when i’m smiling at my phone and when someone asks me why and they expect a message from a cute guy but it’s a tumblr story about caitlin clark, kate martin, kk arnold, paige bueckers, georgia moore, and nika muhl 🫣
FUCK IT! LET'S BRING BACK THE AVENGERS TOWER FANFICS!!!!
BRING YOUR IDEAS TO ME AND I WILL WRITE THEM! FOUND FAMILY, CHAOS! THOR AND HIS POPTARTS, STEVE CATCHING THAT REFERENCE, IRONDAD, CLINT IN THE VENTS, LOKI BEING HELD CAPTIVE FOR SOME REASON OR ANOTHER! WANDA AND NATASHA BEING THE BESTIES! PIETRO IS HERE TOO! SAM AND BUCKY POWER DUO! THE STARK READER TROPE IS WELCOME TOO! WANDA'S POWERS BUT PURPLE? BRING IT ON BABY! PARTIES AFTER EACH MISSION WHERE EVERYONE TRIES TO LIFT THOR'S HAMMER?? HELL YEAH!
BRING YOUR IDEAS TO ME!!
(also preferably giving Thor a little bit of content he might just be my new favourite Avenger of this writing season🙏)
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) thinking ‘bout STEVE ROGERS who, despite seeming like an innocent man who doesn’t have a lot of sex, is really really good at sex.
he uses his strength to always hold your legs on his shoulders or hoist you up against the wall. he makes sureeee you keep eye contact on him whenever he’s deep in your walls.
“keep your eyes on me darling.” he’d say in that soft voice as his balls are slapping against your clit with each rough thrust.
he’s so gentle with his dominance too :( he pulls your hair but doesn’t yank, he picks up your head but doesn’t force it up, he prods his fingers into your mouth but doesn’t shove. he’s never mean, even in his most stressful moments, the most he’ll call you is “a brat” and “cock slut” and even that is pushing it.
call him captain and he’ll be bending you over the counter, fucking your hole until the only thing you can say is captain. when he doesn’t shave and he lets his beard grow— oh he eats your ass alright, making sure you get that sensation of his beard all up your cheeks and thighs, spitting in your hole and toying with it with his fingers.
“gotta stretch this pretty girl out.” he says as his tongue swirls your tight hole. “shhhh, I know baby doll, just lemme do it and I’ll be in you in no time.”
he knows exactly how to make you cum each and every time. and he gets real frustrated if he can’t make you cum… he just wants his pretty girl to be okay, that’s all!
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
summary ⌗ after a brutal hunt leaves you bruised and tangled in dean’s motel bed, a slow morning together draws out the three words neither of you has been brave enough to say.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ⌗ 3451 genre ⌗ soft smut [mdni]
warnings ⌗ explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, handjob, riding, praise, pet names, light competitive teasing, post-hunt soreness and minor injuries, mentions of bruising and stitches.
notes ⌗ the lovely @deansfreckledtummy commissioned this piece and i might’ve fallen a little bit harder in love with dean (which i didn’t entirely know was possible 🙂↕️) thank you so much for trusting me with this piece, baby. you're incredible 🩷
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morning arrives in pieces.
first, it’s the motel heater clicking beneath the window. then, the thin stripe of sunlight pressing through the gap in the curtains, landing directly across your closed eyes. somewhere outside, tires drag over wet pavement, followed by the heavy clunk of someone shutting a car door too hard.
your entire body hurts. nothing sharp enough to make you reach for the gun on the nightstand or check whether the stitches along your side have opened again. it’s the deep, stubborn soreness that follows a hunt gone bad and then somehow worse. the reminder of running through the woods in soaked jeans, getting thrown into the wall of an abandoned farmhouse, and spending nearly an hour digging a grave because dean insisted burning the body where you found it would attract attention.
you shift beneath the motel blanket, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at every bruise you own.
the arm around your waist tightens before you get very far.
dean makes a rough sound behind you, something between a grunt and a protest, and pulls you back against him. his face presses into your hair. he’s still half asleep, his palm spread low across your stomach beneath the hem of your shirt.
“quit movin’,” he mumbles.
“everything hurts.”
“yeah. me too.”
“you’re crushing me.”
“you’d complain if i let go.”
a laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, small and scratchy from sleep. dean’s mouth brushes the back of your head. then, when you turn carefully in his arms, he lifts his face enough to press a kiss to your forehead. it’s quick. barely awake. the kind of thing he does when he isn’t paying enough attention to stop himself.
you settle facing him, your knee sliding between his under the tangled blanket. his chest is bare beneath your hand. there are fresh marks from last night—a purple bruise near his ribs, a shallow scrape across his collarbone—but your eyes catch on the older ones. the uneven scar near his shoulder. the pale line beneath his sternum. little pieces of history he doesn’t offer unless you ask, and sometimes not even then.
dean watches you through heavy eyelids as you trace one with your thumb. “what’re you doing?”
“nothing.” you lean in and press your mouth to the scar near his shoulder.
you kiss the next one, lower this time, feeling his skin shift beneath your lips when he takes a slow breath. his hand moves along your back, sliding beneath your shirt, but not pulling you closer yet. just resting there. waiting to see what you’ll do.
“you’re being weird,” he says, voice rougher now.
“you kissed my forehead.”
“so?”
“so, this is what you get.”
“punishment?”
you glance up at him. “maybe.”
his eyes are properly open now. green, tired, fixed on your face with an attention that makes the room feel smaller.
you kiss the scar beneath his ribs. then another, closer to his stomach, your mouth lingering until the hand beneath your shirt presses more firmly against your back.
dean exhales through his nose. “you planning on working your way through all of ’em?”
