Claudia

18 | Libra | "And in that moment, I swear we are infinite." - Perks of being a wallflower

[appleonapeachtree]

Claudia’s Pages Guide

Masterlist | Guidelines | Request

Fandoms: Stranger Things, Supernatural, Criminal Minds, The Office, The OC, One Tree Hill, Dead Poet Society, Outerbanks.

If you like reading, writing, listening to music, and daydreaming you have came to the right place.

Other socials:

Wattpad & Ao3: @appleonapeachtree

[exwife-of-frankenstein]

Youtube is full of ads, spotify is full of ads, tumblr is full of ads, pinterest is full of ads. Everything uses ai. Every new update makes the website/app worse. Youtube auto translates almost every video I want to watch. Sometimes pinterest only loads ads for me. Check out this new ai feature. Here's a new update that breaks ur laptop. Here's a new update that breaks ur phone. Why are u complaining about ur phone, just get the newest iphone lol. Join my patreon. Join my membership. Pay a monthly membership to get all features. Upgrade your membership to get even more features. Subscribe to netflix. Subscribe to disney. Subscribe to amazon. Subscribe to hulu. This content isn't available in ur country. This content was removed. This website was removed. This feature only exists for apple. This app only exists for apple. U need to a WiFi connection to play this game. U need an account. We need your email to finish creating this account. We need your number to finish creating your account. We need your id to finish creating your account. In order to delete your account please write an email. In order to delete your account you need a laptop. Oops our database was hacked and ur information was stolen. Ur data was sold from this random website u used once 10 years ago. Spam call. Spam call. Spam call.

[appleonapeachtree]

What should I write next?

Another Steve Harrington song series

Au!hockeyplayer!steve x reader

My oc x one tree hill fanfic

Something else

Voting ended onMay 8

Someone please tell me to write. Writers block is killing me.

[appleonapeachtree]

I am almost done the first chapter of Teenage Dreams (my the oc x one tree hill fanfic) I'll try my best to publish it sometime this week.

[appleonapeachtree]

You guys are in luck today I finally finished the first chapter and have published it on ao3 and wattpad!.

[appleonapeachtree]

What should I write next?

Another Steve Harrington song series

Au!hockeyplayer!steve x reader

My oc x one tree hill fanfic

Something else

Voting ended onMay 8

Someone please tell me to write. Writers block is killing me.

[appleonapeachtree]

I am almost done the first chapter of Teenage Dreams (my the oc x one tree hill fanfic) I'll try my best to publish it sometime this week.

[appleonapeachtree]

What should I write next?

Another Steve Harrington song series

Au!hockeyplayer!steve x reader

My oc x one tree hill fanfic

Something else

Voting ended onMay 8

Someone please tell me to write. Writers block is killing me.

[isabellebissonrouthier]

write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book write your book

[nicherthanu]

warnings: alcohol, cursing, kissing, pure fluff, they’re sweet idiots in love

A/N: should I do a part 2 with some spicy stuff and an update on them? 👀👀 lmk in the comments!

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Iron Maiden’s new album blasted through the caravan, courtesy of Eddie, of course. Every few minutes the music was interrupted by Robin’s nonstop rambling in your ear and the endless honking of car horns outside. The road to Coachella stretched on forever — a slow-moving sea of jeeps, trailers, and caravans under the blazing desert sun. Your head felt like it was about to explode.

You’d been working at Warner Music Group for three years now, long enough to earn real trust. Signing the company's brand new success, Deftones on your own had earned you a fat raise and a reputation. Two weeks ago, your boss had handed you five tickets to the festival as a bonus. You were there partly as an agent for a new young band you’d discovered in New York — talented kids, but still deep in their emotional puberty phase, according to your bosses. Still, you’d fought to give them a shot. They were only playing early today, which meant the rest of the weekend was yours.

When Robin found out, she immediately declared that this year’s Hawkins reunion would happen at Coachella. And that’s how you ended up crammed into a caravan with her and Eddie, inching toward the desert to meet Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan in another vehicle.

You were jolted out of your thoughts when Eddie’s voice cut through the music.

“…and Vanessa cheated on Steve, so I guess he won’t be—”

“What!?” you interrupted, eyes widening.

Eddie nodded aggressively, turning down the volume of Iron Maiden just a notch. “Yeah, man. He caught her in bed with a coworker a few months ago. Pretty rough, honestly. She was the first girl he actually broke his two-month rule for. They’d been going steady for a while.”

Robin sighed heavily from the passenger seat. “Wow… he told me they were over, but he never mentioned the cheating part. That sucks. We all know how sensitive Steve gets about feeling like second choice. He acts all tough, but it really messes with him. I feel awful.”

You nodded slowly, staring out at the endless line of cars, trying to sound casual. “That’s crazy. Poor Steve.”

