! I made sure to adjust the spices for you."

"Well, Darlin'," he emphasized mockingly, "I can't feel my tongue." He grumbled, looking at you like he was angry, and you rushed to get him some milk to ease the heat.

"I'm so sorry, Jack. I really thought it wasn't spicy." You apologized, feeling disappointed in yourself. The excitement and anticipation you had felt earlier were quickly replaced by a sense of sadness as your efforts had once again fallen short.

"I'm never eating that again." He declared, pushing the bowl away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your heart. You had put so much love and effort into preparing the meal, hoping it would bring a smile to his face, but instead, it seemed to have added to his frustration.

Feeling hurt and upset, you excused yourself to the kitchen, wanting to give him space to cool off. The music playing in the background continued. ‘Miro tus ojos y no eres feliz. Y tu mirada no sabe mentir. No tiene caso continuar así. Si no me amas, es mejor partir. Desde hace tiempo ya nada es igual. No eres la misma y me tratas mal. Y ante mi Dios te podría jurar. Cuánto te quise y te quiero, todavía. Adiós amor, me voy de ti. Y esta vez para siempre. Me iré sin marcha atrás porque sería fatal. Adiós amor, yo fui de ti, el amor de tu vida. Lo dijiste una vez, me lo hiciste creer. Cómo me duele perderte. Me resignaré a olvidarte. Porque me fallaste’ ('I look you at your eyes and you're not happy. And your gaze doesn't know how to lie. There's no point in continuing like this. If you don't love me, it's better for me to go. For a long time, things haven't been the same. You are different and you treat me poorly. And before my God, I could swear to you. How much I loved you and I love you, still. Goodbye, my love. I'm leaving you, and this time for good. I'm leaving without turning back, or else it'd be fatal. Goodbye, my love. I was the love of your life. You said that once, you made me believe it. What a pain it is to lose you.I will resign myself to forget you. Because you failed me')

If only you had paid more attention to the lyrics and your feelings, maybe you would have confronted the problems earlier. But at that moment, all you could do was try to salvage the evening and find a way to communicate with Jack.

Knowing it would only take a few minutes, you decided to make Tennessee Meatloaf. On one of your early dates, he had mentioned it was one of his favorite dishes, and you had learned how to make it, even though you weren't particularly fond of the smell. But if it could bring a smile to his face, you were willing to endure it.

The Instant Pot hummed with gentle pressure, and you took a moment to close your eyes, relishing the memories of how Jack used to love this dish. The way he'd smile and compliment your cooking, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation. But those moments felt distant now.

When the timer beeped, you carefully released the pressure from the Instant Pot, eager to serve the meatloaf to Jack. As you lifted the lid, the hot air brushed against your fingertips, causing you to unintentionally scream, "Fuck!" You rushed to run your hand under cold water, trying to soothe the burn. In a hurry, you grabbed the first aid kit and quickly tended to your wounded hand, the pain causing your eyes to sting.

After handling your injury, you quickly retrieved the meatloaf from the pot – tender, juicy, and with its strong aroma enveloping the room. Placing the dish on a nice plate, you added a generous drizzle of your homemade barbecue sauce, its tangy and smoky scent blending with the meaty smell.

With the meatloaf now ready, you gathered your courage and returned to the dining table, placing the dish before Jack. As he glanced at the meal and noticed your injured hand, a flicker of recognition, concern, and guilt passed through his eyes before he quickly masked it with indifference.

You sat down next to him, your heart pounding with nervous anticipation. He glanced at you, and though his anger had softened slightly, he still seemed guarded. Nonetheless, he gave you a small thanks, a brief glimmer of acknowledgment that you held onto like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry about the Pozole," you said, trying to break the silence, "I really wanted to make something you'd enjoy."

"It's fine." He mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

You reached for his hand, and he didn't pull away, but there was a noticeable lack of warmth in the gesture, a warmth that hadn't been present in your relationship for a long time.

You felt a knot forming in your chest, wanting to reach out and connect with him, but it seemed like he had built an impenetrable wall around himself. Still, you couldn't bear the thought of leaving things unresolved.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to gently probe, "Is everything okay, Jack?"

He let out a sigh, seeming almost annoyed that you brought it up. "I just had a rough day at work. It's nothin'."

Your heart sank. This was the pattern, the wall he always put up whenever something was bothering him. You felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, never knowing how to approach him without setting him off.

"I wish you would talk to me, Jack. We're supposed to be partners, and I want to be there for you." You said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He glanced at you, his eyes softening for a split second before the coldness returned. "I ain't need you fixin' everythin' for me, okay? I can handle my own problems." His jaw clenched, and you knew he was struggling with his emotions.

"It's not about fixing everything. It's about being there for each other, supporting each other through the good and the bad. That's what a marriage is supposed to be."

He scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Yeah, well, maybe I don't need that right now."

Your heart ached at his words, feeling the distance between you grow wider. You tried to hold back the tears, not wanting to show him how much his indifference hurt you.

He stood up and walked away, leaving you sitting at the dining table, eating by yourself.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, and began clearing the table, putting away the uneaten Pozole and the Tennessee Meatloaf you had made with so much hope.

After tidying up the kitchen, you mustered the courage to follow Jack to the bedroom. As you entered, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered, staring at the floor. He seemed lost in his thoughts, distant and closed off.

You went to his side and gently massaged his shoulders, "I'm sorry about earlier. I'm here for you, no matter what. I love you, Jack," you said softly, looking into his eyes with love and concern, "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. But just as quickly, he shut down again.

His response was unexpected and detached, "Get on all fours. Face down."

You knew you could say no, but you didn't want to. You wanted his love, even if it meant emotionless on his part. Your brow furrowed, but you did as he commanded anyway.

After both of you were done, he told you to go pee. When you came out of the bathroom, Jack was already asleep. He slept with his back towards you.

As you lay in bed that night, you cried yourself to sleep. Silently, not wanting to wake him up. You were in a deep sleep as a result of your body being overworked, the stressed cooking made you, and from crying. You thought you felt him wrap his arms around you and heard him mumble a sorry into the top of your head, but you were sure you made it up.

Out of all the things Jack was, he wasn't oblivious. He knew how much he hurt you. He knew he was an ass, but he couldn't bring himself to reflect on how much he hurt you tonight.

He heard your stifled sobs earlier, and each one was like a dagger in his chest. The pain he inflicted on you was a weight he could hardly bear. But when the sobs finally ceased and silence settled, he assumed you had drifted into sleep, offering him the opportunity he needed.

With cautious movements, he shifted closer to you. In the darkness, he could make out the contours of your face, the lines of worry etched by his actions. Gently, he rolled over and reached for you, pulling you into his arms. Seeking solace from the very person he had hurt.

Wrapped in your embrace, he stroked your head lightly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns through your hair. He pressed a soft kiss onto the top of your head, his lips lingering there, trying to convey all the apologies he couldn't find the words for. At that moment, he wished he could erase the pain he had caused, the detachment he had shown.

"Sorry," he huffed out, "I'm so sorry, my love." He whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. He wished he could be better for you, offer you the love you deserved, but his own monsters held him back.

Yet, even as he murmured his apologies in the darkness, his touch carried a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was as if he sought redemption through this secret exchange because he wasn't ready to confront the reality of facing you in the light of day. He wished he could hold you close, to make the pain he inflicted vanish with a simple embrace. But he knew that true healing required more than just whispered words; it needed a change he wasn't sure he was capable of making.