“mmhm.”
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow line along your spine. “might take a while.
you lift your head. “we got time.”
you push the blanket down and shift over him before he can say anything else, settling across his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. dean’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t make a joke. his hands find your legs instead, palms sliding from your knees to your thighs, steadying you while you get comfortable. the movement puts you directly over him.
you rock your hips once, softly enough that it could almost be an accident. dean’s mouth parts.
you lean forward and kiss the scar near his collarbone again. his hands travel higher, following the outside of your thighs until they reach your ass. he squeezes, slow and firm, drawing you closer as you move against him a second time.
he’s beginning to harden beneath you. you can feel every gradual inch of it through the thin fabric separating you, the way his body responds before his voice catches up.
dean tips his head back against the pillow, eyes closing for half a second when you roll your hips again. “shit.” the curse comes out quietly, almost embarrassed by how quickly you’re getting to him.
you smile against his chest.
his hands leave your ass and slip beneath your shirt, palms spreading over your back. there’s nothing hurried in the way he touches you. his fingertips trace over your skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises without needing to look, caressing each uninjured stretch he finds.
you press another kiss over his heart, then glance up. he’s already watching you. his eyes move across your face with sleepy, open admiration, no smirk to hide behind.
“so pretty,” he says, so low you nearly miss it.
your hips press down harder. dean’s breath hitches. his fingers flex against your back, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“love waking up to you like this,” he admits. “all sweet, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
“i know what i’m doing.”
“yeah, sugar. i noticed.”
you kiss the edge of his jaw, grinding against him in another slow pass. his head turns, mouth brushing your temple while his hands pull you flush to his chest.
“we’re gonna miss check-out,” he murmurs.
“you care?”
“not even a little.” his lips drag against your cheek. “but you keep looking that pretty while you’re grinding on my dick, they’re gonna charge us for another night.”
his hands slip farther beneath your shirt, moving up your sides until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts. you press down against him again.
dean’s mouth opens against your cheek, a quiet breath leaving him as his hips shift beneath yours. he’s fully hard now, thick against you through his boxers, and the knowledge settles low in your stomach. you do it again just to feel the way his grip changes: his fingers digging into your back before he catches himself and eases them loose.
“you’re trouble in the morning,” he murmurs.
“only in the morning?”
“don’t fish for compliments, sweetheart.”
you pull back enough to look at him. “thought you said i was pretty.”
“you are pretty.” his gaze drops to your mouth. “still trouble.”
you kiss him before he can add anything else.
he meets you lazily at first, lips warm and dry from sleep, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other stays spread across your back. the kiss deepens without either of you rushing it. his tongue brushes yours when you rock against him again.
dean groans into your mouth, the sound low and caught somewhere in his chest. you drag your hands over him as you kiss, across the broad shape of his shoulders and down the firm planes of his stomach, following old scars with your fingertips.
you kiss one near his collarbone when his mouth leaves yours. then another.
“still doing inventory?” he asks.
“you keep distracting me.”
his fingers hook into the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms. dean drags the shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere near the end of the bed.
cool air moves over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but his hands follow quickly. his palms cup your breasts. his thumbs brush over your nipples once, watching the way your body answers him, before circling them again.
“fuck,” he says quietly. there’s no smirk behind it. no teasing bite. he looks at you with sleepy concentration, hair flattened on one side and eyes fixed on every change in your expression. “look at you…”
dean’s eyes close for a beat when you grind down harder against him; hands tighten around your breasts, thumbs pressing over your nipples until the small sting makes you do it again. he mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and lets one hand travel down your stomach.
his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.
the first touch is light. barely there. two fingers passing through the wetness and warmness between your thighs, spreading it over you without giving you the pressure you want.
you shift impatiently, trying to guide his hand, but he follows the movement and keeps his touch maddeningly shallow. “dean.”
“what?” he glances between your bodies with false innocence, fingertips tracing around your entrance before sliding back toward your clit. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“you know what i want.”
“probably.” he gives you one slow circle, just enough to make your hips jerk. “still wanna hear you say it.”
you reach between you and palm him through his boxers. his next breath comes out uneven. “touch me properly.”
he presses two fingers into you. the stretch pulls a moan from your mouth. your thighs tighten around his hips, and dean’s attention snaps back to your face while he works them deeper, slow enough to make you feel each inch. his thumb settles over your clit, rubbing with steady pressure as his fingers curl.
you grab the waistband of his boxers and tug. they catch beneath your knees, and dean lifts his hips enough to help you drag them down. his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and already wet at the tip.
you stroke from the base to the head, spreading the bead of precum with your thumb before tightening your grip on the way back down. his hips twitch upward into your hand.
“easy,” he says, though he pushes into your fist again.
“can’t handle it?”
his eyes narrow. “cute.”
you stroke him slower. dean retaliates by curling his fingers inside you, pressing against the place that makes your hand falter around him. you let out a rough little sound and rock down against his palm, giving him exactly the reaction he’s after.
his mouth pulls into a smug half-smile. “who can’t handle it?”
“shut up.”
“make me.”
you lean down and kiss him hard enough to knock the satisfaction from his face. your hand keeps working over his cock. his fingers keep working inside you. neither of you gives the other enough room to recover.
the morning stays quiet around you. springs shifting beneath your knees. the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you. dean’s breathing growing rougher each time your thumb passes over the head of his cock.
when your bruised side pulls, you flinch before you can hide it. his hand leaves your neck and slides over your ribs, supporting you while you settle at a different angle.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
“sweetheart.”