Inside, though, a dangerous little spark of giddiness bubbled up before you could stop it. Your childhood crush was single again. You quickly reminded yourself that Steve had always seen you as just a friend — the same way he saw Robin. You’d never have the courage to make a move anyway. Still… the thought made the blazing desert sun, the honking horns, and the long weekend ahead feel a little more electric.

Maybe the hours you’d spent obsessively picking out your outfits hadn’t been a complete waste after all.

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The two caravans finally pull into the massive parking area. Tents are already being set up, and people are drinking around their campsites and trailers. Dust kicks up as everyone piles out. Nancy and Jonathan step out first, but your attention—inevitably—goes to him.

Steve, looking annoyingly good in a loose button-up and sunglasses.

He spots you almost immediately. His face lights up with that signature Steve Harrington grin—the one that still manages to make your stomach flip after all these years.

“Well, well… look who finally decided to join the party,” he calls out, pushing off the car and heading straight toward you guys.

Robin and Eddie are already yelling greetings, pulling everyone into chaotic group hugs. Nancy laughs, teasing Eddie about his music choice, while Jonathan lingers nearby, quietly snapping a few candid photos.

But Steve stays in front of you a moment longer than the others. His eyes flick over you, lingering just a second too long.

“You look… different,” he says, his voice softer despite the noise around you. “Good different. Festival suits you.”

Then he pulls you into a hug—tighter, warmer than it needs to be.

“I could say the same about you, Harrington. You seem to be really feeling those sunglasses.”

You pull away a little too quickly, wary of giving too much away, but he doesn’t move far. He lingers, close enough that you can still feel the warmth of him.

“I think the desert’s really bringing it out of me,” he says with an easy grin.

“I can see that, big boy.”

Eddie’s voice cuts in before you even spot him. The long-haired man wraps Steve in a firm, slightly over-the-top hug. You smile softly at them before Nancy pulls you into an embrace of her own.

“Buckley Two! Wow, you look even more beautiful than last year. How’s the city?”

Jonathan drifts closer, his camera hanging loosely around his neck, looking perfectly at ease in his linen trousers.

“I always tell you about New York, and you never seem that excited!” he says, pretending to groan as he greets you warmly.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “That’s because you’re not on the cool side of New York like Buckley is.”

Jonathan gasps in mock offence. “Just because I live in Queens doesn’t mean I’m uncool!”

Robin claps her hands excitedly from beside Steve. “Hello! Hi! Can we set up camp already, please? We have so much to catch up on!”

And just like that, everyone gets to work.

Camp comes together in that messy, half-organised way it always does—only this time, Nancy refuses to let chaos win.

“Steve, that pole is literally backwards.”

“It is not—” Steve argues, squinting at the instructions like they’ve personally offended him.

“Jonathan,” Nancy calls, not even looking at him, “tell him.”

Jonathan barely lifts his head from the second tent he’s already halfway through assembling, sleeves rolled up, fingers moving with quiet efficiency. “It is,” he says simply.

Steve lets out a long, suffering groan, dramatically flipping the pole around. “I hate it here.”

“You love it here,” Nancy shoots back instantly, stepping closer to adjust the angle herself. “Now hold that steady unless you want the entire thing collapsing on you in the middle of the night.”

Eddie, sprawled across a half-unrolled sleeping bag like he’s been there for hours, raises a hand lazily. “For the record, my moral support has been consistent and unwavering this entire time.”

Robin snorts from where she’s attempting—badly—to hammer a stake into the ground. “You’ve literally done nothing.”

“Emotional labour,” Eddie corrects, dead serious. “Very important.”

Despite the bickering, things come together quickly. Jonathan moves between tasks without being asked, Steve follows Nancy’s directions with exaggerated reluctance, and somehow—miraculously—the tents stand upright, the coolers are set, and the space begins to feel like something real. Lived-in already.

Robin claps her hands once, sharp and excited. “Right! Exploration time. I refuse to waste daylight sitting around like we’re eighty.”

“I need to check on the band first,” you say, brushing dust from your hands, glancing toward the distant rows of trailers. “But we can walk through the grounds on the way.”

That’s all the encouragement they need. Everyone scatters.

When you step out of the caravan again, the world feels brighter somehow. The desert sun sits higher now, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. Heat clings to your skin, but the light breeze keeps it bearable, tugging gently at the fabric of your clothes. Your outfit feels perfectly in place—like you dressed for this exact moment without even realising it.

A soft white halter top drapes loosely over your frame, the lightweight fabric flowing with every movement, dipping slightly at the front and tied delicately at the neck. It’s airy, effortless, sheer enough to catch the light and hint at the glow of your skin beneath. Your white shorts sit snug at your hips, simple but flattering, pulled together by a statement belt that adds just enough edge. A long, layered necklace rests against your chest, swaying gently as you walk, and your worn brown cowboy boots kick up little clouds of dust with every step—grounding the look, giving it that rugged, desert-worn charm.

