[desert-whale-drifting]

About Me!

Hi, you can call me Bingo! This is my fanfiction blog, where I reblog and write about various characters I'm into.

You can find any of my writing under the tag "my writing" on here, and I'm always happy to talk about any of the characters/fandoms I've written/reblogged on here.

Because this is a sideblog, follows and whatnot are from my main @vamptits420 :-) I may appear in people's inboxes as a 'whale emoji anon' due to sideblog limits as well.

[irrwurz]

9/10 times I write Thorin x reader I am imagining the reader as a dwarf. Mainly just bc I am a big fan of making dwarf ocs and focusing on writing dwarf culture. HOWEVER! I cannot ignore how fun it would be to have him with an elf reader.

The joy it would bring you to constantly make jabs at him about his age. Reminding him how you are so much older than him, that when you were his age yada yada! Leave him flustered and annoyed at how much older and wiser you are.

Leaning your elbow on his head when you stand together. He's too short for you to hold his hand when you walk so you walk with your arm draped across his shoulders. He tugs gently on your hair to pull you down for kisses.

Tracing the shape of your pointed ear with a finger as you lay together in bed. Running your fingers through his short cropped beard. Looking over the differences between you, finding what was similar and what was different. Finding beauty in one another all the same and speaking it aloud.

When you spar, with your difference in fighting styles its almost always an even match. Thorin loves it, the spark of challenge in his eye exciting him. He loves it more when he wins. You make sure to tease him extra when he doesn't.

Thorin brushing your hair for you and admiring the pretty strands, always asking to put a braid in it. You know what the braids mean, but you play dumb on purpose to make him blush and stammer out his true motives.

Thorin always sharpening your blades for you so you practice more with dummies just to blunt the edge again. He only rolls his eyes and takes it from you, a small smile on his face.

When he visits he hates that he can't reach everything on his own but also refuses to ask for help. This may or may not lead to a toppled bookshelf and a king with a headache.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, he makes fun of you for having to crouch in a lot of rooms in Erebor. The main halls were tall, sure, but the private halls and studies and rooms were built more... cozy. You hit your head on at least one doorframe or chandelier a day.

Teaching Thorin how to dance to your music, Thorin teaching you how to dance his. Humming to one another your songs as you guide each other.

Him not handling your wines as well as he assumed he would and hauling him back to your rooms, him mumbling foreign dwarvish words to you the whole time. You can tell by his grin and his blush they are all nice things he's saying.

[wendichester]

𓂃˖ ࣪ supernatural compatibility reading

˚₊‧꒰ა sam winchester ☆ @desert-whale-drifting ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

ꔛ. the beginning,

✧ who you are in the supernatural world .ᐟ

bingo, you feel painfully supernatural-coded in a way that makes this almost too easy to picture. with your gemini stellium, leo moon, libra rising, and taurus saturn/jupiter, you’d absolutely start out as a hunter. but not the loud, reckless kind. more the type people underestimate because you’re soft-spoken at first, dressed in thrifted layers and silver jewelry with dirt under your nails from digging through the woods for bones or old things that feel important.

your whole vibe in the supernatural universe is very much “the weird older sister who somehow knows exactly what plant will stop a hex and also has three knives hidden on her person.”

your c-ptsd shapes the way you move through the world here too. you’re observant before you’re trusting. emotionally careful. your cancer north node + mercury in cancer make you deeply protective of the people you love, especially younger people, which absolutely translates into you becoming the “safe person” for younger hunters or vulnerable civilians.

honestly? retiring from hunting makes sense for you because your chart has this strong theme of eventually craving peace after chaos. you’d probably settle somewhere quiet, somewhere forested, collecting strange little treasures and trying to build a life that finally feels soft. except the supernatural world never really leaves people alone for long.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet dean because a case drags him through your town, and somehow he ends up realizing the weird bone-collecting local with suspiciously accurate folklore knowledge is very much not just some civilian. his first impression of you, bingo? honestly? confusion. fascination. mild concern.

you look delicate at first glance—thin build, soft voice, whimsigoth aesthetic straight out of some haunted record store—and then you casually mention the decomposition timeline of roadkill or identify a sigil from memory, and suddenly he’s staring at you differently. your gemini placements keep him on his toes because you’re quick mentally, funny in this dry sideways way, and impossible to fully pin down emotionally.

with sam, though, there’s recognition almost immediately. he sees the intelligence first. the intensity. the way your brain latches onto things deeply. your interests, your research, your crafting, your geology/library science fixation... he understands that kind of obsessive curiosity because he has it too. and unlike dean, he notices your guardedness right away. the way vulnerability seems physically difficult for you sometimes. he’s gentler with it.

✧ the friendship dynamic

with dean, your friendship feels alive in this messy, unpredictable way that somehow works despite both of you being emotionally avoidant in completely different directions. your gemini venus/mars match his fast-moving energy really well, and your leo moon actually keeps up with his personality instead of shrinking around it.

he teases you constantly—about your roadkill hobby especially, because he’s simultaneously horrified and deeply entertained by it—but there’s genuine affection underneath. the problem is that dean tends to treat emotional vulnerability like it’s something dangerous, and your c-ptsd already makes opening up difficult. so sometimes the friendship becomes all jokes and side comments and almost-conversations that never fully land. still, there’s warmth there. excitement. the feeling that he genuinely enjoys who you are.

with sam, the dynamic is quieter but emotionally deeper. your gemini venus aligns beautifully with his venus in gemini, so conversation between you feels effortless. you can spend hours talking about strange niche interests, folklore, books, music, weird historical facts, and somehow neither of you gets bored.

your taurus saturn/jupiter also ground his energy emotionally—there’s this sense of reliability between you that makes trust build naturally over time. importantly, sam doesn’t pressure vulnerability out of you. he notices the walls and just… stays patient. and because of that, you slowly start lowering them yourself. he becomes one of the few people who understands that your intensity isn’t “too much”. it’s just part of how deeply you care.

✧ quirks + fun things

→ dean absolutely calls your bone collection “serial killer decor”, but will still help you carry things without complaining too much.

→ sam ends up listening to your music recommendations so often that his playlists slowly become suspiciously “you-coded”.

→ both of them learn very quickly not to interrupt you when you’re hyperfocused on a project because you’ll genuinely forget they exist for like three hours.

ꔛ. something more,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

with dean, there’s chemistry immediately. your gemini placements + his sagittarius moon/venus create attraction, banter, movement, excitement. he likes that you’re strange in a way that feels authentic instead of performative, and your leo moon plays well with his confidence and attention. but emotionally? it’s less stable. the compatibility exists, but it leans more toward intensity than security. dean would absolutely initiate first—impulsively, probably at a terrible moment.

with sam... honestly, bingo, this is one of those “oh” matches. your venus in gemini matching his creates such strong emotional and intellectual compatibility, and your taurus placements harmonize beautifully with his grounded nature. there’s romance here that feels sustainable instead of just exciting. the shift would be mutual, slow, and very emotionally loaded once it finally happens.

✧ the relationship dynamic

with dean, the relationship feels passionate but inconsistent. there’s chemistry, attraction, fun, late-night drives and teasing and intense moments where you feel incredibly seen. but also moments where emotional communication just slips through the cracks. your c-ptsd means reassurance matters more than you sometimes admit, and dean isn’t always naturally equipped to provide consistent emotional clarity. you’d both default to humor instead of honesty way too often. still, the relationship would never feel dull.

with sam, though? the relationship feels safe without becoming boring, which is honestly rare. you’d build routines together naturally—researching side by side, sharing music, sitting quietly while working on completely separate projects but still feeling connected. your gemini energy keeps things mentally stimulating while his taurus energy creates emotional steadiness. importantly, sam doesn’t make you feel rushed emotionally. he understands that trust is something earned slowly with you. and because of that, your softer, more vulnerable side actually comes out around him naturally instead of feeling dragged out of hiding.

✧ their favorite n worst version of you

dean’s favorite version of you, bingo, is when your humor fully comes alive. when you’re relaxed enough to be sarcastic and weird and passionate without overthinking yourself. he loves your intensity when it’s pointed outward instead of inward. his least favorite version is when you emotionally disappear. when your walls go up so high that even he can’t tell what you’re feeling anymore.

sam’s favorite version of you is when you’re completely absorbed in something you love—talking too fast about geology or folklore or showing him some strange little trinket you found with genuine excitement in your eyes. he loves seeing the version of you that forgets to protect itself for a minute. his least favorite version is when you convince yourself vulnerability automatically makes you unsafe. because he can tell how badly you want connection sometimes even while you’re pulling away from it.

✧ fighting, hurting, making up

with dean, both of you can accidentally trigger each other’s worst habits. he withdraws emotionally through avoidance and humor, while you withdraw through silence and hyper-independence. neither of you likes feeling exposed, which means issues can sit unresolved longer than they should. emotionally, you’re actually more self-aware than dean in a lot of ways, even if expressing it is difficult.

with sam, conflict is much healthier overall. there’s still avoidance sometimes—especially because both of you internalize stress—but the relationship has more emotional patience built into it. sam is more emotionally mature than dean when it comes to consistency, and your chart responds very well to consistency. arguments between you and sam feel less like emotional warfare and more like two people genuinely trying to understand each other, even when it’s uncomfortable.

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ how they'd get over that wall you've subconsciously/consciously built

with sam, it happens so slowly you almost miss it. he doesn’t push. doesn’t corner you into “opening up.” doesn’t give you that careful look people get when they think you’re fragile enough to break in their hands. he just stays. through the quiet moods. through the days where you vanish into yourself so deeply you barely speak outside of practical things. through the moments where your instinct is to pull away before anyone can leave first. and eventually, your walls stop feeling necessary around him. one night, you’re sitting on the motel floor surrounded by old books and animal bones, absently explaining some burial ritual you found in a text from the 1800s, words spilling faster the more interested you get. you look up halfway through—and stop. sam’s already looking at you. soft. focused. listening like every word matters. and something in your chest goes painfully still. because he isn’t trying to get past your walls anymore. he’s been patiently building a home inside them the entire time.

with dean, it happens messier. louder. he gets frustrated sometimes when you shut down, when you retreat so far into yourself that even your sarcasm disappears. he notices immediately, too. always. “you gonna talk to me, bones, or do i gotta start communicating through roadkill now?” normally, you’d laugh. this time, you don’t. and dean’s expression shifts instantly. that’s the thing about him—underneath all the jokes and noise, he pays attention. more than people realize. he finds you outside later sitting behind the motel, knees pulled to your chest, staring into the woods like you’re trying to disappear into them. he doesn’t force conversation. just drops down beside you with two beers and sits there quietly long enough that the silence stops feeling sharp. “y’know,” he says eventually, voice rougher than usual, “you don’t always gotta go missing when things get bad.” you swallow hard. because dean doesn’t climb your walls carefully like sam does. he just keeps showing up outside them until one day you unlock the door yourself.

ꔛ. overall ゛ with dean ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 7 / 10 with sam ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 9 / 10

bingo... dean would absolutely adore you. genuinely. he’d think you’re fascinating, funny, strange in all the right ways, and emotionally stronger than you realize. but sam is the one who feels like he’d actually know how to keep you.

with dean, the relationship burns brighter. with sam, it lasts longer. and for someone like you—someone who has spent so much of their life protecting softer parts of themselves... the person who makes vulnerability feel safe is probably the better choice in the end.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ request your reading ; all readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[desert-whale-drifting]

Love it so much, very accurate lol, thank u again💞

[wendichester]

could you do something with a reader who’s just irritated for no reason? and sam comforts her after she snaps at him or something? i’ve felt like this for the past few days.

⋆˚꩜｡ static in the air,

summary. you don’t even know why you’re upset—but sam stays steady when you can’t.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 509 genre. comforting

warnings. irritability, snapping during argument, emotional overwhelm, brief guilt, comfort

<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷

You wake up wrong.

Not sad. Not angry. Just… wrong.

Every sound feels too sharp. The bunker lights are too bright. The hum of the refrigerator grates against your nerves until you want to rip the cord out of the wall.

Sam notices by breakfast.

He always notices.

“You sleep okay?” he asks gently, sliding a mug of coffee toward you.

“Fine,” you snap, too quick.

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t push.

You hate that he doesn’t push. It makes you feel worse.

The day drags. Research goes nowhere. A case file won’t load. Dean’s music echoes faintly down the hall. You feel like your skin doesn’t fit right.

By the time Sam leans over your shoulder to point at something on the laptop screen, you’re already at the edge.

“I think this symbol matches the one from—”

“I know, Sam,” you cut in sharply. “I’m not stupid.”

The silence that follows is immediate.

Heavy.

He steps back like you physically shoved him.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know.” Your voice is still tight. “You just—hover.”

His jaw flexes, but not in anger. In restraint.

“I’m trying to help.”

“Well, I don’t need help.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because that’s not true.