“i’m fine.” you roll your hips experimentally. the bruising protests, but not enough to make you stop. “just sore.”
his thumb brushes over your clit again, gentler this time. “tell me if it’s too much.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth. “i will.”
you push yourself upright and lift your hips enough to pull your panties aside. dean withdraws his hand, the loss making you clench around nothing.
you take him in your hand and guide the head of his cock through your slickness.
his hands settle on your hips. “slow,” he says, softer than an order.
you sink down carefully, taking him a little at a time. the stretch burns pleasantly at first, your body opening around the thickness of him while dean holds you steady. his thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips, keeping you from dropping too quickly.
dean curses under his breath. his face draws tight with the effort of staying still, eyes fixed on where your body takes him. when you finally settle all the way into his lap, his hands slide around to your ass and hold you there.
for a few seconds, neither of you moves. you feel him everywhere. deep enough that the smallest shift sends a pulse through you, his cock held tightly inside your body, his thighs hard beneath yours.
“fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you feel…”
he doesn’t finish. you rock your hips forward. dean’s grip tightens.
“good?” you ask.
he lets out a breath that turns into a laugh, then you lift yourself and sink back down.
the first few movements stay slow. your body’s still sore from the hunt, and dean lets you find the angle that doesn’t pull at your side. his hands move over your thighs, your hips, the curve of your ass, never forcing your rhythm. he watches you ride him with a heavy, unguarded stare, his lips parted each time you take him to the base.
you place one hand on his chest for balance. his heartbeat works fast beneath your palm.
“you’re staring,” you accuse.
“i am.”
“why?”
“you really need me to explain?”
you clench around him deliberately. dean’s answer breaks apart into a curse. you smile.
“oh, you think that’s funny?”
“little bit.”
one hand leaves your hip and slides between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit, pressing down while you lower yourself onto him again.
your smile slips.
“yeah,” dean murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”
he rubs slow, tight circles in time with your hips. the pressure draws everything closer, each drag of his cock through you feeding into the touch between your legs. you lean over him again, your breasts brushing his chest, and kiss him because you need somewhere to put the sound threatening to leave you.
dean swallows it greedily.
his free arm wraps around your back, holding you close while you move. the position gives you less room, but it lets him thrust up into you in small, measured movements that meet every roll of your hips.
he keeps one hand on your clit and the other spread over your spine, careful around every bruise created last night.
“that’s it,” he says against your mouth. “keep going.”
your thighs are starting to burn. you sit up, changing the angle, and dean slides deeper. the next downward roll hits somewhere that makes your vision blur for half a second.
“right there.”
“yeah?”
you do it again instead of answering.
his eyes stay on yours while you ride him faster. there’s nothing sleepy left in them now. his gaze tracks every broken movement of your mouth, every time your concentration slips. when your pace begins to turn uneven, he plants his feet against the mattress and starts meeting you from below.
the bedframe knocks quietly against the wall.
“dean—”
“i know, babe.”
his thumb keeps working over you. his other hand grips your ass, helping you move, giving your aching thighs enough support to keep going. the pressure builds low and deep. you feel it in each stroke, in the friction of his body beneath yours, in the rough praise he mutters when you tighten around him.
“so fucking pretty.”
his voice is strained now.
“look at me.”
you do.
dean thrusts up as you sink down, his cock dragging over the place that sends the first hard ripple through your stomach. your rhythm stutters. you brace both hands on his chest, trying to hold yourself together while everything starts coming apart.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you, sweetheart.”
your orgasm rolls through you before you can answer. your thighs lock around him, hips jerking out of rhythm while your body clenches tight around his cock. a broken sound catches in your mouth. dean keeps rubbing you through it, slower once you start shaking, his eyes never leaving your face.
“fuck, sweetheart.”
the way he says your name pushes another shudder through you.
you’re still coming when his control finally gives. his hands grab your hips and hold you down against him, cock buried deep as he spills inside you. his groan catches against your shoulder when you fold over him, his mouth pressing to your skin while his body jerks beneath yours.
afterward, you stay where you are. neither of you seems interested in dealing with the rest of the room.
dean’s hands move slowly over your back. long strokes from your shoulders to your waist, then up again, avoiding the tender places without needing direction.
you rest your cheek against his chest. his heart takes a while to settle.
“we really are gonna miss check-out,” you mumble.
“mm-hm.” his mouth presses to your hair, then your temple. the kiss lingers this time, awake enough that he can’t pretend it happened by accident.
his hand drifts down your back again. fingertips following the curve of your spine, palm flattening at your waist before starting over. there’s no hurry in it. no expectation that you’ll get up and shower or find your clothes or leave.
you draw a lazy line through the faint freckles across his chest. dean watches your finger move.
“i love you,” he says, and the words are quiet enough that, for one strange second, you think you’ve put them there yourself. something your tired brain’s slipped into the space between the heater clicking off and a truck groaning past on the road outside.
your hand stops. dean’s does too.
you lift your head slowly. “what?”
he stares at the ceiling. “you heard me.”
“i’m not sure i did.”
the tips of his ears are turning red. it’d be funny under almost any other circumstances. dean winchester naked beneath you and suddenly unable to look anywhere near your face, except your mind’s still trying to catch up.
you’ve known how he feels. or you thought you did.
it’s there when he hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. when he changes the radio station before a song you hate reaches the chorus. when he checks your seat belt with a quick tug after a bad hunt, pretending he only reached across you for something in the glove compartment. it’s there every night he chooses your bed instead of his own and every morning he stays longer than he needs to.
but he’s never said it.
dean clears his throat. “look, you don’t have to—”
“you don’t get to say something like that and then immediately give me an escape route.”
his mouth closes.