After his silent confessions, he released you from his gentle hold, allowing the fragile connection to slip away as he turned. He rolled onto his previous position. The weight of his guilt and remorse remained, but so did the weight of his fears. And as he lay there, his back turned to you, he faced his own darkness, unsure how to bridge the gap between the man he was and the man he needed to become.

You start talking with Javi about the food, and Jack watches you converse with your husband as you serve the food together, and his heart hurts watching the domesticity.

At the same time, you're caught in a whirlwind of memories, and the rush of them makes your movements stutter. In your distraction, you accidentally cut yourself with the aluminum foil, and some loose lemon juice gets in your wound. A small sound of pain escapes your lips, and Javi immediately drops what he had in his hand, rushing to your side. He gently cradles your hand in his, concern etched on his face.

"Amor!" ("Love!") Javi says, his voice laced with worry. His eyes flicker between your wound and your face, trying to gauge the severity of the cut.

Jack's heart clenches seeing you in pain. He wants to rush over and take your hand in his. He wishes he could be the one to hold your hand and soothe your hurt, but he knows that's not his place anymore, and it kills him.

"Mami, ¿está bien?" ("Mommy, are you okay?") Your son asks, equally concerned as his dad. He moves closer, his little brows furrowing.

"Yeah, sweetie, I'm just overreacting." You brush it off, though your eyes betray the pain you're feeling. You're trying to hide the memories that caught you off guard, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere for your son and Jack.

"You're not, you got hurt." Javi insists, his eyes fixed on your wound.

"Sit down." He commands, his tone still gentle but leaving no room for argument. He guides you to a chair, his larger hand engulfing yours, and he reaches for a nearby first aid kit. His fingers move with practiced ease as he cleans the wound with antiseptic, his touch gentle and attentive. He then wraps a band-aid around your finger, his movements unhurried, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

Your eyes start to water, the flood of memories of Jack and Javi overwhelming you. You can't help but recall the countless times Javi has taken care of you, both the physical and emotional wounds, much like he's doing now. His actions carry the weight of all the love and comfort he's provided over the years. He's always been there for me. Not like- you stop yourself before full waterworks begin.

"Mi vida, ¿te duele?" ("My love, does it hurt?") Javier asks, his voice full of care, taking your hand into his. His brown eyes search yours for any hint of pain, and his brows furrow with genuine concern.

"No, nomás me acordé de algo. I'm okay." ("No, I just remembered something. I'm okay.") You whisper, trying to assure him, your voice barely above a breath. It's not just the cut that's causing your distress; it's the memories that were triggered by the simple act of serving food. You had moments like these, but they hadn't been present in a while.

"Segura?" ("You're sure?") Javier asks, his concern palpable, his gaze unwavering. He wants to make sure you're truly okay.

"Ya se me pasó. I'm okay, I promise." ("It already passed.")

Javi knows you well enough to sense when you're not entirely okay, but he also knows that this is something you'll want to talk about later in private. For now, he respects your need to maintain normalcy in front of your son and Jack. He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss, his lips warm against your skin, a silent promise of his support.

"No te muevas. I'll serve the food, cariño." ("Don't move. I'll serve the food, dear.")

You nod and then turn to the reason for your tears, "Jack, are you sure you want Pozole? I don't know if you remember, but you already had it once."

Jack's face drops slightly, his mind racing, Oh God, she remembers what I did. He approaches you, whispering an apology, his voice laden with regret. "I do want it. I'm so sorry." He murmurs, looking like he might cry.

You can't bear to look at him right now, so you shift your gaze to Javier.

Javier adjusts the hospital bed table to Ángel's height and gets ready to serve. He starts with Ángel, ensuring his plate is prepared just right, with no onions, just as he likes it. He places the bowl before him, "Provecho, mi niño." ("Have a good meal, my boy.")

"¡Gracias papi!" ("Thank you, Daddy!") He was going to wait for everyone to start eating, but his hunger for having a light breakfast gets the best of him.

Javi quickly arranges the larger table, despite your offer to do it. He only guided you to sit at the table and served you a bowl of Pozole. The sight of the soup with radish on top made your mouth water.

“I'll give him some of Ángel's container. Ours has four Chiles de arbol," Javi says to you, glancing over at Jack. "It’ll be too spicy for you,” he smirks.

Jack takes it as a challenge. “I’ll have some of yours.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Remember what happened last time? It was too spi-“

“No really. It’s fine,” Jack insists, a determined look on his face.

Javier serves his and Jack's food and all eyes shift to Jack. Ángel is eating his Pozole with ease, but his gaze flickers between his meal and Jack's reaction.

As Jack takes the first spoonful, he tries to maintain a facade of composure. However, within moments, his face turns a noticeable shade of red, and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He manages another spoonful, but as he swallows, a sudden fit of coughing overtakes him.

You quickly move to the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of milk for Jack.

As Jack's face turned redder, Angel looked worried. "Are you okay, Mr. Jack?" he asked with genuine concern.

"I'll be fine, bud." Jack managed between coughs, his pride momentarily overshadowed by his son's concern.

Observing Jack's struggle, Javi's expression remained calm, a knowing look in his eyes as if he had anticipated this outcome. He leaned towards Jack, "Told you you couldn't handle it." He doesn't say it loudly, only loud enough for Jack to hear, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Jack ignores Javier and rasps thanks for the milk, and quickly drowns it. His tongue stops throbbing, and he goes for a third spoonful before Ángel stops him.

"Maybe you should try some from my Tupperware. I only want one bowl," Ángel kindly suggested, not wanting Jack to suffer from the spiciness of the food his dad served.

"Yeah, I think that's the best idea." You quickly chimed in, turning to Javi with a decisive look that left no room for argument.

Javi got up and served Jack another bowl, this time from Ángel's portion so it would be less spicy for Jack. If it were entirely up to Javi, he might have made Jack eat the spicy pozole, but Ángel's compassion for Jack was clear, so Javi complied.

Jack nodded to Javi and then turned to Ángel, his voice sincere as he said, "Thank you, buddy."

This bowl was spicier than the one you had prepared for him in the past. Jack's mind had become clouded by anger, causing him to exaggerate and latch onto your cooking as an excuse for his emotions. If he were to eat the pozole you made exactly as you had prepared it before, he would have no issue. It was as if his anger demanded a tangible reason to be directed at you, and this distorted perception had twisted the reality of your dish. Now he realizes his mistake, and it makes him hate himself all over again.

Ángel was engrossed in the movie he was watching, providing Jack with the perfect opportunity to voice something that had been on his mind for a while. “He has your nose. Good,” Jack chuckled.

“Yeah, and let’s hope this one also has her nose,” Javi said, his hand gently caressing your stomach.

"Hey," you interjected, "Both of you stop hating on your noses, right now. It's ridiculous."

As Jack glanced at you, memories of your past flooded his mind. I remember when she used to tell me how much she loved my nose whenever I said I hated it.

"Right. I almost forgot how much you love my nose." Javier said suggestively, breaking Jack's train of thought.

You felt flustered by Javier's comment, and Jack's emotions churned into a mix of fury and jealousy. He couldn't help but feel anger at the casual way your new husband had commented on your sex life. Jack's hands clenched slightly under the table, his fingers flexing as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He averted his gaze, focusing on his plate as a way to regain his composure.