And you see it land on him.

Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just a small, quiet hurt.

“Okay,” he says softly.

He moves away. Gives you space.

Which somehow makes your chest ache worse.

Ten minutes pass.

You stare at the same paragraph without reading a single word.

The irritation curdles into something uglier. Guilt. Frustration at yourself. The awful realization that you don’t even know why you’re like this today.

You push back from the table abruptly.

“Sam.”

He looks up immediately.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, arms wrapping around yourself like you’re holding something in.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit, voice cracking. “Everything just feels… too much.”

There it is.

Not anger.

Overwhelm.

His expression softens instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, standing up. Slow. Careful. “C’mere.”

You hesitate only a second before stepping into him.

His arms close around you, solid and warm and grounding. One hand settles at the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

You exhale shakily against his chest.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” you whisper.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You’re allowed to have off days.”

“I was mean.”

“You were overwhelmed,” he corrects gently. “There’s a difference.”

Your throat tightens.

He brushes his thumb under your eye, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“You don’t have to be steady all the time,” he says. “I’ve got you when you’re not.”

The irritation that’s been buzzing under your skin all day finally starts to quiet.

Not because it’s solved.

But because you’re not alone in it.

You press your face back into his chest.

He holds you there as long as you need.

No fixing. No lectures.

Just steady.

And somehow, that’s enough.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule ── .✦ requests are currently closed.

[saphicangel]

abby's girl

synopsis: a glimpse into what it feels like to love abby and be loved by her in return.

content warnings: tooth rotting fluff, modern au, abby x reader, established relationship, domestic!abby, abby and reader are living together, soft intimacy, lovesick lesbians.

Being with Abby feels like a gentle, constant pull toward her. Even when you’re in separate rooms, you’re aware of her — the soft thud of cabinets closing in the kitchen, the sound of her pacing while she decides what to cook The apartment holds her presence the way it holds heat.

She likes domesticity more than she admits. Saturday mornings, she’s up at the crack of dawn, because she insists on making you breakfast in bed whenever she can. Hair still messy from sleep, standing at the stove in an oversized T-shirt that used to be yours. The sunlight cuts across her shoulders while she flips pancakes too carefully, like she’s trying to impress you even though you’re half-asleep and extremely biased over literally anything when it comes to her.

You notice her absence in the mornings immediately, the cold of her side of the bed jarring in comparison to the natural warmth she usually generates, engulfing you like a cocoon. You’d always trudge out to the kitchen and admire her form from the doorway, blanket draped messily around your shoulders and eyes half open.

When she notices you, she softens immediately. It’s subtle — her shoulders drop, her mouth curves, her whole posture shifts toward you. You’d always trudge like the effect you have on her. You like how she’s only like this with you, and vice versa.

You slide your arms around her waist from behind, cheek resting between her shoulder blades. She leans back without hesitation, trusting your weight completely, letting you crowd her while she cooks. The smell of coffee, the warmth of her body, the rhythm of something ordinary shared, it’s enough to make your chest feel full.

Abby is attentive in so many ways that don’t feel deliberate. She remembers how you like your toast. She adjusts the thermostat before you even say you’re cold. When you sit on her lap, she automatically spreads her legs slightly so you can fit closer, her hand settling on your thigh like it belongs there.

When she takes you out, it never feels performative. She’s thoughtful, almost shy about it, as if she’s offering you something fragile. Her fingers stay laced with yours as you walk, occasionally squeezing for no reason. She glances at you often.

There’s a quiet pride in the way she looks at you, too. Like she still can’t believe this is her life — that you live together, that she gets to come home to you, that she gets to reach out and touch you whenever she wants.

Back at the apartment, the distance between you always dissolves. Abby gravitates toward you instinctively, pulling you down onto the couch, arranging you so you’re tucked against her side. Her hand drifts under the hem of your shirt without thinking, palm warm against your skin, thumb moving slowly as she watches whatever you put on.

The air feels different in those moments, heavy with familiarity. The kind of closeness that comes from knowing each other completely. She presses her mouth to your hairline, then your temple, then lower, unhurried, as if there’s no place else in the world she’d rather be.

Abby’s definitely gentle, but there’s always that undercurrent — the quiet tension that lingers in the way she holds you with the slight tightening of her grip when you shift, and the warmth of her breath against your neck. It builds naturally, like everything else with her, affectionate first and then something deeper, more private.

At night, she curls around you again, half asleep before her head even hits the pillow. Her hand settles at your waist, fingers flexing once, like she’s making sure you’re still there. The apartment is quiet, the city distant, and Abby breathes steadily against your shoulder.

—

Abby plans the date without making a big deal out of it. You only notice because she’s already dressed when you come out of the bedroom, hair still slightly damp, one of her nicer jackets on instead of the usual hoodie. She’s leaning against the counter with two coffees, watching the door like she’s been waiting there in anticipation for you to walk out.

“There she is,” she coos.

You take the cup she offers, fingers brushing hers. “It’s too early for you to look this beautiful.” You compliment, eyes trailing over her form.

“Thought I’d take my girlfriend out,” she replies, a flush on her cheeks. She says it so simply, like it’s nothing, but her eyes stay on your face a second too long.

Living together means the small things pile up. Your shoes mixed together by the door, her keys always ending up in your bag, the way she checks the stove twice before you leave because she knows you forget. Abby moves through the apartment like you’re built into it.

On the walk, she keeps your hands linked, thumb moving absentmindedly over your knuckles. She does it when she’s content, when she’s thinking, when she’s trying not to stare too openly. You nudge her shoulder.

“You’re being very sweet today.”

“Just today?” she asks mock offended, scrunching her nose down at you.

“Extra sweet.” You correct, smiling.

She hums. “I like you. Makes me act weird.”

“You live with me. That ship has sailed.”

“Still like you,” she says simply, squeezing your hand once.

The café is warm and quiet, and she sits close enough that your knees touch under the table. She listens when you talk in a way that feels almost intense, chin resting on her hand, eyes steady. Every time you pause, she smiles, small and fond, looking at you in a way that suggests you’re the most precious thing on earth.

“I feel like you haven’t blinked, or looked away from me once this entire conversation,” you observe playfully.

“Yeah,” she admits, eyes still locked on you. “I do that.”

“It’s creepy.”

Her mouth tilts. “Well sue me, you’re nice to look at.”

Your foot nudges hers under the table. “Real smooth, Anderson.”

“I try,” she tries to say it coolly, but there’s a flush climbing her neck.

—

Back home, the familiar comfort settles immediately. Jackets tossed aside and the couch pulling you both in like gravity. Abby stretches her arm along the back and you automatically lean into her. She adjusts without thinking, pulling you closer, hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to rest against your side as usual.

“So you jus’ planned this date outta nowhere?,” you ask curiously.

“Mhm.”

“How come?”

She shrugs, but her fingers trace slow circles against your skin. “Wanted to spend time with you. Not like we don’t already, but… I don’t know. I like taking you out.”

“You take me everywhere.”

“And I still miss you when you’re in another room.”

You tilt your head to regard her. “Someone sounds a little lovesick.”

“Hmm, probably,” she pretends to think. “You okay with that?”

You lean in, brushing your nose against her jaw. “I live with you. I’m fully enabling it.”

Her breath catches slightly, and her grip tightens at your waist. The movie plays, mostly ignored. She presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jaw, like she can’t help herself.

“Best part of the date?” you ask.

“You,” she says immediately.

“Abby,” you laugh softly. “you’re literally such a sap.”

She nudges your nose with hers. “You like it.”

You settle deeper against her, feeling her relax completely once you’re comfortable. Her chin rests on your head, her hand warm and steady at your side, and the apartment fills with that quiet, shared stillness you’ve built together.

After a moment, she murmurs, almost to herself, “I like coming home with you.”

“You are home,” you reply.

Her arm tightens around you, and she doesn’t let go.

[residentsuperhero]

your trigger finger's mine

synopsis: The first thing you notice about Vigilante is his hands. It's just a professional curiosity. Until it isn't.

gif by @/fangirl48

pairing: adrian chase/vigilante x reader tags: gender neutral reader, black ops reader, reader is deeply not normal (blame Amanda Waller), mutually obsessive behavior, blood, murder, violence, gore, neither of these people know how to process emotions (but in a cute way), fluff word count: 5.1k notes: requested by @bunch-of-bens! title from the billie eilish song "copycat". took me a hot second to crack this one, but had a blast once I did, hope you all enjoy!

For a long time the only thing you knew of the man inside the Vigilante suit was his hands.

A flash of pale skin glimpsed just before he finished tugging his gloves on as you climbed into the back of the truck. A crescent of flesh exposed by the slight bend of his wrist as his gun recoiled. The meat of his palm revealed by the glancing blow of a blade. 

His identity was need-to-know, and you simply didn’t. And that was okay with you. You didn’t need much other than to know he was good at his work and you could trust him. 

Working in pairs was new to you – at A.R.G.U.S, Waller had always kept you on a tight (and decidedly solo) leash. 

But you worked well with Vigilante, becoming a silent and deadly shadow that stalked the night alongside him on missions. Studying his fighting style, learning his patterns, developing a keen awareness of his strengths and weaknesses – it was essential to the job. Studying his hands was just another part of that professional curiosity. 

At first, anyway.

It was how you found yourself watching him like he was some mathematical equation to be solved as his gloved hands wrapped around the throat of a target. Your eyes traced the uneven slant of Vigilante’s shoulders as he pressed down. Enough study and you could probably find the slope. 

There was something calm and self-assured about the firm grip of his hands at work. A tactical grace. You wondered what it might be like to feel those hands wrap around your own neck. You supposed that was probably a strange thought to be having while those hands were busy pressing the life out of someone. You never had really known what normal was anyway, and being around Vigilante had you having a lot of new thoughts. 

When the man was dead, Vigilante stood slowly and dusted his gloves off. He turned around and jumped, letting out a yelp at the sight of you half hidden in the shadows. You pushed away from where you had been leaning against the wall and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Observing.”

“Okay, weirdo,” he said, but you could see the way the skin around his eyes crinkled, even through his visor. “By the way, I totally, definitely knew you were there the whole time.”

Over time you found that being called up to work with the Checkmate team started to feel something like relief. The team as a whole was competent, if a little too emotional for your taste. But they paid well, treated you with respect, and…you got to see Vigilante in action. 

You tried to piece a picture of him together based on the small things you’d noticed. The way he’d tap a pencil between his index finger and thumb during briefings, the way he always pulled his gloves off with his teeth (through the mask, lest you get any ideas about seeing his face), how he’d sometimes forget to take off his Pokémon watch and you’d get to see him unclasp it with nimble fingers and force Economos to hold onto it for him during missions.

Once, on a particularly lucky evening, you got to see both his hands completely bare as he rushed to sloppily stitch the wound across your thigh. He’d ripped the fabric of your pants open for better access and you’d felt, for just a fleeting moment, that your whole world had tilted on its axis. The carefully built understanding of the world was torn open as if by Vigilante’s hands themselves. You were fairly certain he’d mumbled something about not being able to grip the needle right with his gloves on – you couldn’t be entirely sure, you were busy watching your blood coat his strong fingers and committing the sight to memory. For strictly professional reasons, of course. 

“You’re such a copycat,” he muttered. 

“A what?”

“Last mission I got slashed in the thigh and now here you are, totally copying me,” he said with a huff. You couldn’t be certain if he was joking or not. His physicality was never hard to parse but his tone was another matter entirely. “Like a…”

“Copycat,” you finished for him.

“Exactly!” He was quiet for a long time. You found yourself wishing he would say anything to distract you from the way the calloused pad of his thumb brushed against your bare knee. 

“You know, normally I hate the feeling of human skin,” he said quietly, his eyes still profoundly focused on his stitches. You watched him carefully, wondering if he’d say you were different. That he liked touching you the way you were discovering you liked it when he did. It was a foreign feeling for you – one you found made your body feeling surprisingly warm. The first time you’d felt that warmth while looking at him you’d thought you were coming down with a fever. You were starting to suspect it was something worse.

He sat back on his heels and dropped the needle into a small metal dish. His eyes flicked up to meet yours finally and you wondered what color they were beyond the blood red veneer of his visor. For the first time your brain was desperate for detail – to fill in the sketch of him beyond the skills and the suit.

“But, when it’s covered in dried blood it barely feels like human skin at all!”

The night you finally saw his face was on track to be one of the best of your life. Every mission you two had fallen more and more into sync. It was like there was a tangible thrum in the air between you – a taut, invisible rope connecting you. 

Vigilante swung the target around by the arm and both your blades sunk into his flesh simultaneously. Your knife plunged with careful and studied precision through the narrow planes of his ribs and into his heart as Vigilante’s blade cleaved cleanly through his spine at the back. Your gaze lifted to Vigilante’s over the target’s shoulder. The heat of his gaze was palpable, even through the mask.