“fine.” his hand settles against your lower back again, though there’s a new uncertainty to it. “forget i said anything.”
“that’s worse.”
“yeah, well, this is going great.”
you push yourself up enough to see him properly. his expression’s gone defensive around the edges, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes.
there’s no apocalypse waiting outside. no demon deal running out, no blood on the walls, no desperate reason to say everything before one of you loses the chance. just an overdue check-out, cooling sheets, and dean looking more frightened now than he had with a monster’s claw around his throat last night.
“say it again,” you whisper.
his gaze finally finds yours. “sweetheart—”
“again.”
he studies your face for a moment, searching for the joke or the trap or whatever else might let him retreat. when he doesn’t find it, his thumb moves once against your back.
“i love you.”
this time, each word lands cleanly.
your surprise must show because his jaw tightens. “i know the timing’s kinda—”
you kiss him.
dean makes a startled sound against your mouth, then catches you by the waist and pulls you closer. the kiss isn’t hungry now. it’s clumsy and lingering, his lips moving over yours while one hand cups the back of your head.
when you pull away, he follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
“i love you too,” you tell him.
dean blinks.
you almost laugh. “did you hear me?”
“yeah.”
“you sure?”
“shut up.” his hand slides into your hair, bringing you down for another kiss before you can tease him any further.
you feel his smile eventually, small and uneven against your mouth. when the kiss ends, neither of you moves far. dean’s forehead rests against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair. he looks almost embarrassed by the happiness creeping across his face, trying to press it down before you can make too much of it.
“we should probably get up,” he says after a while.
“probably,” your thumb brushes over the freckle near the corner of his mouth. dean catches your wrist, but instead of moving your hand away, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm.
you settle back over him carefully, your cheek returning to the place above his heart. you stay tangled together beneath the thin blanket, your joined hands resting against his chest while his thumb keeps passing over your knuckles, learning how the words feel now that they’ve finally been said.
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
dex needs constant reassurance during sex. he could be pounding into you, making you see stars with his cock, and he would still be asking you if he's doing okay.
"am i- is this okay? baby, tell me m'good-- please" he's whining muffled words into the crook of your neck as his tip slams against your g-spot repeatedly, enough to have you clawing at his back, leaving angry red marks on his skin.
he's focused solely on your pleasure, he gets off when you get off. so when you're too fucked-out to reply to him, he's panicking. he doesn't understand that he's making you feel so good to the point where you can't form a coherent sentence.
"is it not good? oh god- do y'not like it?" he tends to spiral, so you have to talk in order to keep him going. "i-it's good, dex-- fuck!-- feels s'good" your fingers card through his hair, tugging at the blonde strands, which earns you a choked whimper.
"y-yeah?" he moans out whorishly, his breath hot against your neck. he's desperately trying to keep his pace from faltering. "tell me- can you tell me y'love me? p-please?" he snakes his hand down between both of your sweaty bodies and rubs tight circles on your clit, causing you cry out and arch into him further as pleasure shoots through your limbs. "love you!" you mewl, the only thing you can say when he's making you feel like this.
your orgasm crashes over you with his name lingering on your tongue, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him obscenely. he finishes directly after you, he was only holding off because he always makes sure you cum first. he doesn't want to be selfish, after all.
he collapses on top of you, practically panting. his cock is still sitting inside of you, his warm release settling. he'd probably never admit it, but your words of praise are his favorite part of sex.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 Იᰍ ׄ ㅤ﹕ flirty/playboy dean turned desperate ﹐ dry-humping in the impala ﹐ explicit sexual tension ﹐ dirty talk ﹐ light power struggle ﹐ mentions of alcohol ﹐ strong language ﹐ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭
"C’mon, baby," 𝓓𝐞𝐚𝐧 breathed against your lips, his voice rough like gravel under boot heels, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. "Let me fuck you so good you forget your own damn name." His hips bucked up, grinding you down onto the thick, insistent ridge of his cock, and you bit back a whimper. The Impala’s backseat was not built for this—then again, neither was your self-control.
"No," you gasped, but it came out more like a maybe with extra breathlessness. First date. First. Date. You had standards. Or at least, you pretended to, when you weren’t currently dry-humping a man who smelled like whiskey, leather, and the kind of trouble that left you walking funny.
Dean’s smirk was a sin wrapped in a dimple. "So you’d rather just rub up on me like a cat in heat in my baby’s backseat?" His fingers flexed on your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. "Because, sweetheart, I ain’t complainin’—but the way you’re ridin’ me right now? C’mon the real thing would be twenty times better."
You huffed, but the sound turned into a choked moan when he rolled his hips just right, the denim of his jeans scraping against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. Thank God for skirts. "Shut. The hell. Up," you hissed, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The scent of him—gunpowder, sweat, and that stupidly good cologne he swore he didn’t wear—clogged your brain like a shot of cheap whiskey. Your nails dug into his shoulder, the other hand yanking his off your hip and bringing it up to your chest. "Touch me."
Dean’s laugh was dark. "Damn, you’re a handful." But his palm was already cupping your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple like he’d mapped the damn thing in his sleep. You arched into him with a sound that was half gasp, half fuck it, and his cock twitched beneath you, thick and demanding. "Bossy little thing, aren’t you?" His lips trailed up your throat, hot and wet, like he was branding you. "Kinda love it, though." His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Feel like you’re just usin’ me to get yourself off."