Ángel's laugh pulled him out of his trance, and Jack's head instinctively turned to him.

"Look," Ángel said between laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "the security guard from Binky Nelson Unpacified kinda looks like you, Mr. Jack!"

Everyone's gaze shifted to the subject of Ángel's amusement, and soon, laughter filled the room as the uncanny resemblance became evident. Jack couldn't deny the similarities: the mustache, the sideburns, the pair of boots, and a cowboy hat. Jack got up from the table and took a seat next to his son's bed.

"You're right," Jack chuckled, "Even the cowboy part is spot on, but I've got a ranch." He shared with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Actually?" Ángel's amazement was noticeable.

"I ain't kiddin'," Jack responded with a grin.

Ángel gasped in delight, exclaiming, "I love ranches!"

"Well, maybe once you're out of the hospital, we can all go," Jack suggested warmly, glancing at you and Javi. He made sure to add, "If it's okay with your parents."

The idea seemed to energize Ángel, and both you and Javi agreed. Your son's face lit up.

Your son cheered before a realization struck him. "But we have to go before or after Coco because I haven't been to the movie theaters in so long, and I really, really want to watch that movie," Ángel's words tumbled out in excitement.

"You can come with!" Ángel extended the invitation, his excitement contagious. "Mami? Papi?" ("Mommy? Daddy?") Ángel turned to you and Javier, seeking your approval.

"Yeah, if Jack wants to." Javi responded, giving his approval.

"I'll be there. You just name the time and place, bud." Jack assured Ángel with a genuine smile.

Jack's attention shifted back to the TV, and his eyes zoned in on the cowboy hat. "Oh! You need a hat like mine." Jack suggested.

"I do?" Ángel's curiosity was piqued, his eyes widening as he considered the idea.

Without hesitation, Jack reached up and took hold of his own Stetson, lifting it from his head. "Would you like to try it?" he asked, enthusiastic about sharing a special moment with his son.

Ángel's face lit up with a mixture of surprise and delight. "Can I really?" he asked, his excitement practically palpable.

"Of course!" Jack replied, his smile widening. Jack carefully placed the hat on Ángel's head. He was mindful of the size difference between his head and his son's, so he adjusted the hat to ensure it wouldn't slip over Ángel's eyes. The hat found its place at a jaunty angle, mostly resting on the back of Ángel's head.

In Ángel's excitement to grab the mirror from his bedside table drawer, he moved a bit too quickly, causing the Stetson to slip down over his eyes. The weight of the hat threw his glasses off his face, and Ángel exclaimed, "¡Ahh, mis lentes!" (Ahh, my glasses!")

Ángel's muffled laughter came from beneath the hat, as he tried to push it back up. "It's heavier than I thought." He admitted with a sheepish grin, his glasses now resting on the floor beside him.

Jack picked up Ángel's glasses and handed them back to him, he thanked him with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Jack."

Jack settled back into his seat, his smile lingering. "We'll just have to get you a hat your size."

"I'm so ready to get out of here," Ángel remarked, his excitement apparent.

"Speaking of getting out of here, I'll be back," you announced, rising from your seat. "Ángel ran out of towels, and it's better to go up to the housekeeping desk."

"I'll go get them." Jack offered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll go get them." Jack reassured you.

"I'll be back, buddy." Jack told Ángel, his voice soothing as he shared a brief exchange of smiles with his son.

Jack left the room and was on a hunt for towels. He had no idea where the housekeeping desk was, but his eagerness to be useful had spurred him to offer to pick up the towels.

After a short search, he spotted a desk and rushed over. A teenager in a bright blue polo shirt, wearing a badge reading 'volunteer', caught his attention.

"Good afternoon, sir, what can I help you with?" The boy asked politely.

"Afternoon," Jack began, almost instinctively tipping his hat before remembering it was with his son, "Would you happen to know where I can get some things from housekeeping?"

"I can help you with that, sir." The volunteer responded, a touch of enthusiasm in his voice as if Jack had just made his day.

“Perfect! My wife asked for towels for my son. He's in room 43.” Jack stated, happy that he wasn't completely useless.

The volunteer tapped away on the computer keyboard. “For Ángel Peña?”

Jack swallows hard and nods. Fuck, Jack thinks. It should have been Ángel Daniels. My son should have had my last name.

The boy leaned back in his rolling chair and opened a cabinet. He retrieved three large towels and handed them to Jack. Thanking the teenager, Jack turned and walked away. Lost in thought, he looked down as he walked, and when he turned the corner, a familiar voice reached his ears.

“Oh, I didn’t know you remarried. Again. Because surely you’re not talking about my girl.” Javi said with his jaw clenched. “She’s not your wife anymore, Jack. She’s my wife.”

Please feel free to comment and reblog! I truly do love reading them! I promise I'll try to engage more!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm

The song used in this chapter is called Adiós Amor. I was obsessed with Christian Nodal in 2017, and when I wrote this, that song was extremely popular.

If you've read this far, thank you, and have a great day 🤎 (I hope this uploads because I had everything ready to go until I accidentally hit undo. I wasn't able to recover my draft, yay! I definitely did not want to throw my computer for a while :)

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samwinchesterswifu · 9 months

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Contagious (Sam Winchester x Reader Smut Series)

Requested: No

No set time frame!

Warnings: slow burn, slight kink if you squint your eyes.

Song Inspiration: This series is going to have a lot of song inspo, but the main one is "Contagious" by Trapt

MINORS DNI

A/N: So I have been having this series idea in my head for literal YEARS. I'm so happy to be able to starting writing it! I am starting from season 1, and unsure on how long this is going to be. But i hope yall enjoy the ride!

Summary: Dean calls her suspiciously telling to her to meet her at a bar. She hasn't seen her Sammy in years. Will their flame ever be lit again? All she knows is that Sam belongs to her.

Pulling into the run-down bar Dean had called her to meet him at, she spotted the iconic Impala right away. Parking nearby, she takes a quick look in the backseat. A heat formed on her cheeks almost immediately. This is where she and Sam lost their virginity to each other at 16. Her and Sam’s relationship was a non-stop running loop. Her father being called in for help on a hunt with the boy’s dad, her staying in a next-door room, and her and Sam finding any chance to fool around as soon as Dean left. She hadn’t seen Sam in years. He had called her the night he left for Standford, telling her it was over, whatever there was between them. But her heart still ached for the younger Winchester. She was unsure if Sam was inside. Dean had made it sound like he needed help with a hunt and that Sam wasn’t with him. However, as she stepped inside, Sam’s smell hit her like a freight train before she even spotted him at the bar.

Their heads turned towards the door at the sound of the bell. Dean’s face lighted up with a smile, but Sam looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Her stomach fluttered seeing him. He looked distraught, his eyes puffy, and his body language seemed slumped. Dean rose from his seat to greet her with a hug, as Sam sat still. Sam couldn’t meet her eyes.

“How you been kiddo?” Dean asked while pulling out a bar stool next to him.

“Oh you know, just killed a werewolf pack with dad in Nebraska when I got your call. What’s going on?” she asked as she waved the bartender over and ordered a shot of vodka. Practically chugging it down to calm the nerves of being in the same room as Sam.

“We think were close to the thing that killed mom.” Dean said bluntly.

“How do you guess that?” She knew that John went missing but had no idea that this was why.

“Well, uhm- “Dean hesitated, looked at Sam for approval which he only gave a nod.