“Dude, that was sick!” Vigilante cheered. Blades pulled from the target’s body which crumpled in a heap at your feet. Vigilante raised his hand, palm towards you and you stared, confounded. You arched an eyebrow and he sighed, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand up to meet his.

“Have you never high-fived someone before?” he asked, sounding genuinely wounded at the idea. 

You shrugged, brain caught like a thread on wondering if he could feel the hammering of your pulse through his firm grip. “Guess not.”

“Well, it’s an honor to take your virginity,” he said as he slapped your hands together. Then he cocked his head slightly. “I mean, uh, your high-five virginity. Obviously.”

“Right,” you agreed slowly. Suddenly, he gasped. “What?”

“What is that?” he asked, bouncing on his toes. You realized suddenly your hands were still pressed together and you yanked your hand back, waiting for the inevitable knife of derision. 

“What’s what?” you snapped.

“You were smiling,” he giggled. Giggled. You felt uncertainty rock through your whole being. Instability. Smiling? Your face did feel strange. Tired. Strained. You had thought it was from the punch you’d taken to the jaw earlier. 

“You never smile, so, honestly this feels like a badge of honor,” he said, clapping a hand over his chest plate. “First your high-five virginity and now your smile virginity? What’s next!”

You sighed, trying to shake loose the unusual heat in your cheeks. You tightened the muscles in your cheeks and Vigilante reached out one gloved hand and traced the entire curve of your smile like he was carving it into your flesh. 

“There it is.”

You could hear the smile in his own voice and suddenly found that your gravitational pull was skewed entirely towards him. Your chest brushed against his while his hand hung in the air near your face. For once you had no plan. You were entirely unused to the distinct feeling of being off-kilter. There were no studied schematics for feeling. 

For a moment, you thought you might press your lips to the mask.

Instead, a sudden explosion tossed you both back across the room. The pain of broken ribs was immediately recognizable as you slid down the concrete wall, but there was something much sharper than any other time before mixed in. Vigilante was on top of you before you could even attempt to get your feet under you. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asked, hands dancing across the front of your suit. They came away glistening. “Shit. Shit. Um, okay, hold on.”

The sound of footsteps had both your heads snapping in the direction of the stairs. You grabbed hold of his forearm, squeezed tightly, and narrowed your eyes at him. “Go. Finish it. I’ll be okay.”

Vigilante reluctantly left you bleeding out after you reassured him multiple times, your arm strategically draped over the shrapnel piercing deep into your side. When he was finally out of sight, you peeled back your obliterated suit to survey the damage. Blood was leaking out around the jagged piece of metal at an alarming rate, but you did what you could to pack the area around the wound, ripping tangled shreds of kevlar and fabric to use in a pinch, holding the whole area together with one firmly pressed hand.

You managed to press your back against the wall and use the resistance to push yourself to your feet, swallowing the urge to scream out against the pain. You fumbled for one of the pockets on your pants, knowing you had hemostatic powder in there somewhere. The wound was probably beyond that but anything would help. You ripped the little packet with your teeth but your trembling fingers dropped it and the powder spilled across the concrete floor.

“Fuck,” you cursed, the word slurred, like fingers swiped through wet paint. You weren’t sure how long Vigilante had been gone but beyond the ringing in your ears you heard no signs of him or anyone else. You had to move. 

Shoulder scraping along the concrete until you reached the doorway, you managed to get to the staircase. You stumbled into the railing, bracing yourself, but not fast enough to stop the shrapnel from getting forced deeper into your abdomen. 

Pain is a distraction, you could hear Waller’s voice clearer in your head than your own. 

You punched your hand into your thigh repeatedly, desperate for the sensation of controlled pain. You just needed to stay on your feet long enough to find Vigilante. The fact that he hadn’t returned had unraveled something in you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought it was fear. 

It wasn’t until you finished dragging yourself down the staircase that you heard a wheezing breath and the sound of your name weakly being called. You followed the sound into a room off the staircase and found Vigilante in a pool of blood. Other bodies littered the room because Vigilante had completed the mission – of course he had. 

Except Vigilante’s mask was nowhere to be found and you were staring at a man you didn’t know. Still, you found yourself kneeling at his side, blood soaking through the knees of your pants. You made note of matted curls and green eyes but also the blood that was running from his nose and pooling in the hollow of his neck. Oh, and the blade that had skewered him straight through the middle.

“Oh shit, that looks like it hurts,” he gasped, sitting up slightly, fingers clawing idly at the air near your own wound. You braced him against your knees, trying to keep him from sitting up any further, wincing at the effort. He looked from your wound to his and back again.

“Wait, oh my god, twinsies,” he wheezed, trying to sit up again.

You smiled at him and you could taste the blood on your teeth. “Copycat.”

“You know, you’re pretty through the visor but the real thing is even better,” Vigilante managed through gritted teeth. Then he slumped over, completely unconscious. Your vision blurred at the edges and you reached up to find your face wet before everything went dark.

When you first awoke under the bright, fluorescent lights you reminded yourself not to fight against your restraints. Waller didn’t like it when you returned to her with bruised wrists. But then you looked down at the hospital bed and found you weren’t restrained at all. That was…new. And this, of course, wasn’t A.R.G.U.S..

“You’re awake!”

Tired eyes tracked from his firm grip on your hand up his strong arm, taking in the sight of a strong bicep emerging from beneath the sleeve of a hospital gown. A peek of light blue boxer shorts beneath the hem of the gown dragged your gaze to a pair of strong thighs. He leaned forward, yanking the chair he was in somehow even closer to the edge of your bed and he propped his chin on his arm, folded alongside the edge of your bed. You combed over the sharp line of his jaw, up to his tousled curly hair and settled finally on a verdant pair of eyes. He nudged a pair of wire frames up the bridge of nose by ducking his face into the crook of his elbow.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, brows drawn together. You lifted a hand to smooth it away but gave up halfway through. His grip on your hand flexed and pulled your attention back to where the two of you were firmly joined.

“You don’t like the touch of human skin,” you said, as if he needed the reminder. Your voice cracked, throat traitorously dry for more than one reason. 

“Oh!” he said, seeming surprised. He, too, turned his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Firm touch is good.”

“Firm touch is good,” you repeated. 

“Okay, copycat!” he cackled. You couldn’t help but look at him again. He was attractive, even you could identify that. You had thought so, back in the warehouse, but the brain was known to imagine a lot of things when low on blood. There was something inexplicably soft about him that you could never have anticipated. Something that you liked. You were glad he wasn’t all hard edges and furrowed brows and dark, soulless eyes. You’d known plenty of killers like that. Killers with hard mouths and grasping hands. Vigilante was different.

“I don’t know your name,” you said suddenly. You scooted up slightly in the bed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s Adrian!” he exclaimed, like it was a secret physically fighting its way out of him. 

“Adrian,” you repeated, weighing the name in your mouth. 

“But you can totally call me Vigilante still if you want. Unless we’re in public together, then you should probably call me Adrian. Because of the whole secret identity thing,” he rambled. 

“When would we be in public together?” you asked, genuinely curious. You were defenseless against the sudden idea of the two of you together in public, holding hands. What kind of civilian clothes did this Adrian wear? It would be helpful intel to complete the image. Purely tactical input.

“Oh. Good point.” You couldn’t help but notice he seemed disappointed. 

You gave his hand a squeeze. “I like Adrian.”

“You do?” he asked, perking up, leaning closer towards you. His chin was now propped on your arm instead of his own.

“Yeah.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he reached for the water on the tray beside your table and extended it towards you. “You should really hydrate, by the way.”

You nodded and sipped at the water slowly as he picked at the blanket with his free hand.

“I’m really glad you didn’t die, you know,” he said after a long moment.

“It would have been inconvenient, I’m sure. Having to train someone to replace me. It can take a long time to find someone you’re compatible with,” you replied. He cocked his head slightly.

“Well, yeah, I guess. But I meant more like I’m glad you didn’t die. Not just because we’re compatible in the field, you know?” You weren’t sure you did know. He squirmed slightly in his seat. “Because I think we may be compatible out of the field, too.”

Uncertainty coursed through you, as you tried to reason what he might be saying. The strange, taut feeling in your stomach was back.

“You healed fast,” you said, eyes assessing him for injury as was habit. Something that felt safe and normal and practiced. In fact, he looked completely unscathed. Kind of unfair, actually. 

He shrugged, a silly grin on his face that you might have chalked up to a kind of sheepishness. “Harcourt thinks I might be metahuman.”

“Increased healing ability is often an indication of metahuman characteristics,” you agreed. Adrian dragged his lower lip against his thumb. 

“God, it’s so hot when you talk like that,” he gushed. 

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Like you. Kind of science-y and distant. I like it,” Adrian said quietly.

“You do?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding emphatically. You felt yourself leaning towards him, but the movement pulled at your stitches. You must have winced because concern flickered over Adrian’s face and he launched himself from his chair onto the side of your bed, making space for himself against your hip. His hand pressed gently to your abdomen. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” Adebayo cheered with a smile from the doorway. You moved to pull your hand away from Adrian but his grip did not relent. That made you inexplicably warm again, heat high in your face. 

Economos cleared his throat. “There was a significant spike in your heart rate on the monitors. We just wanted to make sure everything was okay and that Adrian wasn’t like smothering you with a pillow or something.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Adrian asked, sounding genuinely wounded.

Economos shrugged. “Only like a month ago you were saying you were worried we’d want to replace you and that you were willing to do a duel to the death.”

“You’re flushed,” Adebayo said, crossing to the bedside to touch her hand to your cheek. “Temp reading is normal, though.”

You didn’t have an explanation. Adebayo and Economos exchanged a look. 

“Adrian’s not bothering you, is he?” Adebayo asked gently.

“Hey!” Adrian protested.

You released a pent up breath. “No. It’s…nice.”

“Well, now that you’re awake why don’t you go get some rest, Adrian?” Adebayo suggested. Adrian rolled his eyes.

“No thanks,” he huffed. “Last time we were apart we both ended up here!” Then he looked up at you with big eyes, sitting upright. “Unless? You want me to go?”

“I don’t,” you said quietly. “Unless you are planning to duel me to the death the second they leave this room.”

Adrian’s eyes widened somehow further and you resisted the urge to stick your finger into the crook of his dimple. “Was that a joke?”

You felt the corner of your lips twitch. “I think so.”

“Ohmygod,” he gushed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of your clasped hands. It didn’t really much matter to you that he accidentally kissed the back of his own hand instead. “Another one for the virginity checklist!”

“The what now?” Adebayo asked, then she shook her head violently. “You know what, I don’t actually want to know.”

It was that easy. You and Adrian just simply wouldn’t be apart anymore. Once you were a little more healed (you’d probably gotten off bed rest a little too soon, but it was at your own insistence) Checkmate agreed to take you on full time, and Adrian took it upon himself to make sure he was the one who showed you around. And brought you coffee. And got you up to speed on missed meetings. And made sure you were always assigned to missions together. And sometimes held your hand firmly under the conference room table.

Adrian also made it his mission to find and introduce you to simple things, too. Simple joys of existence that you had never had the chance to know, all those years kept up in labs and secure facilities, broken out of the box only when Waller wanted to play.

“Dude, you’ve never played Wii Sports?” he gasped, practically launching himself off of the couch. You found it endearing that he still called you dude even after you two had begun fucking (Adrian kept calling it “making love” – you weren’t sure about all that, but whatever it was? You liked it). You found a lot of things about him endearing, an emotion you had heretofore been unfamiliar with. 

Adrian was repeating holdonholdonholdon as he raced about the living room, setting up some sort of gaming console beneath the TV.

“What is this?” you asked when he curled your fingers around a slender piece of plastic with buttons down the front. His fingers lingered and that warm feeling came back again with a vengeance.

“A Wiimote.” You only blinked back at him. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned back to the TV and then back to you again, and you watched with a tightness in your throat as he curled his hands into fists and then braced them against his hips. “I lied, it does matter. It’s a Wii remote. A remote for the Wii. But they combined it into one word and hence – ”

“Wiimote,” you replied, nodding in understanding. You were too afraid to ask for clarification on what a Wii was exactly, but Adrian hauled you to your feet and pecked a kiss to your cheek.

“Can I say something?” he asked. You nodded. Rarely did he ask for permission to speak. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled.

“For not thinking I’m weird. For letting me do silly stuff like teach you about Wii Sports, but, like, also totally serious stuff like letting me have sex with you.” You watched as his hand gripped the controller tighter, the tendons of his hand straining beneath the skin. Your mouth filled with saliva suddenly. Another new sensation to make sense of later.

Your eyes flickered back to Adrian’s green ones and you realized he wasn’t done quite yet. “You’re like the coolest person I know.”

“Temperature-wise?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. Adrian bent over and laughed, his hands pressed between his knees. 