"Mhm. And?" you shot back, rolling your hips down on him again, because fuck, the friction was obscene.
"And," he rumbled, "that’s the hottest damn thing I’ve heard all week." His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your skirt. "But if you keep doin’ that, I’m gonna cum in my jeans like a loser, and nobody wants that."
You grinned, wicked and breathless. "I want that."
Dean groaned, his head falling back against the seat. "You’re gonna be the death of me."
With his head tossed back against the seat, you took full advantage, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. The stubble scraped against your lips, and you felt the way his body twitched beneath you, his cock jerking like it was begging for attention. "Fuck—okay, jokes over," Dean groaned, his voice rough and needy, "Please, please let me fuck you." The whine in his voice was almost cute—if it wasn’t so damn hot.
But you weren’t giving in that easy. Hell no. Instead, you shook your head, a smirk playing on your lips as you grabbed his hand off your chest and guided it down to between your legs. Dean’s breath hitched when his fingers brushed against the soaked fabric of your panties, his lips parting in a way that was half shock, half smug. You let go of his hand, giving him free rein, and damn did he take it.
His fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding you already dripping for him, the heat of you practically burning his skin. He didn’t waste a second, dragging his fingers through your slit like he was memorizing every inch of you. Then, with a smirk that was pure, unfiltered sin, he pulled his fingers free, glistening with you, and brought them to his mouth.
"Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his fingers like he was savoring the finest damn whiskey. A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest, and you could feel the way his cock pulsed beneath you, like it was approving of his actions. "Sweet as pie," he murmured, his voice dripping with approval, before his hand dipped back into your panties, his fingers finding your clit like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to touch.
The second his fingers made contact, you were done for. Your mouth fell open, a broken gasp escaping as your eyes fluttered shut, your hips rolling against his hand like they had a mind of their own. Dean watched you with a hunger that was almost feral, his fingers working you with a skill that had you seeing stars. "That’s it," he rumbled, his voice dark and encouraging. "Ride my fingers, sweetheart. Show me how bad you want it."
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
reblog and comment to support your writers! (also don't feed my work into ai databases please)
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
mike realized his parents didn't love each other when he was very young, and he rationalized this as all couples don't love each other. that's until he sees the way steve treats you.
c.w. none, a little angsty in the beginning but not really sad, mostly fluff, canon divergent bc i'm pretending the byers never moved to california and max is still hanging out with the party
a/n: wrote this instead of studying for finals, do not bring ship wars into the reblogs. this is me psychoanalyzing a sad teenage boy and writing self-indulgent domestic fluff
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Mike Wheeler's parents do not love each other. Maybe they have some semblance of love between them, but they are not engaged in the act of love. He isn't quite sure at what age, or even exactly when, he realized this. He can't point to one exact day of his life but rather a blur of the hundreds of evenings he's spent the same way.
Sitting at the dinner table with his parents and two sisters while his mother puts out emotional fires and his father picks at his chicken then tells his mom it's over salted. Nancy has a teeth-cleaning on Saturday so she needs to move her date with Jonathan. Also how is her chemistry grade? Mrs. Sinclair recommended a great tutor. Holly's daycare closes early tomorrow so someone needs to pick her up. Does one of Mike's friends want to earn some cash babysitting? Oh and is Mike still going out with his friends after school tomorrow?
Somewhere in the middle of his mother's rambles his father will stand up muttering a "thank you," not to be polite but because it's expected, and walks over to the couch to watch TV without putting his dish in the sink. He'll watch whatever sports game is on and crack a beer while his mother cleans the kitchen.
There is no animosity or arguing between Ted and Karen, only tolerance and mutual existence.
Eventually, the idea of love becomes near repulsive to him. The idea of his parents engaging in any sort of affection makes him nauseous. It's not the childish disgust Lucas has seeing his father kiss his mother but a deep-seated discomfort. A part of him (smaller or bigger than he'd like, he's not quite sure) believes love doesn't exist. It's simply a pleasant lie society feeds one another, because the idea of being alone is terrifying.
That's until he finds himself half-asleep on Steve Harrington's living room floor.
He's been having a lot of sleepovers with his friends since the Starcourt Mall incident. None of them want to be the person who says it but they're all terrified of being alone. He's woken up quite a few times in a cold sweat with gory images in his mind, and he doubts he's the only one. Steve's parents are hardly ever in town so his house becomes the designated place for sleepovers.
The credits are rolling for whatever movie they watched, Mike can't remember because he fell asleep half-way through. His memory is hazy of what time they started but if he had to guess it's probably close to one in the morning.
Dustin is fast asleep next to him on the floor and Will's knocked out on the couch above them. They had been designing their characters for a new DND campaign, Mike's pretty sure there's pen on his cheek from falling asleep while writing the character details.
One of the other side of the couch Max is squished between El and Lucas, and he sincerely doubts she'll mind come morning. She'll probably be grateful considering she's been having some of the worst nightmares.
His eyes make his way over to the loveseat where you had been sitting with Steve. What once started as a respectable distance to avoid incurring any teasing has disappeared. You're leaning on Steve, curled into his side and he has an arm wrapped around you, rubbing your shoulders. You're trying to focus on the credits, dangerously close to dozing off while Steve stares down at you with something in his eyes Mike can't quite understand.
What he does understand is that his parents have never held each other like that.