“Sam’s girlfriend at school died the same way.”

“Oh no, Sammy, I’m so sorry.” Sam tensed up, a dark look coming down his face.

“It’s Sam.”

Oh.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to cool the tension between them. She felt suffocated. Dean’s words ringing in her ear.

“Well, uhm, I don’t know why you called me.” she asked, chugging down another shot.

“We figured,” Dean started when Sam kicked his chair.

“I figured, with your hunting knowledge, and expertise, you could help us out.” Dean looked hopeful, begging almost.

But she sighed heavily. Unsure if she wanted to spend time with them again. Yearning for Sam when he clearly didn’t have the same feelings anymore. She got up from the bar stool as her phone began to ring. It was her dad, probably checking in on her.

“Hold on, my dad’s calling me, I’m just gunna step outside.” She said

She walked to the right side of the building, leaning up against it as they spoke. She told him where she was and that she was with the boys. She could tell that he was worried about her being around Sam again. It was like everyone knew about their past, and just overall energy of one another. They spoke on the phone for a good 10 minutes. Hanging up, she took a deep breath but hadn’t moved to go back inside just yet. Everything was on the line. She heard the bar door open, and Sam popped up around the corner, seemingly to look for her.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly as he approached her. Hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Girlfriend huh?” She asked, as he stood in front of her. He was close, but he was still so far away.

“Yeah,” he muttered looking at the ground.

“Why Sam?” She was defeated. The overwhelming emotions of seeing him after all these years overtook her. Tears breamed in her eyes.

“Please,” he was begging. Sam never begged.

“How do you expect me to help you right now? After leaving, and telling me you couldn’t be in a committed relationship with me? Only to end up with some girl? And the only reason Dean is asking for my help is because of my brain? Do you even want me here?” She was angry, and it was evident in her voice.

Sam sighed again.

“It’s just so hard,” Sam began.

“I’m still in love with Jess but seeing you right now? I feel like I’m 16 again and all I want to do is be close to you.” He groaned. Hands fleeing into his hair out of pure frustration.

“Sammy,” she whispered. Her hand reaching to one of his to try to pull him from his thoughts.

As their hands connected, Sam snapped to look at her, hunger clouding his eyes. With in a swift movement, his left hand was on her waist and pinning her to the brick wall. His right hand cuffed around her throat. She let out a small whimper as his lips hovered above her own. But he didn’t kiss her, instead, he turned his face to her neck. Taking in a small sniff of her perfume.

“Fuck,” He whispered.

Sam looked up at her again. Unsure of his next moves. She could see the war going on in his mind. Before he could do anything next, the bar door opened again, and Dean was calling for the two. A small whimper left her lips as his heat departed from her body before Dean saw the position that they were in.

“Ah, there you two are.” Dean says as he spots them.

“Are you in?” He asks hopefully. Deans’ eyes darted between the two of them.

Clearing her throat, all she could do is muster up a nod.

“Great! Meet us at this motel.” Dean hands her a card with the motel and address on it.

She could barely reach his eyes. The boys part ways from her. As she looks up, she catches Sam looking back at her. There was just something about his puppy dog eyes, and dumb hair that made her want to fight for him again. Even if it was a losing battle, Sammy was it for her.

#supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester x reader smut #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader series #sam winchester x reader series smut

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zeroaddzero · 9 months

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Top 10 Horniest Bruce Springsteen songs, ranked

Yes there are more horny Bruce songs. Too many horny songs for one list. I don’t know if his game was good because he knew how to write horny songs, or if his game inspired him to write horny songs. Eiter way, we’ve been blessed musically with a lot of horny songs. Here’s the horny songs I managed to fit into a (very biased) list:

1. I'm On Fire

THE horny Bruce song. A fever fantasy of a wet dream smushed into one moaning, sweaty mess. Before I was a fan, this (coupled with the below performance) was the song that made me go "OH. I get it now."

Spotify LINK

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet And a freight train running through the middle of my head Only you can cool my desire

youtube

2. Pink Cadillac

About as subtle as Lady Gaga’s “Disco Stick.” Even better paired with the BITUSA tour intro (said intro got noticeably more sexual after Bruce got married in 1985).

Spotify LINK

They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple But man I an’t goin for that I know it was her pink Cadillac

youtube

3. Fire

Originally written for Elvis, the bass line alone for this #problematic 70s “don't play coy with me” number will make you reconsider feminism for 5 minutes. The 1986 performance is downright NSFW.

Spotify LINK

You had a hold on me right from the start A grip so tight I couldn't tear it apart

youtube

4. The Fever

Bruce is king of the “lying in bed thinking of how horny this person makes me” genre, and this is one of his finest examples. At almost 8 minutes, it’s the tantric equivalent to the more concentrated "I’m on Fire". Anybody noticing a “burning” theme here?

Spotify LINK

Well now the day grows longer The love just grows stronger, baby And the fever gets so bad at night I got the fever for the girl

youtube

5. Because The Night

Bruce never finished the lyrics, and this song arguably belongs to Patti Smith now. Bruce has even said as much. However, I am biased and enjoy this banger too much to let technicalities get in the way of horny. On the list it goes.

Spotify LINK

Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to lust Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to us

youtube

6. Red Headed Woman

I'm Going Down may seem raunchy until you realise it's about a bad breakup. For the other thing, we have this entry. Folks, this song is literally about eating pussy. Bruce even introduced it as such during his Ghost of Tom Joad tour. I’ve yet to recover from the whiplash of hearing him say the word “cunnilingus” while performing at his old Catholic high school.

Spotify LINK

Well listen up stud Your life's been wasted 'Til you've been down on your knees and tasted A red headed woman

youtube

7. She's The One

Speculated to have been written about the violinist who played on the album Born To Run, this tune shows our boy is down baaad. Best paired with the excellent "Mona" intro, which is included in the Houston '78 live performance below.

Spotify LINK

With her killer graces and her secret places That no boy can fill with her hands on her hips Oh and that smile on her lips Because she knows that it kills me

youtube

8. Part Man, Part Monkey

My Tunnel of Love tour knowledge is woefully lacking despite the tour being his most explicit, and the accompanying album being in my top 3. In the eyes of the public, Bruce was still with his first wife when this video was shot in 1988. Only the band knew he was recently separated, so imagine watching a presumably married man on stage eye-fucking his backup singer. The gossip mill must have been insane after each show.

Spotify LINK

Well the night is dark, the moon is full The flowers of romance exert their pull We talk awhile, my fingers slip I'm hard and crackling like a whip

youtube

9. Crush On You

Another genre this Jersey dude excels at is “horny to the point of funny.” Bruce himself has called it "the worst song we ever put on a record" but hey, what does he know.

Spotify LINK

For one kiss, darling I swear everything I would give 'Cause she's a walking talking reason to live

youtube

10. Cover Me

I just realised this is only one of four songs on this list included on an official Springsteen album(if you don't count the outtake compilations.) The video contains the studio audio, but I'm not passing on an excuse to plug more Paris '85 concert footage!

Spotify LINK

Now promise me baby you won't let them find us Hold me in your arms, let's let our love blind us Cover me, shut the door and cover me I'm looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me

youtube

Honourable mentions (song/album):

Rosalita / The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle Candy's Room / Darkness on the Edge of Town Ramrod / The River Cindy / The River (outtakes) Ain’t got you / Tunnel of Love The Fuse / The Rising

Let me know if you think I missed any! I won't change the list, but more horny song discourse is always good.