You don’t just fit in.

You belong here.

“Okay, wait—pause,” Robin says immediately, stepping in front of you like she needs a better look. “Since when do you look like you just walked out of a magazine?”

Nancy laughs softly, eyes scanning your outfit with clear approval. “She always did. You just weren’t paying attention.” She winks, making your cheeks warm. You grin at her.

Eddie places a dramatic hand over his heart. “This is devastating. I feel like im underdressed now.”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything—just lifts his camera, the lens catching the sunlight as he adjusts it quickly. “Don’t move,” he murmurs, snapping a few candid shots before you can even react.

You laugh, shaking your head, but your eyes flick—almost instinctively—to Steve.

And he’s already looking at you.

Not in the casual way from earlier. Slower now. Quieter. Like he’s trying to take in every detail without making it obvious.

You turn away first, before it lingers too long. “Come on,” you say lightly. “VIP’s this way.”

The festival swallows you whole the second you step into it.

Music pulses through the air from every direction—bass thumping beneath your feet, guitars bleeding into distant vocals, the sound of something alive and constantly shifting. The crowd moves like a current around you—sunburnt shoulders, glitter-dusted faces, flowy fabrics catching the wind, laughter spilling out in bursts. Jonathan drifts in and out of the group, camera always in hand, capturing everything—the way Robin throws her head back laughing at something Eddie says, Nancy pretending not to notice she’s being photographed, the sunlight catching in your hair as you lead them forward.

You navigate it all easily, weaving through people, past food stalls and pop-up installations, your path instinctive.

At some point, Steve catches up. You don’t notice right away—just the subtle shift beside you, the warmth of someone close. Then your arm brushes his, and neither of you pulls away. For a moment, you walk in silence.

Not awkward. Just… aware.

“You look, uh—really good, by the way.”

His voice is softer than usual, almost lost beneath the music. You glance at him, catching the slight hesitation, the way he avoids your eyes for half a second before forcing himself to meet them.

“I guess New York’s everything you ever wanted?” he adds, trying for something casual, something easy.

You smile, something small and genuine. “Yeah,” you say. “It kind of is.”

Your gaze drifts over him briefly—the open collar of his shirt, the sunglasses, the way the sun hits his hair just right. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Harrington. Desert’s treating you well.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, ducking his head slightly. “Yeah?”

There’s a beat.

Then—too quickly to be entirely smooth—

“So… anyone special back in the city?”

You raise a brow, turning your head fully towards him now, amusement flickering in your expression. “No.”

He glances at you again. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, letting it linger just enough. “Why are you asking?”

He scoffs, looking ahead like it’s nothing. “Just making conversation.”

“Of course you are.”

But there’s something lighter in him after that. Something unspoken.

When you reach The VIP area, it feels like stepping behind the curtain.

The noise dulls slightly, the crowds thin out, and everything becomes a little more controlled, more intentional. Security stands at the entrance, checking passes with practiced efficiency.

You step forward without hesitation, pulling out your ticket and Warner card.

“Hey,” you say, easy and confident. “Warner Music.”

They barely hesitate before letting you through. You sign your name on the employee sheet—quick, neat, familiar.

You glance back at the others. “They’re with me.”

A brief check. A nod.

They’re in.

Jonathan instinctively raises his camera again, but you gently tap his arm. “No photos outside the band’s trailer, alright? They're really annoying about that shit”

He nods immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

You lead them deeper into the area, stopping in front of a smaller trailer tucked between larger, more polished setups.

“The Crawlers,” you say, a hint of pride in your voice.

Then you knock—once—and push the door open.

The reaction is instant.

“Oi—!”

“Boss!”

“All rise—management’s here!”

The small space erupts with energy. Four boys, all nerves and excitement, light up the second they see you. Someone claps, someone else whistles.

“Looking good, boss!” one of them grins.

You laugh, stepping fully inside. “Alright, alright, calm down. You guys ready?”

They exchange looks—excited, terrified.

You move through them easily, slipping into your role without effort. Adjusting a strap here, straightening something there, offering quick words that land exactly where they need to.

“You’ve played worse venues than this,” you remind them. “Bigger crowds just mean more people to win over.”

“It’s Coachella,” one of them mutters under his breath.

You soften slightly, your tone shifting just enough. “Exactly. And you’re here for a reason. I pushed for you because I know what you can do. So go out there and prove me right.”

That steadies them. You can feel it.

Then Malcolm steps closer, a little quieter than the others. “Hey—can I grab you for a second?”

You nod, letting him guide you a bit further away, near the back of the trailer.

His voice drops, nerves slipping through the cracks now that it’s just the two of you. Questions about the set, the crowd, what happens after this—everything he’s been holding in. You listen. Really listen. Answer what you can. Reassure what you can’t.

By the time you’re done, his shoulders have relaxed.

“Thanks,” he says, softer now.