“Definitely not temperature-wise, because metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re so fucking hot,” he said. You nodded like you understood. 

“Well, metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re also hot, Chase,” you countered. It was true – he was an objectively attractive man. “Also, I really take umbrage with the idea that I’m letting you have sex with me.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “How would you describe it, then?”

“I would describe it as I look forward to and like having sex with you,” you replied with a shrug. Adrian’s eyes darted back and forth between yours and you couldn’t quite parse what emotion he was experiencing. He surged forward, dropping the Wii remote so he could take your head in both his hands and kiss you deeply. 

He pulled away panting, his forehead pressed to yours. “Can I say something else?”

His thumb dragged along your cheekbone and you found yourself only capable of nodding. 

“I feel kind of insane when I’m around you. And I’m not totally sure, but I think it might be love. It’s like my heart is the gun and your finger is on the trigger and you could pull it and kill me at any second but I like that,” he said, deadly serious. Was that what love felt like? You didn’t have enough time to properly consider it because he kissed you on the nose and then let you go.

“Okay, so your remote should be in pristine condition because I’ve never actually played Wii Sports with anyone else before. But! I think you’ll be really good at Wii Tennis, because I’m really good at Wii Tennis and we’re good at a lot of the same things, just like how we’re both good at murder and sex!”

He smiled as he turned to boot up whatever a Wii was and you felt those muscles draw taut in your cheeks again, a little less sore this time. Adrian gasped suddenly, eyes wide as he turned back to you. “Let’s check that Wii Sports virginity!”

You two shouldn’t have worked. But you’d leave quiet gaps in conversation for him to fill, and he treated you like you hung the moon and all the stars and not like someone who was raised in a lab to kill. In fact, he always laughed when someone else on the team had any sort of comments about your strange behavior, or your blank responses. Because to him the strangeness wasn’t absurd – it was just you. 

“Why do you look at him like that?” Peacemaker asked once, while he was standing beside you in the Checkmate communal kitchen. Adrian was wedged between Adebayo and Economos, showing them something on his phone.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to dissect him.”

You dragged your eyes to Peacemaker, who flinched slightly. You were used to it. “I don’t want to dissect him. I want to do the opposite of that. Whatever that is.”

“You love him?”

“Is that the opposite of dissection?”

Peacemaker seemed to contemplate the question. “You know, I’m not sure it is.”

The two of you were running late to Friday night work drinks. Partly because every time you had tried to put on an item of clothing while getting ready, Adrian was determined to take it off again. And partly because Adrian had spotted a flock of ducks on the way and wanted to feed them and tell you that a group of ducks was called a waddling, actually.  

Around the corner from the bar, Adrian came to a sudden stop, causing you to nearly collide with him. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, when he turned to you with a panic-stricken expression, his hand letting go of yours. You found you did not like that sensation at all, but kept it squarely to yourself.

“I don’t want you to feel like we have to let everyone know about us,” he said, words tumbling out of his mouth. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you suspected they already knew. At least Peacemaker did, and you had observed very early on if Peacemaker knew something, so did everyone else. But the thought of Adrian being kind enough to be concerned tugged at your heart. That old thing had been working overtime lately.

“Okay,” you agreed. “We can ‘play it cool’.”

And it was totally playing it cool to reach up and adjust the collar of his rugby shirt.

“Why are you saying it like that?” Adrian laughed, bumping your shoulder. 

“I feel like I’m saying it totally normally,” you continued to argue as you two made your way into the bar.

“You don’t do anything normally,” he replied with a smile. “That’s what I love about you.”

You knew you were still figuring it all out: what it meant to be a part of a team, what it meant to have a life in the civilian world and not just one in the shadows, what it was like to have friends – people who cared if you lived or died. And most importantly, what it was like to have Adrian.

Adrian stayed by your side all night. Close, but not touching. Occasionally you’d reach for your drinks at the same time and your hands would brush. Adrian’s fingers gripped one leg of the stool you were perched on, slowly dragging it closer towards him as the group got more drinks in and he was feeling bolder. His sneaker was wound around the bottom rung of your stool and his thigh, warm and strong, was pressed against yours before long. You could feel his stolen glances lingering longer and you knew he was searching for you to put up the red light. You knew he would pull back the moment you did. But you didn’t want him to.

You watched him idly fold straw wrappers into delicate little structures that now lined the sticky tabletop, gifting them to his friends around the table as the conversation and the night stretched on. He placed a slightly lopsided heart in front of you.

Economos was in the middle of a story about Rick Flag Sr. when you turned to look at Adrian and found him already looking at you, eyes sparkling in the dive bar light. How were you supposed to resist a face like that?

“Adrian,” you breathed his name but he was already moving, answering your call. You leaned forward and he met you halfway, arms circling your waist as you pressed your lips against his. The two of you nearly knocked the high top and your stools over in your eagerness to kiss. Faintly, you heard Economos complaining but it didn’t matter because Adrian was biting down on your lower lip, his hand fisted in your hair.

“John, you owe me twenty bucks!” Adebayo declared. “I still can’t believe you took that bet after seeing them in the med bay together.”

“I don’t know! I thought it was some weird psycho bonding thing!” John exclaimed, tossing his hands up and nearly upending his beer in the process.

“Alright you two, cut the PDA,” Harcourt groaned.

“Aw, I think it’s kind of sweet,” Chris chimed in, elbowing Harcourt. “Creepy, but sweet.”

Adrian pulled back from you, grinning wide. “PDA virginity?”

“Check,” you agreed. You raised your hand and Adrian gave you a high five before slotting his fingers through yours and letting your entangled hands fall back into the space between you. A small commotion broke out at the table between everyone all at once. You found it almost made you smile, though, you suspected those were reserved just for Adrian. For now.

There was a small pulse, pulse, pulse of his hand, squeezing firmly, rhythmically, as if he wanted to assure you he was still there. As if you could forget.

adrian chase taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @veronicawinters444 @fangirl48 @allthegirlsdreamed

if you want to join the taglist, let me know! <3

[forelxsket]

Reading ‘x reader’ fics to get a break from doing job applications

I love being alive in 2026

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS CHAPTER 10: Between retirement and a hard place (redux)

CWs Loss. Hunters are the good guys and monsters are bad, and you better not question that. Grief. Family. Brief sexual content. Happy end. 5.7k words

Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Previous chapter

Dean dreams of the woods.

Their lush green. How close the trees stand, closer than he feels is right. No branches this low, and it feels like he should be able to see, see all the way through to the other side, but he can’t. 

The ground is soft under him, pine needles creating a thick carpet. The smell of tree sap is heavy in the air. 

It feels like it should be scary. Terrifying even. It’s not. It feels peaceful.

He wakes to a phone ringing.

That slow waking again, and it’s disorienting. He inhales through his nose, notices he’s not on his back, but on his side, and when he blinks himself awake, he realizes his nose is pressed into the hair behind your ear. 

He rolls back, arm still around you. Considers just letting the phone ring, but he really, really shouldn't. He looks down at you again, now considers giving you a small kiss, then worries he might have morning breath. He throws the covers off himself and gets out of bed.

Too much considering for how early it is. It’s not his style.

The phone stops ringing and then starts ringing again as he makes his way down the stairs. He clears his throat, then grabs it. It’s not one where he needs to pretend to be someone else, so he doesn’t mind sounding groggy when he answers.

“Hey Dean, it’s Rhonda.”

“Hey, Rhon,” he says, looking around the kitchen. Coffee. He should make coffee. Bring some to you in bed, sneak into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Then come back and kiss you, all slow and easy. “What’s up?”

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” she asks, sounding amused. “Don’t think I’ve ever woken you.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean replies, “I’m trying out some of those small pleasures of retirement. Like sleeping in.”

Rhonda chuckles. Dean could kiss his way down your body, maybe. Or just drag you close. Maybe he’ll do the coffee later, just hug you again for now and get a couple more hours in. Yeah, maybe that’s better.

Fuck, he’s getting soft.

“Sounds good,” Rhonda replies, voice light. “Hey listen, I got some good news for you, and then I got some really good news for you. Which one you want first?”

“Uuh,” Dean says, and then he turns his head when he hears the creak of the stairs. He sees your socks first. “How about the good news?”

“Well,” Rhonda says, sounding fucking chipper, and something about that makes Dean’s stomach twist. You come into view, one hand on the wall to guide your way. Eyes small, looking scruffy and disoriented too. You raise your chin when you see he’s on the phone. “We found your freak.” 

Dean needs to blink, remember what Rhonda is talking about, tears his eyes off you and looks at the map.

“You found him?” he asks, his own voice sounding strange to him. “And what’s, uh, what’s the really good news?”

You move, just a little, stepping from one foot to the other. Dean looks at you again, and it’s like you’ve been slapped. You’re staring at his face, like you’re trying to read him. What? your lips form. Dean’s head jerks, meant to be a shake, and then he just stares at you, stares at you as you watch him and he listens to Rhonda give him really good news.

You’re quiet on the drive, and Dean doesn’t put on any music. You stare straight ahead, eyes wide, hands clenched in your lap. Dean keeps looking over at you. He’s not sure what he’s looking out for, but he feels the need to make sure you’re still there.

“It might not be him,” he says, and you don’t react. “It might be… I don’t know, something else.” He grimaces. Someone, but really, it’s not accurate, and it’s not how he talks about these things, anyway. And it’s not like he really believes it, what he’s saying. He looks your way.

“Maybe,” he starts, then stops. Looks out the front. Maybe there’s nothing he can say.

It must have rained in the morning. The ground is wet and soft when Dean climbs out of the Impala. There’s Ronny’s car again. He looks your way, wondering if he should walk around and open your door, but you’re quicker. You still haven’t said a thing.

It’s a fifteen minute hike through the woods to where the two hunters told him to meet them. There’s a clearing, and he raises his hand when he comes closer, you somewhere behind him.

“Hey, kid,” Rhonda calls, Ronny waving. She turns, walks towards Dean. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping just before her. “So what happened?” Rhonda shakes her head.

“Mostly dumb luck,” she says. She points her thumb over her shoulder at her husband. “Ronny caught on to it actually. Got a call from Chris, you know Chris?” Dean nods, the movement feeling rough. He turns, looks at where you are. You’re keeping your distance, but you’re close enough to hear her words.

“Yeah, he and Ronny are buddies, and Chris said he’s been noticing some weird stuff around his trailer that evening.”

“Good guy, that Chris,” Ronny cuts in. Dean looks at him. He has a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. A bowie knife hanging from his belt.

“So we drove over there,” Rhonda continues. “Looked like maybe we scared it off, but it left some tracks. Musta been hurt, so that made it easier.” Dean swallows, remembers the impact of his own bullet, the scream.

“Anyway,” Rhonda continues, “we managed to corner it. Didn’t take much, it’s smaller than I expected it to be. Your friend was right.”

“Cut it up and burned it,” Ronny says, nodding into the distance. “Somewhere over there if you wanna take a peek, but not much left.”

Dean closes his eyes. Takes a slow breath, then opens them again.

He turns to look at you, finally, can’t put it off any longer, when he hears your footsteps. Soft, slow, and when he looks your back is already turned to him, and you’re walking in the direction Ronny indicated.

“She okay?” Rhonda asks. Dean turns back, lost for actions to help you and now lost for words too.

“Can you two, uh, can you maybe wait at the cars? Give us a minute?” he asks. His voice is thick, and he can’t look either of the hunters in the face. They’re quiet for a moment. He just needs them gone. 

“Sure,” Rhonda replies, voice clipped, maybe pissed or just uncertain about his reaction. Dean nods at the ground, and then the two of them are moving, walking past him, talking in low voices. He raises his head, looks to where you are. Only a stone’s throw but it feels like you’ve crossed an ocean.

He sniffs, then starts walking after you. When you come to a stop ahead of him, he’s not sure why at first. When he reaches you and looks past you, he understands.

Matthew’s silhouette is burned into the forest floor. The rain has made the earth around it dark, but Dean can still see him. Bigger than a child, but not quite an adult man. There’s something that might be bone, or maybe it’s just ash peaking through.

With a small noise, you kneel. Your hand goes out, over the silhouette, like you’re trying to reach for your brother, and then the first sob comes, loud and uncontrolled, shoulders shaking and then all of you shaking.

“No,” you press out and that’s all, all that you’re able to say.

Dean drops down too, next to you. He wraps his arms around you, pulls you in, and your hands shoot to his jacket, fingers digging into it, dragging at him.

“No,” you say again, and you’re shaking so hard Dean’s not sure he’s able to hold on to you, so he pulls you in harder, closer, presses his face against the side of yours, just keeping you contained as best he can.

“No, no, no,” you whine and then you scream and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his own tears dislodging. “No, please, please, no, no!”

You scream again, and again, and Dean holds you.

He tells Rhonda and Ronny some half-assed excuse about needing to leave, that he’ll check in with them later, but the truth is, he couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass about them right then. 