#bruce springsteen #e street band #rock music #bruceposting #Youtube #long post

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yeyinde · 2 years

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I’M ON FIRE ⋮ THOMAS HEWITT | LEATHERFACE ☓ READER

sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby

edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull

at night i wake up with the sheets soaking wet

and a freight train running through the middle of my head

only you can cool my desire

A shudder rolls through his massive frame and it makes your heart twinge with that greedy type of want that’s never quenched no matter how many times you see his eyes widen at your open, honest affection, at the love you pour into his skin, and the way you worship his flesh. It sits heavy in your pericardium: always there, always wanting. Never satisfied no matter how much of him you consume.

(You never quite understood the meaning of hunger, of want, until you met Thomas.

It's a good thing, then, that there's just so much of him to devour.)

⤷tw: shameless Thomas Hewitt body worship/worship in general. softcore smut. so sickeningly sweet it'll rot your teeth. ultra light breeding kink. ultra explicit size kink. gendered terminology (female gendered body parts). no substance - just smut and fluff

You trace the constellations into his worn, rough palms - Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Centaurus, Orion - and murmur to him about the universe, the sun, and stardust.

Thomas makes no noise as you etch your fantastical stories into the white-hot skin of his palm. He listens, intently, as you speak; his burning gaze fixed on the way your mouth moves, gentle and soft, around the unfathomable cosmos that you don't, entirely, think he understands. But he likes the sounds you make - the way your lips mould around the words, and the susurrus lull of your voice as you tell him about quasars and moons and the intricate gases of the Nebula that you don't really understand much, either. You echo the words inside the books you've read and try to find your place in the limitless, infinite galaxy. A place, you know, will be just for the two of you.

When the curve of Orion finishes and you've exhausted your knowledge of Betelgeuse, you bring his massive paw up to your lips, press a kiss in the deep divot of his fate line, and hope that somewhere along the linear curve, your name sits. That inside the harsh, rough crevasse is a world where the two of you gaze at the stars and find yourselves between Virgo and Leo, locked in an eternal embrace where nothing can hurt you and the world doesn't matter.

(Like here: in this humid room you haven't left since mid-morning, where just the two of you exist in a little microcosm that smells like the sweat on his skin and feels like home.)

The heat of his palm almost scalds your lips.

Thomas burns as hot as the summer sun. A constant inferno that scorches you when you touch him. It burrows into your flesh, warming you from the outside in.

It might be the lingering fever: a mid-July cold that had him bedridden for nearly a week. His immune system isn't the best, Luda Mae said. Colds take him a while to recover from. You coddled him - much to the derision of Hoyt.

("Stop babyin' the idiot already," he snaps at you as you bring down an empty bowl of soup. "He's a man, goddammit, not a fuckin' child."

You trade off the bowl with Luda Mae for more water and blow a raspberry at him. "Aww, Charlie, are you upset that no one takes care'a you when you're sick?"

His threat is swiftly cut off by the sharp glare from Luda Mae, who then turns to you, now all soft, motherly smiles, and says, "thank you for takin' care of him."

You don't think she'd be particularly impressed to know that your version of taking care of him meant mapping out the star systems in his skin, and finding nirvana in the way he fits inside of you.)

After nearly a week in bed, tossing and turning in the throes of a fever, it finally broke. You'd spent the rest of the day helping him thoroughly sweat it out.

The thought of it makes your cheeks flush. Makes that ache inside of you spume.

You never quite understood the meaning of hunger, of want, until you met Thomas.

He rips open a vacuum inside of you: a festering black hole that needs and yearns - insatiable - for more. It's a constant ache that drives you delirious with the urge to consume him whole. But no matter how much you try to stem the rapacious chasm, it's never satiated, never full.

(It's a good thing, then, that there's just so much of him to devour.)

Your lips part, tongue rolling over the line to get a taste of his molten flesh.

Thomas smells like sin and tastes like warm milk and honey.

A shudder rolls through his massive frame and makes your heart twinge with that greedy type of want that's never quenched no matter how many times you see his eyes widen at your open, honest affection, at the love you pour into his skin, and the way you worship his flesh. It sits heavy in your pericardium: always there, always wanting. Never satisfied no matter how much of him you consume.

Your thirst for his taste is unending.

His other hand flexes on his thigh. A nervous, fretting tick when the kittenish way you lap at his palm becomes too much. The movement draws your eyes to the bulk of his legs which are almost as big as the trucks on the Magnolia trees down the road. Your mouth runs dry at the sight.

It's easy to worship him, you think. Easy to press offerings into his flesh, and sings hymns into the soft, plush give of his stomach.

"Thomas…" you whisper his name softly into the humid summer night, tone drenched in that voracious need that never really goes away.

The sound of his name spilling from your lips makes him flinch, a low whine rolls up his throat, muffled by the pursed press of his lips. You like the sounds he makes. The grunts and the whimpers. The groans and the huffs of breath into your neck when you sit in his big lap and whisper praise into his ear.

You'd spent most of the day with him nestled in bed with you. He rutted inside of you over and over again until you were filled to the brim with him - his scent, his sweat on your body - and even now, hours later, you're still hungry. You can't get enough of him. Parched for his touch. His taste.

You bring both hands up to cup his wrist, tugging him gently toward you.

He makes another noise in the back of his throat. A wanting trill that burrows into your chest and sends liquid heat to your abdomen.

There is an almost needy haze in his eyes when you meet his gaze. If you're not careful, you think you can easily get lost in the endless cyanic that stares up at you, soft, pleading, irises almost entirely eclipsed by his widening pupils. The fathomless black of the cosmos has nothing on the endless pools of cerulean in front of you.

"C'mon…" you say, and he goes, willing. Eager. He rocks up on his knees, his frame easily towering over you. Large. Indomitable. He eclipses you entirely, blocking out the soft light from the candle flickering on the bedside table.

Kneeling over you like this, he looks every bit of a Cimmerian god meant to be revered, admired. The messy curls on his head, moussed from the sweat of the summer swelter and his lingering fever, and the many times your fingers threaded through the locks, falls over his forehead when he bows his head and stares at you underneath him.

And you, as always, stare back.

It makes him twitch; embarrassment, and shame prickle across his expression. His chin quivers, turning slightly away from the open way you swallow him whole with your look. You tut softly, a gentle warning that no, that's not allowed here, in this space made just for the two of you.

Thomas frets under your admonishment; the hand still in your hold shakes, and you're quick to soothe his worry with a wet kiss to his thundering pulse. You suckle the thrumming vein until another mark sits on his flesh. By the end of the night, when the moon is nigh in the aether and the ocherous smear of the hazy coruscating sun breaches the inky black above you, his whole body will be a mosaic of your reverence. A testament to your devotion.

(The thought thrills you. You love seeing your mark pressed into his sunkissed flesh: a red map of Orion across his chest and Cassiopeia over his shoulder.)

When he quiets, when his shoulders ease from the coiled, self-conscious hunch that makes him feel like he's smaller than what he is, what he ever could be, you offer him a small, reassuring smile. He huffs at the sight of it, his broad chest deflating with the deep exhale. Relaxing above you at the wordless praise in the tilt of your mouth.