“Always,” you reply. And then he pulls you into a hug. It’s tight. Grateful. It lingers just a second longer than expected—but it feels natural, earned. You hug him back just as firmly.

Across the trailer, Steve watches.

At first, it’s absent. Casual. Just taking in the scene. But then it lingers. Something about the way Malcolm holds you. The way you soften around him. The familiarity of it. It settles somewhere uncomfortable in his chest. Not sharp enough to name.

Not clear enough to understand.

Just enough to make him shift his weight, jaw tightening slightly before he looks away, like it doesn’t matter.

Like it shouldn’t matter.

But when you pull away and turn back to the group, everything looks the same. Everyone’s where they should be. Everything feels normal. And yet—something’s shifted.

Even if you can’t quite place what.

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Six hours later, the energy of the festival has shifted completely.

The sun is long gone, replaced by a deep indigo sky scattered with distant stars and flashing stage lights that paint everything in soft pulses of colour. The air is cooler now, but still thick with dust, music, and the lingering buzz of too many drinks. You and Nancy are half-carrying, half-dragging Robin back towards the campsite, her arms slung over both your shoulders as she mumbles something entirely incoherent into your ear.

“I’m not— I’m not even that drunk,” Robin insists, words slurring together as she trips over her own feet.

“You just tried to hug a cactus,” you point out, adjusting your grip on her as she leans more of her weight onto you.

“It was friendly,” she mumbles defensively.

Nancy, not much better, dissolves into giggles beside you. “It was kinda cute.”

You shoot her a look. “You’re not helping.”

Eddie is somewhere ahead of you, skipping one second and nearly face-planting into the sand the next, arms out like he’s balancing on an invisible tightrope.

“I am thriving,” he announces loudly to no one in particular.

Behind you, Steve follows at a slower pace. Quieter than usual. You notice it, distantly, but between Robin nearly collapsing and Nancy whispering nonsense into your shoulder, you don’t have the space to think too much about it. By the time the caravans come into view, you’re exhausted.

You shift Robin’s weight again and march up to the left trailer, knocking hard—far less patient than usual.

“Jonathan!” you call out, voice sharper than intended. “Open up!”

A few nearby campers shoot you annoyed looks, but you ignore them completely.

There’s a pause, then the door swings open to reveal Jonathan—barefoot, hair a complete mess, wearing nothing but his linen trousers.

“Hi,” he says, blinking slowly. “You’re back.”

You let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah. Help.”

He steps aside immediately, reaching for Nancy while you manoeuvre Robin through the doorway.

“Don’t worry about me,” he adds quickly, a little sheepish. “I’m fine now. Puked it all up.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, shaking your head. “That tequila competition was a terrible idea.”

“It was for a signed Joe Strummer pick,” he defends weakly.

“Was it worth it?”

He hesitates. “…no.”

Together, you manage to get Nancy and Robin onto the bunk beds, though it quickly becomes clear Robin has absolutely no intention of climbing anywhere.

“I live here now,” she murmurs, flopping dramatically onto the bottom bunk.

Nancy follows without protest, curling into her side, their hands instinctively finding each other as their voices fade into soft, sleepy whispers. You and Jonathan exchange a quiet look at the same time—half amused, half fond.

Behind you, a loud, uneven snore fills the space. You turn to find Eddie already passed out on the small couch, one leg hanging off, mouth open, completely gone.

Jonathan bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. “Thanks for having us here,” he says, softer now. “I don’t remember the last time we all had this much… careless fun together.”

You smile, watching your friends for a moment. “No worries. I love being with you guys.”

He snorts. “Even when we’re like this?”

You shrug, glancing back at him. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

He smiles at that, something tired but genuine. “Yeah… I guess—”

He pauses suddenly, looking around. “…wait. Where’s Steve?”

The question lands heavier than expected. You straighten slightly, scanning the trailer. Empty.

“Huh,” you murmur, stepping back towards the door. “He was right behind us. Maybe he went to the other caravan.”

You give the girls and Eddie one last look—making sure they’re settled, safe. “Stay with them,” you tell Jonathan. “I’m sober enough to check.”

He nods without argument, already sinking down onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion catching up to him.

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You check everywhere. Both caravans. The tent. Around the campsite. The bathrooms.

Nothing.

The festival doesn’t slow down for you. If anything, it’s louder now—more chaotic. A fresh wave of people surges past you when a voice echoes across the grounds, announcing the next act.

“The Cranberries!”

The crowd shifts instantly, bodies moving in one direction, and you’re nearly knocked off your feet as people rush past, excitement crackling through the air. You steady yourself, heart beating a little faster now for a different reason. You check your watch. Half past midnight.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath.

You need a second. Air. Space. Something quieter. Maybe a drink. Your feet carry you up a small sandy rise, away from the thick of the crowd. The music is still there—clear enough to hear, distant enough to breathe.