"You sleepin' over there baby?" Steve's voice is a soft murmur, smiling as he looks down at you.
"Mmmm…" you let out a sleepy hum, barely acknowledging his words before burrowing deeper into his side.
Steve's smile widens in response and all of a sudden Mike's stomach twists. It's not disgust or repulsion but… embarrassment. He's intruding on something special, he should just close his eyes and go back to sleep. That's what he should do, but he can't bring himself to.
"Mmm…. need to put… the kids,” you mumble just barely comprehensible in your sleepy stupor.
“What about the kids sweetheart?” Steve whispers brushing hair out of your face.
“Put em to bed….” you’re practically in Steve’s lap despite the fact the loveseat was made for two. “Mike and Dustin are on the floor… and clean up…..”
“I’ll do it,” Steve murmurs gently and kisses your forehead, “but first I'm putting you to bed.”
“No…..” your brow furrows in your half conscious state.
“Yes,” Steve smooths out the crease with his thumb and kisses your cheek. Then in one smooth movement he’s standing up and hoisting you into his arms, all while making sure the blanket is still tucked around you. You let out a quiet giggle when he picks you up and he notices.
"Having fun over there?" he teases quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It's almost a knee-jerk reaction, he can't keep his lips off you.
"I feel special," you whisper as if you're sharing a secret and Steve's face softens even more. Mike didn't know it was possible for someone to look at another person like that.
"You are special," Steve whispers in that same secretive tone and kisses your forehead. "C'mon pretty, let's get you to bed."
Your words fade into quiet indecipherable whispers and giggles as Steve carries you to and up the staircase and Mike finds himself staring at the empty loveseat. A million thoughts swirling in his head and none at the same time. He's about to sit up when he hears Steve coming down the staircase and immediately closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
He doesn't know why, he could just pretend he woke up now. He doesn't have to give Steve any indication that he witnessed their intimate moment, but for some reason a part of him believe that waking up now would ruin something. Something he can't quite put words to.
The older teen shuffles around a little, turning off the TV, before coming over to where Mike and Dustin are laying on the floor. Then before Mike knows it Steve is lifting him up and placing him on the couch. He feels like a little kid being carried to bed after falling asleep on the car ride home. Though that only happened once or twice at his mother's insistence, usually his father woke him up to walk inside.
He hears some more shuffling and then the couch dips presumably with Dustin's weight. He hears the sounds of Steve cleaning up trash and crafts, carefully organizing their DND papers as to not be scolded later. Just when he thinks Steve is about to head upstairs a blanket is gently tucked around his shoulders and a damp cloth is pressed to his cheek to wipe the pen marks off.
"Wheeler?" Steve whispers gently, and his body tenses but his eyes don't open.
Noticing the tension in his body, Mike hears Steve let out a huff indicating he's smiling. He tucks the blanket a little tighter and ruffles Mike's hair.
"Go to bed kid."
Steve tucks a blanket around Dustin before flicking off all the lights and setting the heater to a comfortable temperature. Then he quietly creeps upstairs and Mike can hear the soft murmurs of you two speaking. He doesn't need to be in the room to have an idea of what's being said.
The unsub sat shackled at the table, hunched but humming—this low, breathy sound that made your skin crawl as soon as the heavy door shut behind you. You moved just slightly behind Hotch, and his presence blocked the man’s view of you for a moment.
But the second you stepped to Hotch’s right and sat down, the unsub locked in. Like he’d been waiting for you. Your breath hitched—barely—but it was enough. He noticed.
“Agent,” he greeted, smiling at you, not Hotch. “You’re prettier in person.” Hotch’s eyes cut to you immediately, picking up on the freeze in your posture. He turned back to the man, jaw flexing. “You already know that comment’s not going to help you.”
The unsub didn’t blink. Just stared at you. Your badge. Your neckline. Your hands. “Do you wear that lipstick for the job, or for me?” he asked, smile widening.
Hotch didn’t wait—his fingers snapped toward the one-way mirror. “Tighten the restraints. Now.”
Two guards came in instantly. One placed a firm hand on the unsub’s shoulder, forcing him down as the other jerked the cuffs tighter around his wrists, metal biting into skin. He flinched but didn’t yell. Didn’t even wince. His eyes were still on you, hungry, assessing.
You inhaled, then exhaled carefully. He wanted a reaction. You didn’t give him one. Until you had to lean forward and push the file across the table.
That’s when he moved. Just a shift. Just a lean. But it was deliberate—his face closer to yours than you liked, enough that your own twisted in disgust before you could stop it.
“Stop,” Hotch said, his voice dark, deadly. His tone was enough to freeze the unsub in place. Still, the bastard smiled. “You’re not gonna let her talk for herself, Agent Hotchner?”
Hotch reached forward and took the file you’d opened, flipping it toward the unsub himself. His broad shoulders shifted, moving slightly in front of you again.
“She doesn’t need to,” Hotch said. “I already know what you are.”
“She’s better than the others,” he purrs. “You see it too. That’s why you walked in front of her. Like a shield. That’s sweet, Agent Hotchner. She deserves someone strong.”
You barely resist the urge to snap back. But Hotch’s hand reaches out—under the table—and briefly brushes your knee. A silent signal: Don’t react. Let me handle it.
“Why would I look at those,” he rasped, his voice low and oily, “when I’ve got her to look at instead?”
You froze. Hotch’s fingers twitched near his pen. His tone stayed flat. “That’s not how this works.”