It amazes you just how much self-doubt lingers in the broad vastitude of his neverending bulk, but you're determined to wash it all away with each nip you scour into his body. Slowly, slowly, because the last thing you ever want is to make him nervous, scared.

But that doesn't matter with Thomas. The trust in his gaze shines as true and effortless as the love and affection in the abyss of blue that tugs at your heart each time you look over at him and find that mushy, misty-eyed look in his expression. It steals your breath away each time. A paradox that you can't even begin to unravel.

He's so massive. So big. An unstoppable force. But he gives you so much power. He lays everything in your hands, as gently as possible, and looks at you like you're responsible for the smattering of stars that gleam across the astronomical cosmos.

Thomas looks at you sometimes, and the weight of his gaze makes you feel like the most powerful being in the universe. It's an odd little juxtaposition coming from a man who looks like the personification of Hercules. A sentient mountain.

He tugs out his heart, such a precious treasure, and hands it to you for safekeeping next to your own, where they beat congruent.

"You're perfect," you say, a little drunk on the dazed way he makes you feel. The power he gives you.

His breath catches in his throat at your unexpected words, chin ducking bashfully to his broad chest. A man this enormous shouldn't be as cute as he is, as endearing. It jars into you, and makes your stomach flutter when you catch sight of the red staining his ears, his cheeks.

Your eyes greedily follow the rufescent plume that snakes down his throat, his chest.

It gleams with his sweat. With red smears from your nips and kisses on his skin. The thick bed of hair hides most of your work, but his nipples - reddened from your mouth - peek out from the blanket of tight curls across his upper chest. Your gaze follows the trail. The hair dissipates over the curve of his stomach. His belly hangs, paler than the rest of his body, and partially concealing the flushed cock between his legs that twitches under your appraisal, your wanting stare.

Thomas is big - everywhere - and you ache with the reminder of the way he stretches you, stuffs you full of him until you're clinging to the precarious precipice of that inexorable pleasure-pain that lacerates up your spine. He fills you in a way that knocks the air from your lungs. That makes you keen into the sheets.

But despite his sheer size, he's so, so gentle with you.

He doesn't fill you up entirely - always so worried about hurting you - no matter how much you asked him for it. During the last several couplings, he fisted his hand around the base of his cock, and slowly rocked into you, not giving you the entire length of him, not pushing in too deep. It was good - so good - like it always is, and even with half his length inside of you, the girth alone steals the air from your lungs; but this time, you're determined to get all of him.

All of what he has to offer. You want him to devour you whole. To swallow you up in his heat, his touch, his caress. You want to fuse your limbs together until you can't find the space that separates you anymore. A tangled web of sweat-slicked skin and that haze of pleasure that makes you feel drunk on the sensations he wrought from your body.

The thought alone makes your heart hammer in your chest, and your gaze waver. Your misty eyes slide down to the thick, hairy thighs that kneel between your legs. You want to touch him. To grasp at the flesh there as he pounds into you.

It's been so sweet thus far. So soft. So gentle. And now you want him to mess you up. You want Thomas to take whatever he wants from your willing body. Take what he needs.

(To give you what you need.)

Your eyes roam his body again - greedily, appreciative, wanting - and you hear the hitch in his breath. His cock twitches; a bead of pre-cum dribbling out of his engorged, flushed head.

"Please…" you whimper, and his whole frame trembles once again. The rattle of an earthquake. The bed shakes with him.

His hand drops to the pillow behind you, and you immediately follow, lowering yourself down, matching his pace until your head rests against the bed; Thomas bracketing you from above. He stretches out, yawning over you like the infinitely dark cosmos; a Stygian King. You see Orion in his eyes. Map Cassiopeia in the dusting of birthmarks and blemishes that line his thick face. You see forever in the way he stares back at you.

Your thighs spread as far as you can manage - wanting him, needing him closer - but it's still not enough. He's too big. You're too small. But somehow, he feels like a perfect fit. The drag of his tummy settling over yours makes you mewl; the weight of it, of his body on top of you, makes you pant and gasp into the balmy air.

You whisper more praise into his ear when he finally rests on top of you - right where he belongs - and pull his hand down until it lays on your breast, a wordless plea for more. He shudders above you when your hardened nipple catches the rough skin of his palm, a callous making your thighs squeeze his sides, and he quickly kneads the flesh you offered him.

The soft give of his body feels good. You reach up and trace the stretch marks covering his belly and chest, cooing softly when he whimpers. He doesn't cover himself up as much as he used to. You've kissed every silvery line on his body. Every scar and dimple. Thomas knows you love every part of him - even the ones he tries to hide. He knows you want him. Need him. He knows because you tell him so every day. Your lips kiss prayers into his flesh until he's a quivering, whining mess. Until his ears burn red and his chest is flushed the perfect hue of roseate that makes your mouth water.

"Want you…" you murmur into his shoulder, flicking your tongue out to lick across a small stretch mark that dips into his underarm. The rough scratch of his hair feels good against your tongue.

His hips buck into you, his belly ripping against yours with the sharp movement. His thighs drag across the delicate skin on the inside of your legs, and the rasp of his coarse hair rubbing against the soft, sensitive flesh makes you gasp into his shoulder. His cock - tacky from the slowly drying mess of being inside of you for most of the day and white-hot to the touch - slides so deliciously over your mons and lower stomach, that you can help but to cant your hips up in response, eagerly seeking more of him. More of his touch.

Fuck, you can't get enough of him.

"Please, Thomas…" it's all he needs to hear, but it's not enough for you. The adulations slip from your lips until he's quivering above you, your lower belly covered in the messy smear of his excitement. His cheeks are stained sunburn red and you push to make them blister. "Please, I want you so bad-"

His hand pulls away from your breast, reaching down to take hold of his cock. Your breath stutters in your chest when the head drags between your folds, pressing against your aching pussy. You're so wet. So messy from his cum. He's filled you so many times today. Your hand slips below the flesh of his belly, pressing against your naval where you can almost feel a little budge.

"You filled me up so much today, Thomas," you pant into his shoulder, nuzzling your lips into his skin. He trembles above you, letting out a deep whine. His cock rubs through the mess still spilling out of you, jerking sharply at your words. "You wanna gimme more, baby?"

He keens, his head dropping down to your neck as he ruts into you, desperate and wanting. He likes it. Likes filling you up. Making you messy with his cum. Likes watching it slowly drip out of you just so he can push it back inside after.

Thomas isn't normally so open, so honest, about his desires. He hides it as if it was something to be ashamed of. But with the sickness still clouding his mind, spooling over his inhibition, he lets it out. Let's you see the things inside his head he covers up, that he pushes aside.

You like it a lot more than you thought you would. The warmth deep inside of you when he cums, head tossed back in euphoria, mouth open as he groans, whines, deep in his chest. The sloppy way he thrusts inside of you with his release, as if he can't help himself, as if he can't get enough of you.

The glossy sheen of his eyes when he drops to his elbows, burying his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling your skin after he finishes makes your heart thrum with contentment, and affection; both so visceral, they bludgeon into you like a club.

You wiggle your hips, unable to stop the molten ache billowing inside of you at the prospect of having Thomas fill you so deeply once more.

"Please, Thomas," you whisper again, splaying yourself under him like an offering. "Please-"

He's there before the next plea finishes rolling off of your tongue. The scalding press of his cock inside of you has the cosmos flashing across your eyes. Phosphenes dance behind your eyelids when you squeeze them shut against the delicious ache, the burning stretch, of him splitting you open, carving out a place inside of you meant just for him. It's good - too good - and you can't stop the hiccuping whines from tumbling past your parted lips, a mindless chant of his name, and more, more, more.