And then you see him. Sitting alone at the top. Even from a distance, you’d recognise him anywhere. Relief hits you so suddenly it almost makes you laugh.

You start up the hill—but slow when you hear it.

Sniffling.

You freeze mid-step, hesitation creeping in. Maybe you should leave him alone—

He turns.

His eyes catch yours before you can decide. Glassy. Red-rimmed.

“Hey,” Steve says.

You soften immediately, offering a small, careful smile as you close the distance. “Hi. Been looking for you.”

He lets out a weak huff of a laugh, patting the sand beside him. “Y’didn’t have to. Come sit.”

You lower yourself beside him without a word, close but not too close, the space between you filled with something quiet and heavy.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The music drifts up from below, wrapping around you both as Dolores O’Riordan’s voice carries through the night.

Without thinking too much about it, you reach over and gently take the bottle from his hand. He lets you. You take a small sip, the burn sharp and immediate, before passing it back.

Steve watches you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Everyone okay?”

You nod, eyes drifting toward the stage lights in the distance. “Jonathan survived his tequila death. Nancy and Robin are using each other as pillows. Eddie passed out the second we got back.”

He chuckles softly, taking the bottle again. “Yeah… sounds about right.”

You close your eyes as the opening notes of Dreams begin to echo through the desert, a small smile forming without you meaning to.

“I’ve always wanted to hear this one live,” you murmur.

Beside you, Steve glances at you for a second—really looks at you—before leaning back slightly, closing his own eyes too.

“Oh, my life is changing everyday…”

His voice comes after a while. Low. Careful.

“Do you ever feel… guilty?”

Your smile fades, but your eyes stay closed.

“Y’know,” he continues, quieter now, “after everything. Like you could’ve done more.”

You nod slowly ."Every other day" Your throat tightens, but you keep going. “Will was eleven when he was taken. Max had to watch her brother die. And I—” your voice falters, “I should’ve checked on her more after. Maybe she wouldn’t have been Vecna’s first target. Maybe Lucas wouldn’t have had to—” You swallow hard.

"Maybe, maybe El would still be here."

The words barely make it out.

Beside you, Steve shifts closer. His hand settles gently against your lower back, warm and steady. “Me too,” he says quietly.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It's shared.

Then, after a while—

“I had a huge crush on you back then, by the way.”

Your eyes snap open.

You turn to him so fast it almost gives you whiplash. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just drop something life-altering into the middle of the night. “Yeah.”

You blink. Once. Twice. “What do you mean, yeah?”

He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean I tripped in front of you all the time. Couldn’t talk properly. Robs used to make fun of me for it.”

You stare at him, completely thrown. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

That makes him laugh properly. “Buckley, come on,” he says, glancing at you. “That day in the Upside Down? When Vecna showed you everything? I cried for, like, half an hour. I was literally holding you when you woke up.”

You blink again, trying to piece it together.

“Your shirt was soaked, with my tears." he adds, amused now. “What did you think that was?”

“I—” you shake your head, incredulous. “I thought you were stressed! Dustin was crying!”

He raises a brow.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my God.”

He laughs, softer now. “Sorry if it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” you repeat, staring at him. “Steve—what?”

He shrugs again, the humour fading slightly. “Y’know. Me having a crush on you. Back when I was… me.”

You go still.

"Steve,” you say slowly, seriously. “I was in love with you the entire time I lived in Hawkins.”

That shuts him up. Completely.

His eyes go wide. “W-what?”

You huff, almost annoyed now. “Are you kidding? I was hopeless. The teddy bear you won me at the fair back in '85? It’s still on my bed. I had a polaroid of us in my wallet.”

The two of you just stare at each other after that.

Rewriting years of memories in real time.

“Well,” you say eventually, looking down at your boots, voice quieter now. “That’s… unfortunate.”

Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “So you’re telling me if I’d asked you out back then—”

“Yes,” you cut in flatly. “Steve, I named the teddy bear Stevie.”

He huffs out another laugh, but this one doesn’t quite land the same. Something shifts in him again. Subtle. Defensive.

“Sorry I never said anything,” he mutters. “Just figured you saw me like everyone else did.”

You frown slightly, turning back to him. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates, then shrugs, gaze dropping.

“Just… King Steve, right?” he says, quieter now. “Peaked in high school. Couldn’t do anything better than a minimum wage job. Hanging around teenagers ‘cause they were the only ones who stuck around.”

Your chest tightens.

“You met me in my worst era,” he adds, a humourless huff escaping him. “Wasn’t even attractive anymore.”

His hand drifts unconsciously to the larger scars along his neck and jaw.

“Girls only really liked me when I was… that version of me.”

You stare at him. Really stare.

“Steve,” you say softly, waiting until he looks at you again. “You’re joking, right?”

He frowns immediately. “What? No—why would I be joking?”

You shake your head slightly, disbelief written all over your face.