He gets you to the car, opens the passenger door for you and helps you climb inside, not sparing the other hunters another look even though he’s pretty sure Ronny calls something out to him. He gets into the driver’s seat, the outside blissfully shut out. He starts the car, and then his hand goes over to grab yours.

You look so tired. Eyes glassy, staring ahead. Every few miles a new whimper breaks out of your throat, and you cry more quiet tears. Dean just squeezes your hand.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, knowing it’s a lie. “It’s gonna be okay.”

He pulls up in front of the cabin, rushes to your side. He holds your arm as the two of you walk. He knows he can’t really do anything. But he’s not gonna let you walk alone.

He gets you to bed. Takes off your clothes and puts others on you again, raises the covers for you. He lays down next to you and takes you into his arms. You’re pliable and soft, and when you start crying again, Dean brushes his hand over your hair.

You sleep eventually, but he doesn’t. Just closes his eyes, alerted at every little sound you make. He opens them again to a grey sky, looks down at you. Watches your deep breaths. This time he does kiss you before getting up. The softest brush against your forehead. You don’t wake, but mutter something.

He goes downstairs, looks through the cupboards in the kitchen. Starts cooking, and then he can’t stop.

You find him downstairs again, arms wrapped around yourself. Dean looks up, then walks over to you and takes your hand.

“Eat something,” he says, running one hand over your cheek. You do. Just crumbs. Your body too full of grief to fit in anything else, and Dean knows exactly what that feels like.

More sleep, no funeral to plan, no grieving family to visit, the way it should be. This time Dean wakes up without you there.

He feels frantic immediately. He always knew something bad was going to happen if he just let his guard down. Something bad has happened already, but it didn’t feel so bad with you still around, but here he is, in an empty house, you gone and him all alone again.

He finds you on the porch. There’s a shitty old wooden bench he’s been meaning to replace, and you’re wearing your large jacket, legs in jeans that you managed to put on without him waking, and it’s freezing, Dean only in a henley and the sweat pants you gave him. He sits down next to you, though. You’re staring off into the distance, something more awake, more stoic in your gaze.

“Who’s buried down there?” you ask him after a while. Dean follows your gaze to the wooden cross at the end of his property. He sighs.

“My dog,” he says. “Miracle.”

“How did he die?” you ask, still looking straight ahead. Dean moves his jaw, the memory of the scruffy little idiot immediately making his chest feel too tight.

“Just got old,” he replies. “Man, that was a good dog.” He looks your way again. His hand is resting on his thigh and you look down, reach yours out, wrap your fingers around his ring finger, stroke your thumb across his knuckles.

“Do you think we could,” you say, then suck in your cheeks, as if to stop yourself from crying. “Do you think we could bury Matthew there? Like, not him, obviously, but just…”

Dean raises his hand, yours with it, and brings it to his lips. Kisses the side of it.

“Of course,” he says. You nod, then look ahead again. But you don’t let go of Dean’s hand.

The next day, when he wakes and you’re not there, he finds you under the shower. You tell him to get in. When he does, you lean against his chest and he wraps his arms around you, strokes your back.

“Hey,” he says. “You wanna go for a ride today? There’s something I want to do.” You raise your head, give him a confused look. But then you nod.

The drive still feels familiar. The countryside, and then the small town, a different one than the one near Dean, bigger, big enough to have something like suburbs. The house is light blue from the outside, so it’s easy to spot. White trimming. A fence. Swingset in the garden out back, Dean knows.

He’s been thinking about coming here since you asked him to bury Matthew on his lot. No, that's not true. He’s been thinking about it for years. Has imagined the drive, pulling into this street again. He always imagines it up to the point where he rings the door bell. Can’t imagine the rest because, the truth is, he doesn’t know how. There's too many ways it could go. So many of them are too painful to imagine.

He gets out, watches you do the same, look around, confused. The morning has been cloudy but now the sun is starting to come out. You look so beautiful where it hits you.

Dean walks up the steps to the front door while you remain close to the Impala, like you're his getaway driver. He likes that thought. The two of you, part of the same plot.

He rings the door bell. His heart is beating hard in his chest, so he looks over his shoulder at you. You tilt your head at him and he grins at you. It makes him feel a little lighter, so when he hears the door open, he can turn around with some assuredness in his heart. Look the man greeting him in the face.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, and it feels as familiar on his tongue as it has his entire life.

Sam blinks, surprise on his face. He stares at Dean for a second, and then he steps forward, and his little brother wraps his long arms around him, and Dean does the same.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice close to his ear, and Dean wouldn’t tell anyone, but he closes his eyes at the goddamn familiarity of it. “Is– are you okay? Is everything alright?” Dean huffs, then pulls back, Sam’s hands still on his shoulders, a concerned look on his brother’s face. His brother. His little brother, who’s alive and well and not a burned out silhouette on the forest floor.

“I’m alright, Sam,” Dean replies, his voice a little cracked. He clears his throat, sees the shock slowly disappearing off Sam’s face. His eyes roam over Dean once.

“You look good,” Sam says, sounding a little too surprised, and Dean feels a giddiness in his chest that he hasn’t felt in longer than he can remember. It mixes with the pain so beautifully.

“You look old,” he replies, and that’s what finally breaks Sam’s worry, makes him scoff, then laugh.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, before looking over Dean’s shoulder. He blinks again, probably seeing you. Dean turns. You’re leaned against the Impala, hands pushed into the pockets of your jacket. You drag one out, raise it, awkwardly, in greeting. Sam does the same, and Dean feels like he could float from love for the two of you.

“Sorry to just, you know,” he says, and Sam tears his eyes off you. “Barge in on you like that. I just, uh, we just wanted to check in.” And Sam looks at him again in that wise way he has, where Dean knows he’s collecting all the puzzle pieces in his head. Then he slowly nods.

“Sure,” he says, “why don’t you come inside?”

They redid the little hallway, Dean notices, the walls now a soft mint where they were beige before. He steps half inside, then turns back to you. You’re still standing there, watching intently. He extends his hand. Hopes he didn’t completely fuck this up and that you are weirded out by what he’s doing. But then you push yourself off the car and walk towards him, arms crossed in front of your body. Dean lets you step past him, hand on your lower back, then closes the door.

“Hi,” Sam says, briefly running his palms down his sides like he’s worried they’re damp before extending one hand towards you. “I’m Sam.” You uncross your arms, extend your hand too. Dean watches, studying both of you, nerves and excitement so loud in him he feels like his ears are about to pop.

You say your name, the two of you shaking hands like the most normal people in the world. Dean can’t help but to keep looking at your face. His hand is still on your lower back when he tears his gaze away.

“We, uh, we were in the neighborhood,” he says, almost forgetting it’s a lie. But he’s not quite ready to tell Sam everything, to tell him that he had the overwhelming need to come down his mountain to see his little brother’s face. He also likes the idea of it - we. Like the two of you are just traveling the world.

You don’t blow his cover. Give him a sideways glance but nothing more. 

There’s a brief moment of awkward silence, and then just as Sam opens his mouth, there’s footsteps coming closer. 

“Sam?” Dean hears Eileen’s voice. “Who is it?”

Eileen rounds the corner into the hallway, then stops, eyes wide, before a smile breaks out on her face and she approaches Dean, arms outstretched.

“Dean!” she says, hugs him tight and Dean hugs her back, maybe harder than absolutely necessary. She leans back, looks at him, makes a sign with her right hand. “You look great!”

Dean huffs, takes a step back. Throws you a quick look. You raise your eyebrows.

“Everyone seems really surprised by that,” he points out with a small shrug. You nod.

“Seems that way,” you add. Eileen looks at you, then at Dean, something mischievous gleaming in her eyes, just as Sam claps his hands together.

“We were just gonna sit down for lunch,” he says. “You two wanna join us?” 

Dean looks at you again. If you want to leave, are weirded out by the fact that he brought you here to his family, it’s not showing in your face. You give him a look that says, why not? Dean turns to his brother, smiling.

“We’d love to,” he says.

It’s a few hours later - everyone fed, the dishes put away, the kids reintroduced to Dean, and newly introduced to you, one of the twins asking if you’re their aunt, and all adults stuttering at that - that there’s a dip in conversation. Sam is straightening something out in the kitchen, while Eileen, after asking Dean extensively about the cabin, was called away by the kids. When Dean looks around, you’re not in the living room anymore. Slowly, he walks into the hallway.

You’re looking at the pictures on the wall. Birthdays Dean has missed, Halloweens, barbeques. His brother’s kids might not have seen him in years, but he is in some of the pictures on the wall. Quite a few actually. There’s a picture of his mother and father, of Bobby. 

“Your brother’s nice,” you say, not taking your eyes off a picture of Sam and Eileen’s wedding. Dean nods, standing close to you. 

“Yeah,” is all he says. Eileen in the hospital with two little bundles, looking exhausted but beautiful. Sam with Jody, and Dean can’t remember if he was there the day the photo was taken or if he wasn’t. “They like you.”

“Well, duh,” you say, leaning forward. Dean looks too. It’s a picture of him and Sam when they were young, must be nearly twenty-five years ago now. He’s pretty sure it was taken the year he and Sam went back on the road together. It feels like a different life now. 

“Look, maybe I should have told you I was taking you here,” Dean starts. “I just, I don’t know. I needed to see him. I thought it would do you good.” You nod, still leaned forward.

“‘S okay,” you reply, continuing to study the washed out picture. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you were handsome when you were younger.”

Dean chuckles as you straighten, and then he can’t help himself, drags his hand out of his pocket and lays his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in, and you let him, until your head is resting against his shoulder, your face pressed against his neck, and you let out a deep sigh.

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “No chance you coulda resisted me.” You rub your nose against the skin of his neck.

“Can’t resist you now,” you mumble, and Dean sure hopes you don’t feel the way he needs to swallow at your words. 

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, running his cheek along your forehead. You wrap your arm around him.

“Maybe soon,” you say. “But we can stay a little longer.”

There’s ice cream for dessert, topped with chocolate sprinkles and strawberry sauce. One of the twins looks at your portion with wide eyes.

“That’s so much sauce!” she says. You turn to Dean, clasping your bowl.

“Is this kid sauce shaming me?” you mumble, and Dean feels such intense love for you in that moment that it nearly topples him.

The sun sets early. When Sam leads Dean and you to the front door, you and Sam hug. It’s a quick, slightly awkward one, more formality than anything. But maybe one day, it’ll be a real one, Dean catches himself thinking. One day.

Dean feels his brother’s hand on his arm just as he’s about to step out of the house. He looks at you, reaches into his pocket to drag out his keys.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, handing them to you. You take them, nod at Sam, tell him thanks again for dinner. Then you walk into the darkness outside. 

Dean turns and looks at Sam. He’s looking after you, then turns to look at Dean. Expression serious.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Dean feels it, the immediate affirmation bubbling up in him, the easy line, the saying something while really saying nothing. He swallows them down. Looks for the truth instead.

“She lost her brother recently,” he says, electing not to mention that it’s been only a couple of days, because then Sam might point out how crazy it was for him to drag you here. “Just made me…”

And he can’t say it, even after all those years. He can say he’ll protect Sam from the forces of evil, from the devil himself, but the other thing feels like barbs in his throat.

“Thought some normalcy would do her good,” he picks instead. “Get to meet my pain in the ass little brother.” Sam huffs, half-hearted.

“Dean,” he says, sighs. Maybe he’s gonna tell Dean to stay away, that he and his family don’t need the inconsistency he brings into their life, don’t need him dragging his young girlfriend over here, and Dean’s not sure at what point he started thinking about you like that, but he’s pretty sure it was when you reached for his hand under the dinner table.

“Sorry for not calling ahead,” he quickly says. But Sam shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he replies. “Just don’t… don’t only come here when you think about me dying, okay?” 

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Feels himself frown.

“You can just,” Sam says, raises one hand and scratches at his neck. “Just come over, okay? Hang with the kids, or, I don’t know, just. It doesn’t need to be a big deal. It doesn’t need to be life and death all the time.”

Dean’s still lost for what to say. He looks at Sam, decides to just nod.

“Alright,” he says, swears it to himself. Sam nods too, crosses his arms.

“She’s nice,” he says, and Dean looks towards the Impala.

“She is,” he says, then huffs. “Sometimes.”

He slaps Sam’s arm, then walks down the front steps. Gets into the car. One the drive back, you lean your head against his shoulder. Neither of you speak. There’s nothing that needs to be said.

You bury Matthew the next day. Well, you bury a picture of him. Both of you are so young in it. Your youngest brother is missing both front teeth. Your smile at the camera is defiant, like you don’t trust it, or like you’re just a teen that doesn’t like their photo taken. 

Dean offers to dig the hole, but you do it. Not much, just a shallow one you can place the photograph in. The ground is hard and he sees sweat build on your forehead. But still you don’t want help.