Your legs slide over his, curling as much as you can over his broad back, and you push your heel into the rounded softness of his ass, forcing him deeper.

He whimpers. His hand fumbles. You reach out, fingers curling around his elbow, tugging his hand up.

"All of you, Thomas," you gasp into his ear, pleading and wanting. A needy keen wells up in the back of your throat. "All of you - I want all of you."

And Thomas -

He can never say no to you when you beg him so prettily.

He breaks, and the way he crumbles has you seeing stars when he fills you so deeply. Pushing in until he can't anymore, until his hips are flush against you, and his cock is burrowing past the limits of what you can take, of what you can handle. It's so hot. The searing heat, the ache, jars into you like a sledgehammer, and you whimper at the too-full feeling of him stretching you. He brushes against a spot that makes you keen, that makes you feel that intense whiplash pleasure as it ricochets down your spine, pooling liquid bliss in your belly.

You're pinned under his sheer bulk, but you can't help the way you shudder and arch into him. It's good, too good, and the pleasure lacerates through your core as he ruts into that tightly winding coil deep inside of you that spumes with molten ecstasy.

You chant his name into stifling air, breathless and quaking from the undulated pleasure he brings you; the way his body moulds over your frame has you mewling, and panting at the smoulder of his suffocating heat.

It's dizzying. Intense. The inferno of his heavy body nearly smothers you. You tip your head back before hypoxia settles in. Black smears moult across your vision when he moves, when he pulls back, the thick drag of him inside of you makes your toes curl in bliss.

Thomas' thrusts are messy. Unpractised despite the numerous times he's fucked into your willing body. It's cute. Endearing. The eager, desperate way he pushes into you makes your head heavy with a pleasured slurry of endorphins and dopamine.

"You feel so good-," he moans at the sincerity in your slurred words, and bucks into with a deep cry. The force of it sends you reeling. It makes your head feel gummy with that gossamer of euphoria that grips you tight when he makes noises like that. "Oh, god, Thomas-"

You pull your hand out from under his body, dropping it down to grip his plush hip, the flesh bulging between your spread fingers. It dredges up another squall from his chest, and he rocks forward, his head pressing down into the crook of your neck. His breath is hot on your skin. His hair tickles your cheek. Your other hand slips into the messy locks, nails scraping over his scalp in a way that makes him twitch inside of you, hips jerking into you - fast, hard. The force of it has you wailing his name, and your body tensing with the sudden pulsating pleasure gnashing inside your abdomen.

You're close, you think, deliriously careening toward that precipice of pure nirvana only he can bring you to.

His thrusts are sloppier. Sluggish. You can see the fatigue drenching his brow under the rivets of sweat that pour down his hairline. You lost count of how many times he's been inside of you today; how many times he held you down and fucked you until you cried into the sheets with his name turning into a hymn on your tongue. Your skin is soaked with him - his metallic, ozone scent, the slickness of his sweat, his saliva - but you want more.

You're always wanting. Always hungry. He makes you feel ravenous; a need so deep, so infinite, that it's never satisfied, never quenched. You're always yearning for more.

You're drunk on the taste of him. Addicted to the way his flesh feels under your palms. You breathe rapture into his pores and sing about your eternal devotion to him. Thomas shivers under the intense way you eulogise your matins in his name.

The slick sound of him rutting into you sends jolts of pleasure to your core.

You pull him deep, holding him tight to your smouldering body as he rocks inside of you, grunting in your ear. With the raspy way he whimpers, the hitch in his breath when you shift your hips to take him as deep as you can, you know he won't last much longer.

Your paean turns into a breathless miserere in his ear, one that makes his chest reverberate with a deep grunt in response to the pleading way you prose your love for him. His hips stutter into yours with fevered desperation. The frenetic way his cock pistons into your oversensitive body makes your chorale turn into a nonsensical babble of choking whines and hysterical moans. You rasp out his name - a fervid plea as hedonism congeals inside your marrow, making you cant your hips into his as he sends you toward that rapturous edge.

Each jarring thrust spools an incandescent heat in your lower belly, where the blunt head of his cock slams into the soft, spongy wall that has you burning with bliss, and bucking into the molten feeling that gnashes into the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter inside of you until Thomas drops to his elbows above you, the force of his body resting on yours, lax with his exhaustion and out of his mind with pleasure, sends the scant vapours in your lungs rushing out as his weight descends on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he batters into you.

You can't breathe. You choke in greedily lungfuls of air to sate your oxygen-starved mind as each plunge Thomas makes into you wrenches it out.

All you can do is take it as he gorges himself with your body and renders you into a mindless, mewling mess under his bulk.

You can't get enough of this. Your fingers dig into his sweat-slicked skin, wanting him closer despite the ache in your lungs and white-hot lashes of pleasured pain that chisels into you. It's so good, so good, so -

Your toes curl, muscles spasming with the electrifying force of the release Thomas dragoons out of you.

His name is wrenched from your throat, and you cling to him as your vision whites out under the deluge of pleasure.

Each thrust cudgels into you. In the kaleidoscope haze of phosphenes, you see Orion in the milky gossamer. The fulgent prisms erupt into static before shuddering out of existence where the effulgent face of Thomas swims in front of you. The look on his florid face when he cums clots behind your ribcage where it sits just as heavy as his body over yours. It's that coalescence of feverish delirium and the sfumato of delectation that percolates into your pounding heart, making it swell from the sheer elation he brings you.

You can feel his hips stuttering as he rides out the last throes of his orgasmic haze, spilling liquid embers into your body. His body quivers under your hand. You scratch at his crown with your nails when he blubbers into your neck, mewling at the oversensitive feeling of your walls, molten and drenched with his release, clinging to his spent cock.

You might have pushed him beyond his mettle tonight. There is a stab of guilt in your pericardium as he slumps into your embrace, quaking with the aftershocks of your greed and gluttonous insatiability, but it's gone when you feel his humid pants into your neck, the blunt press of his teeth to your skin.

You coo softly to him as he trembles over you, your hands petting the body you so thoroughly worshipped today to ease the strain in his quivering muscles.

When he lifts his head, you slide your palm to the base of his neck and kiss the nasolabial space between the decayed remnants of his nose and his cheek. He flinches, shying away from the soft kiss. He tries to hide his face from your view, shoulders trembling under the nervous thrum of shame, shyness, and embarrassment. You hate the look in his eyes - the ghost of self-abasement that sets your teeth on edge and makes your heart prickle with agony.

"Don't be so mean to the love of my life," you murmur softly, tracing Orion into his shoulder.

Thomas jerks his head up at your words, eyes widening. You hate the shock in his expression whenever you confess your love to him - like he doesn't think he deserves it. It makes your stomach churn with sorrow. How could this man not see how much you want him? How much you adore him?

"Yes, silly," you pepper more kisses over his face, smiling at the flush you can feel scalding your mouth. "I mean you."

Thomas nuzzles into your affection like he's starving for it, and you're determined to make him surfeit by the end of the night.

It's when you stretch your legs out that he shakes from his exhausted revere, jerking back with noises of distress and worry spilling from lips in a rapid cacophony of sorrow and concern. Thomas pulls himself up, looking over at you with contrition bunching up in his brow.