“I already know all about her,” the unsub continued, still smiling. “She runs at five-thirty in the morning. Orders that lavender tea at the café across from the field office. Drives a black bmw. License plate ends in... seven-two-nine. Right?”
Your blood ran cold. You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.
Hotch stood abruptly. “You’re done.”
“No,” the unsub said, eyes still locked on you, smile growing. “I’m just getting started.”
Hotch was already at the door, signaling for the guard again. You stood slower, trying not to let the nausea show.
“You’ll speak to me,” Hotch said, voice a dark, contained growl. “Not her.”
“She’s the one I’ve been thinking about.”
“She’s not the one you're confessing to.”
“She’s the reason I started.” The unsub grinned, wild and victorious. “And she’ll be the reason I finish.”
You stood so fast your chair scraped backward, screeching against the floor.
Hotch turned to you instantly. “Agent,” he said quietly—his voice gentle now, only for you. “Step out.”
“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, jaw clenched.
His eyes searched yours for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.
The unsub chuckled. “Cute. Like a guard dog. I bet you like it when he barks for you.”
Hotch moved before you could blink. He was on the table, both hands planted, leaning in so close his voice was practically in the unsub’s ear.
“Say one more word about her,” Hotch growled, “and I will make sure your sentence includes solitary until you rot.”
Hotch’s hands were still flat on the table, his broad shoulders locked in tension. He didn’t move until he was sure the man’s mouth would stay shut.
“Guard. Get him out,” Hotch snapped, low and lethal.
The unsub laughed as the door slammed open behind you again. “You’ll think about me, sweetheart,” he called as they dragged him backward, wrists still bleeding from the restraints. “When you’re alone. When he’s not around to protect you.”
“Let’s go,” Hotch muttered under his breath to you, not even glancing back at the unsub again. His hand grazed your lower back as you turned—protective, firm, grounding.
You walked out together in silence, the door slamming shut behind you, drowning out the last of the unsub’s twisted chuckles.
“Hey,” he said gently, his voice lower now, quiet. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah. Just... hate how he looked at me. Like he knew me.”
Hotch nodded slowly. “He’s been watching. We found photos in his storage unit. Some were taken last week.”
Your stomach dropped. “Of me?”
Hotch hesitated. “Of your apartment. Your car. A few of you in your running gear.”
You swallowed hard.“I had no idea—”
“That’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly. “He’s good at hiding. That ends now. I should’ve gone in alone.”
You turned toward him, surprised. “Why?”
His jaw tightened again. That same damn muscle. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when you walked in,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “And I knew exactly what he was thinking.”
Your heartbeat stuttered. He paused, then stepped just a little closer.
“You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”
That surprised you. “I wasn’t planning to.”
His brows lifted just a fraction. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you.” That made your heart skip. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.
“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you murmured.
He paused, then offered, “You could stay at mine.”
You looked up. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t playing. Wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t about that. It was about keeping you safe.
“…Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
And it wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside his bedroom door, suddenly uncertain.
Hotch stepped behind you again. Close. Just like in the interrogation room.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said, already reading your hesitation.
“No,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to.”
He paused. “I want you to feel safe.”
“I do,” you whispered, looking back at him. “With you.”
“I’ll get you a shirt,” he murmured.
A moment later he returned and handed you a long, soft cotton t-shirt—gray, plain, worn thin at the collar.
You took it with a grateful smile and went into the bathroom.
When you came out, you were swimming in the shirt. It hit halfway down your thighs. Your legs were bare. You had never felt so exposed in something so modest.
Hotch was already lying down, propped on one elbow, the comforter pulled up around his waist. He wore a black t-shirt and soft plaid pajama pants. You had never, in your life, seen him so…human.
You climbed in slowly, tentatively. His side of the bed was warm. Yours felt cold.
It was awkward. Weirdly awkward.
And that’s when it hit you. A sudden, absurd giggle bubbled up in your throat.
Hotch turned toward you, brow furrowed. “What?”
You bit your lip, grinning. “Nothing. It’s just—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Seeing you like this—in actual pajamas—? It’s adorable. I’m sorry, I can’t unsee it.”
He stared for a beat, expression unreadable. You swallowed hard, worried you might’ve crossed a line.
But then—then—he smiled. That small, rare curve of his lips that made you feel like the only person in the world.
“Don’t twist my words,” you warned, still smiling. “You’re intimidating as hell at work.”
“But not now?”
You looked at him—really looked—and swallowed hard. “No. Now you’re…”
Your voice faltered.
Hotch’s hand lifted slowly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.
“Safe,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”
His fingers didn’t move from your face. “I want you to feel safe,” he said softly. “Always.”
You exhaled shakily. “Even now?”
“Especially now.”
He curled it around your waist and slowly, slowly pulled you into him.
His body was so warm—heat radiating off him like a furnace—and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His chest was solid, his hold careful. Too careful. Like he didn’t trust himself.
You nestled into him, your nose at his shoulder, cheek resting against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You smiled against him.
“You’re tense,” you whispered.
“I’m not,” he said immediately.
“You are, Hotch,” you laughed. “Your arm feels like it’s trying to protect the nuclear codes.”
His chest rumbled faintly in amusement. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
You smiled wider. “You’re letting me cuddle you. That’s pretty respectful.”
He didn’t argue that.
You tilted your head up slightly, looking toward the sharp line of his jaw in the dark.
“I’m not gonna combust if you relax.”
He didn’t say anything, but the arm around your waist loosened just a little. He exhaled—and the tension in his chest eased. Just enough to make you feel it. You took your chance.