You kneel in front of the grave for a long time, Dean standing a few steps behind you, in case you need him. But he also knows that sometimes, in these moments, you need to be on your own. When you straighten and turn to him, eyes rimmed red from tears, he extends his hand, and you take it. The two of you walk back inside.

A few days later, Dean wakes up without you again.

He feels less panicked this time. Makes coffee, sits outside in a thick jacket. You left him a note downstairs. Went for a run. He scoffed at that, shook his head.

He sees you jogging up the driveway, bundled up, breath white clouds. He raises his chin when you get closer.

“Something better be chasing you,” he says. You stop in front of him, hands pushed into the dips of your waist.

“Maybe,” you say between heavy breaths. Dean chuckles, then stands.

When you come back from the shower, pour yourself some coffee, he hugs you from behind. Drags you in, face pressed into your neck. You laugh, and Dean wants to hear that sound for as long as he lives. He presses himself closer, begins kissing your skin. Your hand goes up and behind his head. Making sure he doesn’t move away.

Twenty minutes later, he’s got you on the bed, ass stretched towards him, vibrator pressed between your legs and Dean kissing his way up and down your back. He stops at a beauty mark, feels it under his fingers, his lips. You wiggle under him.

“Tickles,” you say, voice soft, pressing yourself back against him. Dean straightens, runs his hands up your back, tips of his fingers pressed into your muscles, making you groan. He can’t get enough of you. It shocks him. He waits for the moment when it ends, but it doesn’t come.

He lines himself up before he pushes into you, fucks you, slow and deep, and you roll yourself back against him, like you’re the ocean and he’s the shore, or maybe it’s the other way around. Dean is staring at the back of your head, your shoulders. All of you. 

He leans forward again, kisses your shoulder, runs his hand over your front, all over, the rise of your breasts, the softness of your stomach, then down between your legs. His hand over where you’re pressing the toy against yourself, and you press your head back against his. He runs his nose up the side of your face as he wraps his hand over yours, moves the toy in a circular motion. You moan, shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin. Dean kisses them too.

After you come, he pushes you down on the bed under him. Takes it slow, nuzzles your cheek. He runs his hand over the back of yours where it’s on the mattress, pushes his fingers into the space between yours. Nearly tells you he loves you in that moment, but instead presses his forehead against your shoulder blade and goes harder.

He doesn't tell you, not for a long time.

It’s a rainy day. One of the phones rings, and Dean blindly reaches for it, not even really looking which one it is, then holds it out to you. When you don’t take it immediately, he looks up. 

You have your legs up on the chair next to you, are frowning at him. He moves the phone back and forth, trying to make it seem casual when really his entire body is a tense wire.

“Come on,” he says. “Gonna have to start earning your keep at some point.” You narrow your eyes at him, then take the phone.

Stay, he thinks as he watches you. Stay, when you hang up the phone with an awkward chuckle. He opens his mouth to ask you. To stay. He doesn’t. Pulls you into his lap instead, tells you what a good job you did. You swat your hand at him and roll your eyes, but he sees the proud smile on your lips. 

Sometimes, you have nightmares. Some days, you are so wrapped in pain and grief that it feels like the cabin is drowned in it. And Dean knows he can’t do anything about it. He holds you, lets you cry in his arms. Listens to you talk about Matthew, or your other brother, or your parents. Your childhood home. 

It makes him feel powerless. Like a caged animal, his brain draws circles thinking of what to do, if only he could do something. But beyond taking you out for a drive to a particularly beautiful spot or wiping your tears away or mumbling in your ear that you’re gonna be okay, there’s nothing.

You go to visit Sam and Eileen again. One of the kids gets up while the four of you are having beers and wine after dinner, tiny hands rubbing eyes and Sam walks over, gets the child back to bed. Dean shoots a look over at you. He’s not sure why. You return the look and hold his gaze. He doesn’t know what it means.

On the drive back, you keep kissing him. His face in your hands, one of his on the steering wheel, but his eyes sure aren’t on the road. Your tongue is in his mouth and the inside of the car is filled with loud breathing and wet sounds. Dean can’t help himself but wonder what’s causing it, despite the fact that you’re the initiator as often as he is. Wonders if it’s where you just came from, some inherent animalistic need to procreate, or if maybe you just really like him. He finally needs to pull over to the side of the road. 

You’re so close in the darkness, moving on top of him. Once, a car passes, the beams briefly illuminating you and him, but you don’t stop moving, not scared of getting caught and Dean’s head drops back at that. He’s wearing a condom he dragged from his glove compartment, and you didn’t tell him not to.

He finally asks when the two of you are back at the cabin, up in bed. He’s lying behind you, you turned away from him and nearly asleep, so it’s easier. 

“Do you,” he says, then clears his throat. “Do you want something like that?”

No response for a moment.

“Hmm?” Your voice sleepy and cracked. Dean strokes his thumb along your hip.

“The kids,” he says, grimaces. He’s doing this all wrong. “The, you know, the whole thing.”

No response again, and then he feels your hand on his and you wrap his arm tighter around you.

“I like it up here,” you mumble, and Dean’s not sure if you really heard him, understood what he’s saying. Your breathing slows, and he’s pretty sure you fall asleep.

The truth is, he likes it up here too. He likes the idea of the house and the kids and all that, but he’s not sure if he really wants it. He always thought he did. He wonders if he’s asking you because he thinks he should. There’s a different part of his brain that chides him at even thinking about this at his age, and with you so young. It would be criminal to tie you down like this, and then he closes his eyes and grins at the idea of tying you down.

He pushes his nose into your hair. Inhales. Tries to tell himself that it’s not something he needs to figure out tonight.

The truth is, he thinks he could be happy with you up here. Going for drives and answering calls and researching late into the night and you dragging him in and the smell of the forest and the quiet. Maybe you can get another dog.

He squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head at himself.

He doesn’t even know if you’re gonna stay around. He shouldn’t be making plans.

By the time it starts snowing, you’re better at his job than he is. He makes a joke about actually retiring, and you take his hand, squeeze it. He runs his thumb over your knuckles.

“Stay, okay?” he asks, out of his mouth before he can think about it any more, unable to look at your face. It takes a few seconds until he finds the strength to look up. You’re studying him.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask. “Or are you just asking to be polite?” Dean scoffs, shakes his head. Intends to drop his hand, but you don’t let go.

“I mean it, Dean,” you say. He clenches his jaw.

“I, uh, I want you to,” he answers, now not looking at your face. “But I’m, well. I guess I’m scared you’ll say no.”

Horrible seconds pass. Then you lean in. Kiss him, gently. And just as Dean’s brain can start to wonder if that’s a no, you pull back. Look into his eyes.

“Okay,” you reply. Dean takes a sharp breath through his nose.

Okay.

And that’s that.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS CHAPTER 1: Between retirement and a hard place

CWs Post series. Canon-typical violence. Grumpy Dean. 6.6k words

AN I wanna give a big thank you to @kblognar who basically deserves co-writer credit for how much advice and help they gave on this. Thank you for being amazing, friend. ❤️

Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Next chapter

You’re halfway dead when Dean gets to you.

No, he needs to back up. Or this story doesn’t make sense. Back way, way up.

Of course, he’s not thinking that way when he gets to you. When he kneels, picks you up. Your blood immediately staining the canvas of his jacket. Dark green becoming even darker. Not when your head lolls back.

He carries you over to the Impala, manages to lay you in the back. Slashes all over your body - your arm, your jaw, your thighs, your stomach, and that’s the one that worries him most, cause your shirt is all red and wet around it. 

Stupid kid, he thinks as he walks around the back of the car, gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, rushes back. Stupid, fucking kid. Getting yourself killed, and then getting yourself killed in his damn car. He’s done this job for long enough. He doesn’t need to see another dead young woman, feel the blood flow ebb, feel the breathing slow. He’s had enough of that. 

Funny. One might think he’s gotten soft.

Don’t die, he thinks, as he rolls up your shirt, does his best to stop the bleeding there. Don’t die in my car. I’m retired.

You don’t die. And Dean? 

Well. Maybe he has gone soft.

Sam sits him down in the bunker library, all big frowns and pinched lips. Dean leans back, takes a deep breath.

“I think it’s time,” Sam says. “I think… I think I’m done.”

Dean always knew this day was coming. From the day Sam told him he would go back to Stanford once they found their father, he knew, in a way, he couldn’t run from this. He’s vacillated between trying to push his little brother out of the life and guilt tripping him into staying in it. But this was always going to happen. 

He nods through it. Utters understanding words even though it feels like someone is sawing off his head. He’s not sure he’s totally convincing. He’s never been good at keeping his disappointment and anger in, and Sam can read him like an open book, is so sensitive to it that it makes Dean feel disgusted with him sometimes. Guilty too, but then when doesn’t he feel that.

If Sam notices the involuntary reproach in Dean’s demeanor and words, he’s deciding to ignore it. He’s still endlessly apologetic, but he holds strong on changing his mind. Dean can’t help but respect that a little. Must be Eileen’s good influence. Now that one’s got a mind of her own. He likes that about her. Despite the fact that he hates anyone else having a say, he likes it.

And then Dean is faced with staying in the bunker by himself, or finding something else. He thinks about hanging it up too. Thinks about the women he could crawl back to. Lisa doesn’t remember him, Cassie was too long ago. Amara, well, gone, just like so many of them. 

He’s driving, on a case he takes on on his own, when he sees the cabin. Kind of rustic, kind of fucked up. Big For Sale sign out front. A project, he thinks. That’s what he needs. He scoffs at himself the next second. He sounds old. Pushes the thought away. Goes to kill something.

But the thought of the cabin doesn’t leave him. He drives back. Breaks in, takes the place in. Wall of phones, fridge with beer, couch, TV. A bed upstairs. He scratches at his jaw. Place needs some TLC, but he’s always loved tinkering.

He talks to Sam about it over dinner when he and Eileen invite him over. Dean sips his beer.

“Aren’t you gonna lose your mind, all alone out there?” Sam asks, scoffing. Dean purses his lips, mulls the thought over. He’s got his car. There’s a small town nearby, but actually living there sounds much less attractive. He thinks of himself, sitting on that porch, nothing but the view, a cold one and absolute quiet. He likes it. He wants to like it.

He drops two big duffels on the dusty floor a month later. Looks around, nodding. He can always sell the place again, maybe even make some money out of it if he does some home improvement on it first.

It’s quiet. So quiet. He’s completely alone. He swallows, waits for the panic to hit, the fear, the terror. 

It doesn’t. So he gets to work.

It’s nearly ten years later that he’s standing in the small kitche, pouring himself a fifth - sixth? He tends to lose count - cup of coffee, when one of his phones rings. 

He turns as he takes a sip, then walks over. The age of phones hanging off the wall is over, but he has a station with a bunch of older cell phones attached to their charging cables. The one that rings is one off the far right. He picks it up, looks at the letters written on the tape on the back. Merle. He puts the cup down, answers.

“How’s that wildcat looking?” he jokes, and Merle returns a three-pack-a-day chuckle.

“I swear,” he says, and Dean can hear voices in the background, low music. Maybe the sounds of a bar. “This case is getting more and more queer by the second.” Dean sits down, the groan with which he does it something that suddenly showed up a few years ago.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that anymore,” he answers, and Merle scoffs. 

“I’m thinkin’ werewolf-leopard-hybrid,” he says. Dean leans forward, thumb running along the rim of his cup.

“Merle,” he says, “you been drinkin’ again, brother?”

“Whatever,” Merle says, and Dean can basically see him wave him off. He’s got a good fifteen years on Dean, but the theories he comes up with are those of a little kid. Ghost of a Indian chief that merged with the spirit of a general of the British Army. Elvis, but the one the aliens cloned. Werewolf-leopard-hybrid. Dean’s yet to see any of them proven right.

“Need me to send anyone your way?” he asks, turning in the chair to look at the paper map he’s got pinned up on the wall, different colored tacks showing monster sightings, hunters and solved jobs. “I got Rhonda and Ronny down in Spearfish, but you know how long they take when they’re fighting, might fare better with your werewolf-hybrid, but–”

“Ah, you’re good, kid,” Merle answers. “Connected with this greenhorn been hanging around these parts. Sweet young thing.” Dean quiets, gaze dropping. 

There’s two reasons for his reaction: the first is that he’s trying to figure out who the hell Merle is talking about. He knows every hunter in this state and most surrounding ones. Ain’t no one qualifies as a sweet or young, though some of them he could see earning the nickname of thing. Maybe Merle is being sarcastic. Maybe he’s talking about a ugly old thing.