“C’mon,” he continues, words spilling now. “I’m twenty-five. Thought I’d have a real job by now. A life. Maybe a family. Instead I’m back in Hawkins, working at some shitty radio station no one listens to anymore—barely making rent.” He laughs, but it’s hollow.

“You all left. You’re doing amazing. And I come home to an empty house ‘cause I can’t even keep a girl around without her getting bored or cheating—”

He exhales sharply.

“I’m pathetic, B.”

The word hangs there.

You don’t let it settle.

“Steve,” you whisper.

He looks down at you.

And you kiss him.

Softly.

Gently.

Giving him every chance to pull away.

He doesn’t.

He melts into it instead, like something in him finally gives, a quiet, relieved sound escaping him as his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, holding you there like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t.

And for a moment—

Everything else fades.

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comments, likes and reblogs are super appreciated! xx

[milescrypt]

me and the actor who's older than my father against the world

[anas-fromgaza]

Here you can donate to the families in Gaza. We have collected $3,912 / $20,000.

This video shows ongoing, systematic demolitions in Gaza.

Homes are being destroyed, neighborhoods cleared, and entire areas wiped out even now, while a ceasefire is supposedly in place.

People are watching their houses disappear piece by piece.

Not during fighting.

Not in the middle of airstrikes.

But after everything, when they were told it was safe to breathe again.

The destruction didn’t stop.

It just became quieter.

These images show displacement tents set up right next to a heavily damaged building.

The building was hit before and is leaning, at risk of collapsing at any moment.

Families are living in these tents because they have no other place to go.

There are no safe areas left, no intact homes, no shelters to move to.

Leaving this spot doesn’t mean safety it just means being displaced again.

So people stay.

Not because they feel protected,but because this is the last option they have They sleep knowing the building beside them could fall.

They wake up hoping it doesn’t.

This is not temporary living This is forced survival.

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[seventiesaces]

Randall "Pink" Floyd x f!reader

Summary: Your relationship with Pink has been a huge question mark up until now and you are determine to get answers on the last day of school.

Ahead: Fluff, no warnings, idiots in love

If you asked any of the upcoming seniors at Lee High School what the most exciting day of the year was, they would answer the last day of school. On the other hand, if you asked any of the incoming freshmen what the worst day of school was, they would answer the same. Needless to say, as the final bell of the school year rang, tensions were extremely high for found groups of students.

You watched with distaste as Darla, someone you wouldn’t even call an acquaintance, taunted the fourteen year old girls sitting in the bed of her pick up truck.

“Wake up! Open, open!” Darla demanded, shoving pacifiers into the mouth of the unlucky tweens. 

“She has way too much fun with this shit.” Kaye muttered as she handed you and Jodi your own set of pacifiers.

You grimaced and nodded in agreement, reluctantly making your way over to the group of girls in the back of Jodi’s truck. “Alright, open up.” You sighed, not finding the task nearly as fun as Darla seemed to. 

Jodi seemed to agree, popping a handful of pacifiers into the mouth of the freshmen girls before becoming sidetracked by a brunette standing near the truck, eventually recruiting her into the hazing ritual. 

You knew this was all in good fun and simply a tradition your small Texan town seemed far attached to. It was some innocent humiliation that allowed the freshmen to rise in the ranks of popularity as they entered high school. If anything, the tradition the senior boys partook in was far worse, hunting down the freshmen boys and paddling them until they were in tears. As you drove back to the high school with your friends and new recruits, you could see groups of the seniors boys already trapping the freshmen before throwing them toward the hood of a car and beating them with their paddles. You shared a grimace with Jodi as you drove. 

“I warned them to not be too hard on my brother.” Jodi said with a relieved look on her face, as though she had managed to keep her brother, Mitch, safe from the faith they had just witnessed. 

You crinkle your brow in thought. “You told them not to be hard on Mitch?” Jodi nodded and you snorted, shaking your head in amusement. “Yeah, he’s a dead man.” 

Jodi looked puzzled by that, but before she could ask what you meant, they arrived at the high school and hopped out. 

The next half an hour was mainly uneventful beyond Darla screaming at the girls to “air raid” and calling them some unsavory names. The real fun began when Darla announced it was time to take out their “supplies”. As you dumped some flour on the head of some girl, you finally found yourself laughing and smiling with your friends. While the whole humiliation thing didn’t give you the sick thrill it did for Darla, you found yourself loosening up. A little flour in the hair never killed anyone, right? 

As the condiment bottles, flour bags and carton of eggs dried up, you caught the sight of a familiar orange Pontiac. Your mouth split into a grin as you saw Pink sitting on the hood of his car, his shaggy brown hair laying low over his eyes and a beer in his hand. Slater sat next to him and tapped his arm, pointing in your direction and saying something to Pink. Pink pushed his hair back with one hand and your grin only widened as he smiled in your direction. 