"It's okay," you soothe him and try to hide the way you greedily suck in deep breaths without the pressure on your chest stemming the flow. "I'm fine."

He doesn't believe you. Compunction pinches the corners of his mouth.

"Thomas," you whisper, but he rises to his knees and drops his head into his hands, shoulder shaking. "Tommy, baby-," you sit up, wincing at the ache inside of you, the tacky mess between your thighs, and reach up to grasp at his wrists. Your thumb and forefinger never meet. There's a width of space the size of your own wrist between them.

You can't say that the sight of it, the sheer vastitude between the difference in your sizes, doesn't make you pant.

"Tommy," the breathless tenor of your voice makes him look up, and you grin at him. "Baby, I love when you crush me-"

It's the wrong thing to say. He squalls deep in his throat. Morose shutters over his expression. He tries to cover his face up again, but you squeeze your hands.

"Baby, baby… I'm sorry," you say, not at all apologetic for the words, per se, but certainly the timing. "I love your body, Thomas. I love the way you feel on top of me. I can't get enough of it."

His whimpers begin to quiet, but the rueful look in his eyes doesn't lapse.

You huff and slowly clamber to your knees in front of him. He watches you, body coiled like a whip -as if he is waiting for punishment.

You draw his hands close to you, and pepper kisses all over his palms, his fingers, his knuckles, his dorsal, his wrist.

"I love your big hands and the way they hold me so tight…" you glance up at him, watching him as you slowly lap at his pulse. "I know you'd never hurt me, Thomas. You're so gentle. So kind." His breath stutters in his chest when you nuzzle along his arm, your lips tickling the sensitive flesh in the crook of his elbow.

It seems you aren't finished with your quixotic hymns. The look on his face spurns you on, makes your chest froth with liquid affection, adoration.

"I love your arms, you know that. I love when you wrap them around me and hold me close. I love the way they swallow me up," you huff out a small blissful laugh. "You're so big, baby - god - it's amazing. I feel so small next to you."

You press your head into his chest, breathing in the heady scent of sex and ozone that clings to him, letting it fill your senses. It makes you dizzy. Makes your head feel mushy with contentment. You slide your face up until just your chin rests against his sternum.

The open, raw, look in his eyes makes you keen low in your throat.

"You're so big, and I feel so safe in your arms, Thomas. So protected. You'd never intentionally hurt me, right?"

Noises of distress immediately pour from his lips as his head quickly jerks to the side in an emphatic refusal.

"I know you wouldn't," you dip your head down, pressing a kiss over his heart, feeling the rapid pulse beating under your lips. "I trust you more than anyone in the whole world."

Thomas shivers. His body wracks with tremors under the sincerity, the bluntness of your words.

Your hands drop down from his wrists, sliding over the smooth curve of his belly. He flinches, blushing scarlet at the way your nails scratch through the coarse smattering of hair you find.

"I love your belly," you drop down, following the path your fingers took with gentle kisses to his flesh. His belly quivers. Your lips sink into the plump skin. "Fuck… I really love it. Love how soft it is compared to the rest of you. You're so bulky. So hard, strong… But here-," you nuzzle your nose into his luscious skin, words laced thick with an amatory drawl. "You're so comfy."

Your gaze drops to the soft cock now hidden behind the bulge of his stomach, and your grin turns wicked, eyes burning with desire. You can feel him give a small twitch when your hands brush over his mons, fingers playing with the thick bed of coarse curls.

"And you know how much I love your-," his whine cuts you off, and you chuckle in response. He's overstimulated. You've worn him out today. You slide your hands down, resting the flat of your palm over his legs. His skin scalds you. The smear of hair tickles your skin. "-Thighs," you finish with a wink.

Thomas huffs above you, the flush deepening as it spreads over his chest. You can tell he's growing restless under your arduous exploits in making him acutely, pointedly, aware of just how much you love his body and how good he makes you feel.

His belly ripples when you pull away from him, and the sight makes your mouth quiver. Your hands snake around his thighs, squeezing the generous globes of flesh you find when you reach up and grab his ass. He squawks, flinching when you do. It pushes his belly into your face, and press one last kiss to the tumid flesh offered to you before you pull away.

Mournfully, you release your grip on his succulent flesh, and slide your hands up his back, feeling the taut ripple of his muscles under your palms. He's so brawny. So stalwart. You love the contrast of his soft belly and the hard, burly planes of shoulder blades and thick thighs.

Your arms loop around the nape of his neck as you press your body firmly into his. The hefty bulk of his body fills you with an intense concupiscence. The way his bare skin moulds to yours has you seeing Antares behind your eyelids.

"I love every part of you," you murmur into his chest, words breathless and heavy with desire.

Even on your knees, your head barely brushes past his sternum. It's supposed to be a tender, loving moment, so you pretend the absurd girth of him, the length, doesn't make your mouth water. Doesn't whet your appetite.

After a whole day of rolling around in the sheets, you still want more.

"Every single inch." You punctuate your words with a kiss. A smile.

Nervously, he returns it. It's just a quake of his mouth to the side. A crooked, lopsided grin. But it sends a thrill down your spine.

"I love you."

He bleats in response, eyes lidded and heavy with fatigue. He's still on the mend. You can hear the residual sickness in his voice, feel it in the humidity clinging to his rubicund skin.

"Let's get you to bed, now, yeah?"

He nods, eager, sluggish, and his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you close to his body before he leans down, his other hand balancing on the mattress. Thomas lays on his side, pulling you down with him, before rolling onto his back, arm opening wide, beckoning you forward.

You smile down at him, the mushy thrum of affection swelling inside once more, and clamber into your space on his chest.

Thomas pulls you close, tucking you in to the folds of his side where you fit like a puzzle and he feels like home. You lean up, brushing his hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead, and press one last latria to his skin, murmuring your devotion into his flesh.

When you lay on his chest, his heartbeat marches in tandem with your own, dragging out another smile that tugs on your lips. Thomas nuzzles your crown, cooing wordless adherence into your hair. He kisses your crown, and a sappy, soporific haze shudders over you; somnolence seeps into your marrow when his arm drapes over your shoulders, locking you to his side in an unyielding hold.

You settle into his embrace, tracing constellations into his kiss-bruised chest. He fits around you like a Magellanic cloud, and you think you'll never be satisfied when he reels you into his gravity without evening knowing the magnitude of his pull. Thomas is the sun, and you're a tidally locked planet on a rapid spiral from which there is no escape. As he pulls you closer, you contemplate the benison of this perigee and find solace in the fact that your name must be etched into his fate line because you don't think the way his flesh burns into your skin could ever be happenstance. There is no fortuity in the way you fit beside him, and how much he smells like home.

You belong to him, and if there is no place for you by his side, then you'll rip apart the cosmos until you can find a microcosm meant just for the two of you, nestled somewhere in the middle of Virgo and Leo, in between the infinite everything that threatens to consume you. You'll shred the Nebula apart to be near him because Thomas brings out this need, this want, that spumes inside of you like an unfathomable chasm, and without the taste of his piquant flesh on your tongue, or the heft of body on yours, you might just starve.

(And if it is a coincidence, well - you'll carve your own kismet into his skin just like you etched Orion into his palm.)

#thomas hewitt #leatherface #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #no substance just fluff and smut #texas chainsaw massacre #bubba saywer x reader #bubba sawyer x you

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