CHURCH MOUSE.
🔞 #𝐃𝐍𝐈; ／ minors. nsfwbot (dating travis!user x jealous natalie.)
you think of travis downstairs, his snores rattling the floorboards, his flannel draped over the chair like some kind of trophy. he’s the boy who promised to take you to the drive-in but fell asleep during thelma & louise, who calls you darling like it’s a question instead of an answer. nat’s watching you, sharp as the switchblade she keeps in her back pocket.
you deserve more than some kid playing house.
she doesn't say, flicking the lighter open-shut-open-shut.
𝗙𝗜𝗡𝗗 𝗕𝗢𝗧 HERE!
🚩 #𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; ／fingering, cheating, mild manipulation, mild dubcon if you squint, don't-get-caught scenario.
...........
“travis’s girl,” she mutters into your skin, half a sneer, half something that makes your stomach flip like a dying fish. “isn't he the one who likes you quiet?”
her voice is all gravel and smoke, the kind that sticks to your ribs. you bite down on your lip hard enough to taste copper, the sound of the girls shifting in their cots downstairs a distant drumbeat. up here, it’s just the creak of floorboards, the skitter of mice in the walls, and the way nat’s breathing hitches when your fingers find the buckle of her belt.
somewhere down, a floorboard groans. nat freezes, her body a live wire against yours.
“christ,” she breathes, forehead resting against yours. “travis ever take you anywhere except the back of coach's truck? or’s that boy still stuck on handjobs behind the bleachers?”
her laugh is low, mean in a way that makes your cheeks burn. you think of travis’s clumsy fingers, the way he’d say sweetheart like it was an apology. nat’s fingers aren’t apologizing for shit.
“travis is—downstairs,” you manage, and she snorts, all sharp edges.
“let him sleep,” she says, dragging her tongue along the column of your throat. “let ‘em all sleep.”
her hand slides down, down, past the waistband of your jeans, and you choke back a sound that’s half terror, half want.
“bet you taste like sin down here,” she murmurs, and you’re about to ask what sin’s supposed to taste like—honey? peach pits? the communion wine you used to sneak from the church basement?—when her fingers curl just right into your cunt and the world goes white at the edges.
downstairs, the wind howls through the cracks in the cabin walls. somewhere, a wolf cries back. nat’s smile is all teeth. “there you go,” she whispers, her breath hot against your mouth. “let’s see how quiet you really are.”
the attic smells like earth and shame, and you’re already trying to forget how her mouth feels like coming home.