You reached up slowly and ran your fingers through his hair.
At first, he flinched—just a twitch, barely noticeable. But then he stilled, letting you continue.
Your hand moved lower, smoothing down over his chest, then his shoulder, until it found one of his hands resting on his stomach.
His huge hand.
You picked it up gently, letting his fingers relax in your grip.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.
You cradled his palm and gently cracked one of his knuckles.
He winced. “That hurts.”
You looked up, mock-pouting. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”
He chuckled. “For joint pain?”
“For your nerves. You’re all… balled up like a stress knot.” You moved to his other hand, gently stretching each finger. “And this one? This one’s the button-pushing hand. I bet it’s tired from dealing with assholes all day.”
He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
You tilted your head and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair—soft, thicker than it looked at work, with the faintest wave. He looked down at you, stilling completely under your touch.
“You’re really bad at relaxing,” you whispered.
“And you’re really good at tempting me,” he said softly.
You leaned in again, closer this time, your legs brushing. His arm came around you slowly, tentatively, drawing you toward his chest until your head rested just below his collarbone.
You exhaled shakily. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Just… not used to this.”
You tilted your head to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the low light, but his jaw was tight.
“Your hands,” you said quietly, lifting one of them between your palms. “They're so big.”
His brows lifted slightly. “That a problem?”
“No,” you said, voice dipping. “It’s hot.”
He huffed a soft laugh, but his thumb rubbed lightly across your side. You turned his palm over and started gently cracking his knuckles again. One by one. Each pop was soft, and you smiled as you moved to the next.
But when you got to his index finger and pressed just enough—
“Mm—hey,” he winced, pulling his hand back slightly. “That actually hurts.”
You blinked. “Seriously? You wrestle unsubs to the ground, but you can’t handle me cracking your knuckles?”
“I don’t wrestle people who sneak up and break my fingers.”
You laughed again, more relaxed now, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said with a smirk. “You’re so delicate, Hotch.”
He turned to look at you, and this time, he was smiling. Really smiling. Barely-there dimple, soft eyes, warmth radiating from him.
“You think I’m delicate?”
“I think you’re secretly a marshmallow,” you whispered, inching even closer. “All this serious FBI Alpha Male stuff is just an act.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.
You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of his hand on your waist. Of the warmth between you. Of the ridiculous oversize shirt that was definitely not a barrier. Not now.
“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice so low it made your skin prickle.
You tilted your chin up slightly, your lips dangerously close to the line of his jaw. “Maybe.” Your hands in his hair, soft and uncertain, pulling him in closer. Your lips brushed again, then again—until it turned into something real. Something deep and needy and so full of everything you hadn’t said.
Hotch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back, his body hovering over yours, held up on one arm.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your cheek.
“I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.
Your heart stuttered. Your legs shifted, thighs tightening as you accidentally ground your hips slightly against his under the covers.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening.
You surged up into him, kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slid a thigh between yours. His weight was comforting, grounding—and yet, your whole body felt like it was floating.
He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not with you.”
Hotch’s mouth found your neck—slow and reverent, dragging warmth down your throat as he settled between your legs. His hands roamed cautiously under the hem of your borrowed shirt, palms warm and rough on your bare skin.
You moaned softly as his thigh slid between yours, pressing.
“You have no idea what it did to me,” he whispered into your skin, “hearing him talk about you like that.”
“I hated it,” you breathed. “I wanted to claw his face off.”
Hotch laughed. “That’s my girl.”
The words hit you straight in the core—made you shiver.
His hands moved beneath the shirt he’d given you, sliding along your bare thighs, up to your hips. When he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath, his breath hitched.
“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “You’re not wearing—?”
You flushed. “Didn’t feel like it.”
In one fluid motion, he sat up, his arms wrapping around you, mouth claiming yours again—hotter, hungrier now. You let him take the lead, let him slide your shirt up over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. The way he looked at you then—like reverence, like worship—made heat pool between your legs.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, fingertips ghosting down your spine. “So fucking beautiful.”
You gasped when he leaned forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before he sucked—slow, teasing, patient. One hand moved between your legs, fingers brushing you just enough to feel the slickness there.
He tugged his waistband down just enough to free himself, and you gasped at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
You reached down and gripped him, guiding his head to your entrance. The first brush made both of you groan.
The second his tip slid through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart—look at you.” Hands tightening around your hips.
You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, your thighs trembling at the stretch.
“That’s it,” Hotch growled. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
Once he was fully inside, you sat still for a second, breathing shallowly.
He brushed your cheek again. “Look at me.”
You did—and that’s when it changed. Because there wasn’t just lust in his eyes. There was something far deeper. Something that told you this wasn’t just sex for him.
You whimpered and leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and the shift in angle made stars flash behind your eyes. He pushed up into you now, shallow, controlled thrusts that made your clit drag just right with every motion.
Your thighs trembled as you moved, your breaths turning into gasps. He sat up slightly, arms wrapping around your back, and you clung to him as you moved together.
“I’ve never…” you breathed against his neck. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”
He stilled inside you, holding you tight. “That’s because they didn’t deserve you.”
You clutched at his shirt. “But you do?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and reverent.
“I’m going to earn you,” he said. “Every day.”
Your heart cracked open. You kissed him with everything you had, hips rolling down onto him again, chasing that high, and he let you ride it out, guiding you with soft praise and firm hands and that warmth—God, that unshakable, grounding warmth.
And when you came, it was with his arms wrapped tight around you, his voice in your ear, whispering that you were safe.
stormborns
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