The second reason is that despite living a near monk-like existence for the past years, Dean Winchester’s ears are always gonna twitch at the mention of a sweet young thing. He used to be much worse when he was younger. The only action he’s gotten in recent memory is that one hunter he helped out a while ago, the one who rode him in the back of his car, the one he heard had died a few months later, chomped on by a rugaru. Ate her own gun, and Dean felt a deep, sad ache at that. There’s Lola who tends bar in the dive down in the town, and on the rare occassions he wants company and drives down there, she’s sometimes blown him or let him fuck her in the backroom. She’s a bit older than Dean, something maternal about her. He doesn’t want to think about why that does it for him.

But no sweet young thing. Dean clears his throat, realizing he’s been quiet. He sniffs.

“You got a name?” he asks. Just being precautious. Just doing his job.

Merle says your name, and Dean locks it away. He’ll ask around.

“Alright,” he says, “well, let me know how it goes. And call me if you need anything, alright?” 

“Will do,” Merle says. “Take care. And Winchester?”

“Mmh?” Dean says, taking another sip from his coffee.

“If it is a werewolf-leopard,” Merle says, glee in his voice, “you owe me a beer.”

Later that night, Dean’s on the couch, catching his four hours, when he’s woken by a phone ringing. 

He sits up, swings his legs over the side. Groans at all the parts of him that hurt, kneads at his neck. Trods over to the table.

The small lamp he always leaves on gives the big room the downstairs consists of an eerie glow. He sees the phone that’s lighting up. Second one from the right. 

He grabs it, raises it to his ear. About to give whoever is on the other end a piece of his mind.

“Dean!” he is immediately interrupted. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you there?”

It’s like someone snapping their finger and bringing Dean out of his trance. He’s wide awake immediately. 

“Merle,” he says, “talk to me.” 

The old man sounds out of breath. Panting, actually, panicked, and Dean’s never, ever heard him like this.

“It got the girl,” Merle says, and Dean narrows his eyes. “It got her, I just fucking barely made it out. We’re at the Denver steel mill, it’s fuckin’--fuck, that thing is fast, fuckin’-”

“Merle,” Dean interrupts him. “Concentrate. What is it?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Merle replies, half shout, half whine. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen, I’ve never seen–”

That’s the last thing Dean hears, apart from a sudden screech that is so loud he needs to hold the phone away from his ear. Clattering, a scream. And then silence.

He sleeps in his jeans, so he doesn’t need to waste time putting them on, throws on his jacket, grabs the emergency pack of weapons and first aid material he keeps near the front door, and then he’s in the car.

He knows the steel mill. It’s an hour away, so if whatever got Merle is the kind that kills immediately, he’s a goner. However, there’s enough freaks that like keeping their prey alive. Like playing with it, marinating in it. Taking small bites and nibbles.

The lights of the Impala illuminate the road ahead. Dean chews on his tongue, laser-focused. 

He makes it to the steel mill just as dawn breaks. The world slowly waking. He parks, arms himself to the teeth - silver bullets and knives, in case Merle is at least half right. A machete. A few other things, carefully selected to cover a wide array of possibilities. 

The air is cold and burns his nostrils. He sneaks around the outside, listens, watches. No signs of anything, so he enters the main building, half collapsed.

He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldn’t quite stink this bad yet. Needs to crane his neck to look up, taking a step back so none of the blood dripping from the old hunter’s torn out guts drops on him.

“Goddamn it, Merle,” he mutters. Merle doesn’t reply. His eyes remain ripped open. He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.

Dean’s gonna have to come back, figure out how the fuck to get him down from there, and give him a hunter’s funeral. But right now, there is a monster to find. Another body to locate.

He walks outside again after searching the part of the mill that’s still accessible. He really hopes whatever this thing is that it didn’t drag you to some deep, hidden part of it. Worse chances of getting a good angle, or the element of surprise. Harder to drag a body out of there.

He’s rounding a small outbuilding when he sees something in the grass. Draws his gun. He undoes the safety. Ready to put one right between the thing’s eyes.

He sees your shoes first, and lowers the gun, just a little. Sighs. Good that you’re out here, where he can get to you. Maybe he can build the pyre right there, drop Merle on it too once he’s killed the thing that killed you two. Plus who knows what information he can glean from the wounds on you, the way you died. 

He also remembers the young part. Fuck. Another one gone.

He walks closer, gun still in his hand, mind still sharp to his surroundings. No birds singing, he notices, despite the early morning. Whatever is roaming this place must be bad. 

He kneels down next to you, surveys your body. You’re young alright, and Dean understands where Merle got the sweet part from too. Pretty, even. Slashed all over, and chest not moving, Dean notices, when his eyes rest there. Shouldn’t think that way about dead bodies, but he considers it paying respect to you. If he died, again, he would want someone to think he was hot, too.

The sudden breath you take has even a seasoned hunter like Dean flinch, grab his gun a little tighter. Death rattle, maybe, except it’s way too much for that, there’s movement behind your eyelids, and a twitch in your right hand.

You’re alive. Barely.

Split-second decision. The monster can wait. If there’s a chance you can make it out of this, he needs to take it, despite how low he actually thinks that chance is, what with all those big gashes over you, the amount of blood coming out of you. He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans, gets his arms under your knees and shoulders. Lifts you, one boot on the ground, then the other. Carries you towards the car. 

Don’t die, he thinks, as he drives the Impala back onto the road, the wound on your stomach haphazardly bandaged, trying to avoid the potholes so your innards don’t get jangled around too much.

Don’t die.

He carries you upstairs to the bedroom. He doesn’t use it, and he’d rather have you bleeding out there on the bed than on the couch downstairs. 

The first thing he does is press one of the silver knives to your palm. No sizzling, no screaming. He lays it on the bedside table, surveys you. It’d be damn helpful if he knew to trust Merle’s assessment of whatever the two of you were hunting out there. He sighs, then gets the silver cuffs. One around your wrist, one around the bedframe. Just in case. Then he starts patching you up.

He cleans the wounds, assesses the damage. The one on your jaw is gonna leave a scar, despite how careful he is with it, and he hopes you’re not vain. He needs to cut open your jeans where they’re tight over your legs to get at another one. Exhales through his nose as he does. 

The one on your stomach is mean. Could really use some angel mojo, but all the angels he knows are dead. Maybe stitches. He sighs again, stands to wash his hands in the bathroom opposite the bedroom. He’s had one knee on the bed, and the frame creaks under him.

Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. He’s not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he can’t explain it any other way. 

You shoot up, and immediately slash at him. Dean has no choice but to throw himself backwards. His hip meets the dresser, the mirror standing on top of it rattling in its frame, and he cusses at the pain. He blinks once, and then you’re on your knees, unable to get off the bed with your wrist still in the cuffs. You’re holding the knife out towards him, teeth bared.

“Who the fuck are you?” you nearly scream. “What the fuck are you doing to me!?” He sees you tug your wrist inward, but the metal holds. He raises his hands, showing he’s unarmed, although his gun is nearby and you’re basically dead on your feet. Not like it’d be much of a fight. 

“Woah, calm down,” he says. Your hand with the knife is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or pain, Dean’s not sure. “I’m trying to stitch you up, okay?”

You keep staring at him, eyes wide. There’s sweat on your face, in your hair, on your chest, and you tug at the cuffs again. Dean indicates in that direction without lowering his hands.

“Something got you, okay?” he explains, voice low and clear. “Just a safety precaution while I figure out what it is and take care of your wounds.” And let you bleed all over my goddamn bedsheets, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

You sway, and Dean wonders for a moment if you’ll pass out. Lids going low, but you shake your head, bring yourself back. Tough, he’s got to give you that. 

“What–” you say, your voice sounding weaker. Your hand with the knife in it briefly drops, before you raise it again. Dean sees you wince.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he says, looking intently at you. Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dude’s bed, covered in blood, in a place you’ve never been. He works his jaw. Maybe he could have done better there. “I’m a friend of Merle’s, maybe he mentioned me. I’m trying to help you, okay?”

He sees you swallow, the blood there that made your skin look wet and violent only a while ago now dried and flaking. He should have washed it off you, but it just wasn’t his top priority. 

“Merle,” you say, slurring a little, “where is he?”

Dean makes a split-second decision. What will make you feel more safe? Knowing Merle got ganked, or… See, he knows he’s safe to be around, but you don’t. He raises his chin.

“He’s out there hunting that thing down,” he says, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face. “He’ll be back soon. But someone needed to take care of your wounds.”

You keep looking at him. Your eyes look wild and fierce in contrast with the blood. You’re still shaking, but it seems more controlled now. 

“He says he wants that leopard-werewolf-hybrid’s head as a trophy,” Dean continues, now giving a one-sided grin. “I guess you know him well enough to understand why I didn’t try to stop him.” 

And that seems to do the trick. You unclench your jaw, slacken your hold on the knife, but don’t drop it. Blink a few times. Dean indicates for you to stay calm with his hands, then reaches one towards the bedside table. You tense, but when you see he’s going for a small key, you calm down again. He takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it out for you to see, then tosses it your way. It lands on the bedding, somewhere close to your knee. 

You keep the knife trained on him a second longer, then drop it, reach for the key, quickly, uncoordinated. Dean exhales slowly, lowers his hands, has half a mind to disarm you anyway, just for the sheer fucking annoyance and stress. But he doesn’t. Your fingers fumble with the key and the cuffs, and you drop it once before managing to open them. You pick the knife up again immediately, but don’t threaten him again. Instead, you crawl back on the bed, off the other side.

You straighten, and then immediately fold in half.

The way you cry out rattles Dean, the suddenness and pure fucking pain of it, and then he’s rushing around the bed. He’s not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife you’re still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.

Your eyes are squeezed shut and you’re breathing hard. He sees the way you’re holding your arm over the big gash on your stomach, not actually touching it, and that’s probably a good thing. You take two sharp breaths through your nose before you force your eyes open.

You turn your head and look up at him. Dean looks into your eyes, then gives a small nod. You nod back, so he brings his arm around your back and helps you turn around.

You sink down on the bed slowly, still sucking in air. Your ass meets the mattress and Dean keeps his hands up in case you topple before finally taking a step back. You’re grasping the edge of the mattress, skin taut over knuckles, knife still clasped. Dean drops his hand, fingertips brushing against something wet on his jeans. He looks down. Great, you bled on him some more. He sighs. Looks at you again, the way you’re staring down at the floor, still trying to control the pain.

“Listen,” he says after a second, and squats down so he can catch your gaze. You look at him, briefly, then look away again. “I know this is fucked. But I really am trying to help you.” He sees your jaw move.

“I’m fine,” you say, and Dean sighs again.

“You look like you did a stage show with the worst magician in the world,” he replies. When you look up and frown at him, he raises his eyebrows. “When they saw their assistant in half? Anyway–” He changes how he squats, taking some weight off his bad knee. 

“You can keep the knife,” he says, and you turn your head, look at where you’re still holding it. “But I gotta patch up that wound on your stomach–” 

“When’s Merle getting back?” you interrupt him. Dean swallows. Fuck, he thought he had more time to leave the lie. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. If you freak out now and run, your chances aren’t looking so great. If he can get the wound cleaned and stitched and then you run off, that might make the difference between life and death.

“I’m sure he’ll be a while,” he says, “still haven’t figured out what that thing is. You can call him once I’ve patched you up.” Your hands tense again, but you nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. Both of you don’t speak for a moment. Your lids are low. Not a great sign.

“Alright,” he says, then nods at the bed. “Lemme see to that wound now.”

He’s sure you won’t let him, but then you move. Lean back, raise your legs, but drop them again with a whimper. Dean stands, takes a step closer, and you give him a defiant stare. He tilts his head to the side. Come on, he means for it to say. Stop with the tough guy act. 

You groan, which could be a reply to the pain or to him, but allow Dean to help you lift your legs back onto the bed. Your boots are heavy, stained, and he’s gonna have to change the bedding at some point if you stick around.

Stick around. He doesn’t know where he got that from.

You lie back, head meeting the pillow, let out a breath when you can finally relax your muscles. Dean straightens, walks around the bed. Grabs the supplies he has, lays them on the bedside table on the other side. He looks down at you, hands on his hips.

“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” he says, eyebrows high, eyes narrowed. “Don’t fucking run, okay?” You look up at him, and rather than nod, you just look away. Dean sighs again. It’ll have to do.

He rolls up his sleeves as he walks towards the door. Leaves it open, crosses the tiny landing into the bathroom with the tub with the curtain in front of it that has seen better days. He pumps his hands full of soap, washes them, up to the wrists. The water is loud and sputters, but he keeps his ears open. Wonders if he’ll hear you clomping down the stairs, all to get away from him. But he doesn’t. Maybe you’re sneaking instead.

But no, you’re still there when he comes back. He’s almost surprised, but he doesn’t let that show. He sits down next to you on the bed, doesn’t miss how you try to scoot further away from him, but only flinch at the movement. Seems you’re finally understanding that you’re out of commission.