“Who would have thought he could take a break from beating kids to see you?” Shavonne joked from over your shoulder having watched the whole interaction. 

You pushed her and giggled. “He’s just hanging out with the guys. I’m sure he’s waiting for someone else.” Despite trying to be non-chalant, you didn’t shy away from fluttering your fingers at Pink in greeting, flipping your hair and biting your bottom lip when he returned your wave with that charming smile he always wore.

Your denial earned a snort from Shavonne, “Yeah, sure.”

Pink waves you over, standing from the hood and heading towards you. You quickly mumble a poor excuse to Shavonne about needing to ask Pink a question and she rolls her eyes playfully and chuckles. It was pointless to make nonsense excuses with Shavonne, but you still did. She just knew you far too well. 

Before you knew it, you were being pulled towards the edge of the school building, trapped against the cold brick and Pink’s tall frame. His lips were on yours in a breathtaking kiss before you had a moment to think, his large hands on your hips. Within a few moments he pulled away, that silly, lovestruck grin still remained on his face, somehow even wider than earlier. A pout tugged at your own lips, displeased with the shortness in affection. 

“I was wondering what you had gotten up to after school.” He explained brushing his knuckles against the skin left exposed at your waist from your “seniors” shirt riding up. You fought the urge to push his shaggy hair from his eyes as he peered down at you. “Wanted to make sure you had a ride home.”

You couldn’t hide the pink rising on your cheeks at the sweetness of his words. He had been driving you to and  from school since March when your car first broke down and even after it was fixed, he insisted on driving you. His excuse was that he was a better driver and it was safer, but you knew it was just him wanting to spend time with you. The longer he gave you a ride, the closer you had gotten and the more butterflies that seemed to awaken in your stomachs. Although many kisses, soft touches and sweet words were shared since, no official labels had been discussed. Shavonne and Jodi thought the two of you were lovesick idiots who were bad at admitting your feelings, and Kaye thought you were being blind and deserve better than a meathead like Pink. All in all, the advice from your friends wasn’t the best and you were still lost on how to approach the situation.

“Jodi is driving me home after we finish here.” You explained, letting your own fingers trail down his bicep.

Pink gave the chaotic group of senior and upcoming freshmen girls a sideways glance. “They seem pretty much done. How about I take you home?” He suggested, giving you a suggestive look with a squeeze of your hips.

You knew what that meant. Going back to your place while your parents weren’t home and sharing heated kisses on your bed while your Mick Jagger poster watches. One thing would lead to another and as he would reach for the button of your jeans, you’d chicken out. You would stutter out an excuse regarding your parents being home soon, or being on your period, or needing to get started on homework. Pink would sigh, but never said anything to express his disappointment. Instead, he would just nod and say it was okay, leaving once you ran out of things to say, gnawing at your lip as you watched his truck pull away through your bedroom window. 

“Tell him how you feel!” Jodi’s kind voice rang through your brain.

“He’s too dumb to catch on so either you tell him or you both remain celibet.” Kaye grumbled next.

“If you don’t tell him soon, I’m going to tell him next time I’m black out drunk at a kegger.” Shavonne dictated with a far too serious expression for her to be joking.

You found yourself shaking your head, hands balling up into fists against his chest as the memories of your friends faded away. It was now or never. If he said no, at least you wouldn’t be pining for someone who had no real interest in you all summer. If he said yes, you’d finally have the answer you wanted. Either way, it was time.

Pink’s eyebrows creased in confusion as he backed away from your tense form. “What’s wrong?” He asked, bewildered by the look of frustration on your face. 

“Pink, I like you a lot.” You blurted out with conviction. “If you don’t want anything serious, you need to tell me now. I want a boyfriend, not to be a plaything.”

You spoke so fast Pink nearly missed some of your words as he processed your declaration. 

“Well, shit I thought that was what this was.” Pink said, taken aback by statements.

Now it was your turn to look confused. “What?”

Pink cracked a smile, reaching to cup your cheeks in his hands. “I’ve been driving you to and from school everyday, I walk you to all of your classes, we go out all the time, we spend most of the weekend together…”

You placed a finger over his soft lips to silence him, nose crinkled up. “Okay, I get it. We spend a lot of time together and are basically dating, but we’ve never talked about it.” You pointed out, stomping your foot like an angry child.

Pink snorted at your action and rolled his eyes, wrapping his strong arms around you. He kissed the top of your head as your arms reluctantly wrapped around his torso.

“You’re my girl.” Pink declared, holding you tight and cradling the back of your head like you were something precious that needed to be protected. “I’m your boyfriend, if that puts this to rest. I didn’t realize I needed to write you one of those notes saying ‘Be my girlfriend? Yes or no?’ for you to understand that.”

You grumbled something unkind against his chest at that, but didn’t let go. He laughed and planted one more kiss on your head before pulling away enough to see your face.

“So can I drive you home, or what?” 

You grinned, taking his hand and walking towards his car without needing to answer.

Thank you for reading!

Dividers by: @dividers-are-us

[ash5monster01]

eeeeeehhh fresh Pink fics, I’m giddy

[underoospeterparker]

No one understands me and my obsession with this very specific look of Steve's from season two

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

GUILTY AS SIN | steve harrington

PART ONE | PART TWO (coming soon)

My bedsheets are ablaze I've screamed his name Building up like waves Crashing over my grave

You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 7k contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!

author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!

rec account: @moonstone-recommends

to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page

“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”

You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.

“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.

James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.

Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

support banners by @saradika-graphics

[linenotfound]

You’ve met me at a very Joe Keery time in my life

[9e978e]

via

[lunexiax]

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 (𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫)

pairing: dean winchester x f!reader

summary: Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses?

warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, idiots in love, friends to lovers, lightly implied age gap, smut (unprotected p in v, creampie, mentions of fingering & oral - f receiving, dumbification, love confessions during the act lmao), a lot of fighting but they're soft for each other, cursing, um ig reader is a little bit of a crybaby and it's mentioned that dean takes care of her

word count: 8.7k words

a/n: if this is bad please don't tell me lol

You don’t have to fake your skittishness as you twirl restlessly on the stool, elbows sticking to the dirty bar counter. The bottle of beer in front of you looks grossly unappealing but you catch Dean’s gaze from across the bar and he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You bring the rim to your lips and try not to wince as the bitter, lukewarm liquid goes down.

You do your best to look out of place and uncomfortable, but something tells you that you don’t have to try too hard. The bar is dimly lit and grimy, with deer heads watching you sullenly from the wall. They’re not the only eyes on you. The bar is reasonably busy but there is only one other woman present, and she’s behind the bar. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut and you’re determined that you will never take over Sam’s gig again.

Dean saunters over, cool and cocky, the way you had seen a million times before - but this time he’s sauntering over to you like that. And it makes your stomach do strange, pathetic things.

“Hey baby, you here alone?” he asks, getting up in your space in a way that should be creepy but isn’t because it’s Dean.

“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness. 

“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around. 

“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.

“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.

“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.” 

Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool. 

“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”

Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.

“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”

He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”

His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”

“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”

He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”

“I bet,”  you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”

He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”

You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.

“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”

You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.

“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

You have to stop yourself from saying I know.

“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”

“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”

“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”

“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”

You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.

“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.

“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”

“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”

You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”

“I can ask!”

“Ask who?” Dean frowns.

“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”

“You exchanged numbers?”

“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”

“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”

“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”

Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.

“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”

You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.

He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”

You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.

You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.

It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true. 

The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.

When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.

He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.

Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.

“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”

You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.

Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.

Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.

The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.

You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.

JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.

You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.

Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.

It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.

And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.

But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.

The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.

“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”

Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.

“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”

He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”

You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”

“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”

“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”

“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”

He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.

“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”

Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.

“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.

“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”

“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”

“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.

You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.

“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”

Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.

Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you. 

Sitting in the booth. 

With Jeremy. 

It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.

“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.

“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.

“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.

“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”

You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”

“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”

You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”

“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”

“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”

Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”

He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter. 

“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.

“Right, in and out,” you agree.

The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else. 

You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.

“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.

“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take. 

“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?” 

He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’

But you’re not.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”

Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”

At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”

You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?

“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.

“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.

“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”

He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well. 

But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.

Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.

“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.

It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again. 

“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”

That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.

Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.

“You could have me.”

Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.

“I… What?”

“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”

Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”

He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.

You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.

“Why?” you land on eventually.

He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”

“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”

Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”

Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”

Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”

“No!”

He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.

“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”

Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.

But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.

Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.

You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.

You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.

Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.

“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air. He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.

“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.

Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.

“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation. 

“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip. 

Your heart soars. First time.

“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”

Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”

His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.

You frown. “Are you sure?”

“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”

Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.

“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”

He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”

“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”

Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.

“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”

That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.

“But what about the girls?”

“What girls?”

You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”

His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control. 

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”

“Dean.”

His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts. 

“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”

You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.

“How- how long?”

“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”

He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”

He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not. 

“You’ve loved me for years?”

“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”

He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.

“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”

He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.

“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”

You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.

“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”

He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.

“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.

“Dean, I- oh-”

His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter. 

“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”

It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes. 

It’s not fair. 

Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.

“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”

You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.

The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.

“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”

Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.

“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”

Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.

There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.

You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.

But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.

Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.

“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.

You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together. 

“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”

His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”

He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”

Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”

You smile. “Maybe later.”

a/n: first supernatural fic! i am genuinely terrified!

[sharkbitewrites]

Kurt Kunkle I love you, you big fat loser

[heretherebebookdragons]

If you are a fan fic writer and you're alright with people making fan art of your fic, reblog this 💚