“Lift your shirt,” he says while he busies himself with threading the needle. When he looks at your face again, you’re looking at him like he’s insane. Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

You pinch your lips together, and Dean wonders if you’ve actually managed to be offended at him asking you to lift your shirt and at the same time insulted at him not wanting to grope you, but then your hands go there, lift. Fingers brush over the shitty bandage he applied there earlier, when you were out, and he doesn’t miss your blinking, the way you swallow. More dried blood flaking off your neck. He really should get you something you can wash yourself with.

“This is gonna suck,” he says, reaching for the saline. Used to be he’d do this with whiskey, he and Sam holed up in some shitty motel room, but he’s well equipped here. Has to be. If the service goes out and he falls on his head, he can’t afford mistakes. Sammy’s not here to scoop him up and pour liquor down his throat. Still, he feels almost nostalgic for the sting of it. The new pain that lays over the initial one like a scratchy blanket.

“‘S fine,” you mutter, and your gaze moves to the ceiling, focused on it. Dean sees you ball your hands into fists. Maybe not your first rodeo.

He tries to be careful, but cleaning an open wound is not an enjoyable experience, and he has no illusions about making it one.

You manage to stay quiet for the most part, although he sees the way your eyelids flutter, blinking away tears. The tension in your body, the way you stop yourself from trying to get away from the pain. The chopped breathing. He would be cussing and cursing, but you seem intent on not even letting that effect show on you.

When he’s done with the cleaning, he picks up the needle. He finds he feels bad about the pain he’s about to inflict. He clears his throat, looks down at his hands. Then he raises them, the side of his palm skating the skin of your stomach.

“You been hunting for long?” he says, pierces your skin on long. You suck in a hard breath, and your eyes go glassy. Dean clenches his jaw. He knows he’s doing this to help you, but in a case like this the brain can’t differentiate between fixing and inflicting. And boy, does he know something about inflicting. Fuck, he used to be better at this. He really has gotten soft.

You don’t answer, so Dean pierces skin again. A soft whimper comes from you, and a tear runs out of your eye, down the side of your face. Dean notices his chest feeling tight. 

“Don’t think I’ve heard your name around, and–”

“Dude,” you interrupt him, voice chopped but loud. “I don’t wanna talk right now, okay?” 

Dean’s hands still as he looks at your face again. Kinda bitchy for someone whose guts he’s basically just been in. He smacks his lips, looks at the wound again, narrows his eyes to focus.

“Suit yourself,” he says, pierces skin once more. You tense again. He keeps going.

The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time he’s finished, but then that’s what winter feels like out here. He sighs, drops his hands. The stitches aren’t pretty, but then this line of work isn’t exactly a beauty contest. That’s what the bandages that go over it are for.

“I’ll get you something to clean up,” he says as he stands, looks at your face for the first time in a while. You seem far away, lips slightly parted, but you blink when he addresses you, dislodging another tear. You sniff, raise your arm, unclenching your fist for the first time to wipe at it.

“Yeah, thanks,” you say, voice cracking. Dean walks into the bathroom, washes his hands, happy to be out of that vulnerable moment. Give you a moment to collect yourself. He grabs some smaller towels, then puts a bigger one out in case you want to shower, even though he knows you probably won’t be in any condition to do that by yourself, and that’s a future problem he really doesn’t want to think about right now.

He walks downstairs, gets a bowl, fills it with warm water. Grabs a bottle of whiskey for good measure, then walks back upstairs, towels under his arm. He walks in, then remembers he maybe should have knocked, but it’s too late for that now.

You’ve managed to scoot up the bed, head resting a little higher, and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort of it. You could have waited for him, have him help you, but Dean’s starting to realize that’s not your style. He puts the stuff on the bedside table, then goes to the dresser.

“You got your stuff anywhere?” he asks, back to you. “Motel, or…”

“Sundown Motel, yeah,” you say, voice sounding clearer. Dean nods, drags out a shirt of his. You’ll be drowning in his clothes, but your things are ruined, ripped and bloodied, so it’s not like there’s another option.

“I can get them tomorrow,” he says, laying the shirt on top of the dresser. He turns, walks around the bed again. He wants to sit, but sitting on the bed feels like intruding on your space, so when he grabs the whiskey bottle and opens it, he does it standing.

“Is that to clean the wound?” you ask, nodding at the bottle. Dean chuckles, the sound surprising him, then shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “for internal application.” He takes a long swig, the burn feeling like it chases something from his brain. Then he holds the bottle out to you. You raise your eyebrows.

“Alcohol’s a blood thinner, you know?” you ask, and Dean has to work hard not to roll his eyes. He sways the bottle back and forth.

“You don’t want it?” he asks. You look at the bottle, then reach your arm out - carefully, so Dean leans forward, hands it to you. You raise it, take a swig too, making only a bit of a grimace when the liquor hits your tongue. You hold the bottle out to Dean again, and he takes it.

“So,” he says. “What was that thing you were hunting?”

Your face is still tensed from the drink, but it slackens at the question. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think you look afraid.

“I’m not sure,” you say, shifting a little. “It was… fast. I know that. Didn’t get a good look, even while it was slicing me up.” Dean frowns, steps from one foot to the other. As if you’re reading his mind, you nod at the foot of the bed. He nods back, then sits, as far away from you as he can before handing the bottle back to you.

“Silver didn’t work?” he asks. You scoff, shake your head.

“Didn’t get a chance to try,” you say. Dean nods, watches as you drink again.

“Did it try to bite you?” he asks. What he means is: did it bite you? He didn’t see any toothmarks, but then with how much blood there was on you, those are easy to miss. You shake your head, hand the bottle back to him.

“No,” you answer. “I don’t think it was out to feed. I think it was just trying to get rid of us. I think it…” You stop, look down at your bloodied jeans. Dean tilts his head to the side.

“It what?” he asks. He sees you chew at your lip, gaze pinned, like you’re replaying something in your head.

“It… played with us, I think,” you say. 

Dean feels that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The one that’s been put there by a lifetime of hunting the things that go bump in the night, and doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere even though he’s not out in the field anymore.

“Tell me,” he says. You look at him, and there’s fear on your face. It makes you look younger, or maybe just as young as you actually are, less bluster. You raise your shoulders, steel yourself.

“When we got to the steel mill,” you start, “there was this… stench. I mean, unlike anything I’ve ever smelled. Rot and decay. Something… dead, but like, times a million. And it…”

You swallow, so Dean hands the bottle back to you. You hold it by the neck, but don’t drink. Rest it on your leg.

“The stench would go away, and then come back, go away again,” you say. You press your lips together, then focus on Dean. “Like it was circling us. Toying with us.” Dean raises his chin, looks at the wall over your head. While you drink again, he thinks about what the hell this thing could be. 

“No birds,” he mutters. Whatever was roaming that place was bad. 

He expects you to ask him to elaborate, and when you don’t, he lowers his gaze again, looks at you. You look less terrified, more sad. He shifts, which seems to break you out of it. You blink, then put the bottle on the bedside table, but don’t look at him.

“Merle’s not coming back, is he?” you ask, voice low.

Dean’s entire body tenses. It’s the feeling of being caught in a lie, the embarrassment of it. The anger at himself. He doesn’t know enough about your and Merle’s relationship to know if there is something there that tipped you off, or if it was his lie. He needs to swallow before he can speak.

“No, he’s not,” he says. You nod slowly.

“Is he dead?” you ask. Dean grinds his teeth. Goddamn it.

“He is,” he answers. “At the mill. That thing got him.” Strung him up like a Christmas ornament, he wants to add, because part of him is looking for comfort in sharing the horror he witnessed. But he knows you don’t need that information.

He sees your face crumple, scrunch up, maybe to force back tears. You turn to the side, hands shaking in grief, or pain, at the movement, he’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re moving away from him, hiding your face against the pillow. Fuck. He messed this up royally.

For a few moments, he’s unsure about what to do. Should he comfort you? What the fuck is he gonna say? If you and Merle were close, which he didn’t assume, cause Merle made it sound like he just met you, but if you were, this was the worst possible way for you to get the news. He raises his hand, runs it over the lower part of his face. Looks around. Your shoulders aren’t shaking, but you’re not turning back to him. So he slowly stands.

“You should get some rest,” he says, trying to stop his voice from dropping into fake joviality to make up for the tension he’s feeling. He nods at the bedside table even though you can’t see it. “Get yourself cleaned up, and… and get some sleep.” He takes a step backwards, towards the door. Feels like he can’t leave it at that, pity or shame or a weird cocktail of the two warring in him.

“I’m gonna leave the knife,” he says. “And I’m… I’m gonna put my car keys on the small table near the front door. They’re for the blue truck, not the Chevy. If you want to leave.” He clenches his jaw again. You’d have to sneak past him on the couch downstairs, maybe terrified he’d wake and stop you. 

“Just,” he says when he reaches the door, “just leave my car somewhere I can find it, okay? And don’t scratch it. I really mean it. Don't scratch it.”

You still don’t react. Dean lets his head drop forward, shakes it. Then he walks out.

He sighs as he walks down the stairs, needing to duck his head at the bottom so he doesn’t smash it against the part where the ceiling is too low - something that happened to him a lot when he first moved in all these years ago. When he reaches the bottom, he cusses under his breath. He left the whiskey upstairs.

He opens a second bottle - no skin off his back. Pours it into a glass, cause he thinks the line between drinking from the bottle and not drinking from the bottle, extenuating circumstances like he just had upstairs notwithstanding, is the line that lets him keep his sanity in this life. He wonders if you’re able to go to sleep, what with the trauma just inflicted on you and the wound. Should he have helped you wash? Get changed? Probably, but also, would that have freaked you out worse?

He realizes he’s standing in the middle of the room, rolling the glass in his hand. He sniffs, shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking. He downs the glass, then fills it again. Takes the truck keys from where they are on the table.

Dumb idea to offer the truck to you, though better than offering Baby. Maybe he should have offered to sleep in the car, so you could have the cabin to yourself? But there’s no way for you to get away from this place. He imagines it, you in your ripped clothes, bloodied, panting, running, or limping, more likely, out into the dark, away from him, right into the arms of God knows who. 

He sniffs again, walks to the table next to the door and puts the keys down. No, it was the right thing to do. If you do come downstairs, he’ll wake from it anyway - small chance he’ll catch any sleep. He can offer to drive you somewhere.

Dean plops down on the couch, rolls his shoulders. There’s some of your blood on his clothes, and he should probably change, but all his clothes are upstairs in the dresser, and he’s not about to walk in there again. Fuck it. He’s slept in worse. 

He drains the glass again, puts it on the floor before stretching out on the couch. Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows can’t be good for his back, but at the same time, it feels like he fits somewhere. More nostalgic than he likes to be, but it is what it is. 

He closes his eyes. If you’re still there in the morning, he’ll drive you to your motel. You can make your way from there, if you’re up for it, and then he can go back to burn poor old Merle, and then life can go back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for him.

Sleep comes quickly, and that, in itself, is surprising.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Heated

✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦ ✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦ ✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦ ✦wc: 10k✦ ✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦

This room is going to suffocate you.

Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.

But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.

Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.

Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I Could Have You

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, oral both receiving), light angst, soulmates, sex pollen, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Dean is hit with a lust spell, and it doesn't seem to only be effecting him. No one's really sure why, and Dean refuses to give in to the curse, so you'll just ride this out.

You'll defiantly be able to just ride this out.

Author's Note: I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you enjoy it!

Title from Normal Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 6k

You’re losing your mind.

Your skin is on fire, your back is flat on the cold bathroom floor, and you’re moaning and whining and bucking into the air but nothing is fixing this. Nothing is relieving you, not your fingers or the pillows or the toy a very red-faced Sam had bought you. Nothing is going to save you, because only one, stupid, handsome, selfless idiot can, and he’s suddenly too good to just fuck you.

Hell, that idiot is the only reason this is happening. According to Sam and Bobby, Dean got hit with a sex spell in Colorado, you started whimpering for him in South Dakota, and you’re not allowed to have sex with him for… reasons.

Reasons no one seems willing to fully share with you, but reasons.

You know Dean wants you. You’ve known he wants you. Neither of you have ever been able to do something about that—never going beyond flirting and lingering touches and stares—but you’re certain he feels the same way. Maybe not the exact same way, because you want whatever Dean offers you, his body or mind or heart or very soul, but you know he’s attracted to you. And if the countless little pieces of evidence you’ve hoarded in your brain—winks and smirks and long, apperceive scans of your body—weren’t enough for you to know, this was. You’d heard Dean roar your name from outside Bobby’s cabin as the Impala door slammed. You’d seen the feral, lust-blown expression on his face as he’d charged at you. Sam had tackled him to the ground as you’d grown a little dizzy with need, and Bobby grabbed your wrist, dragging you upstairs. Away from Dean, from the cure, from his big hands and soft mouth and huge-

“You’re gonna need to stay in here.” Bobby had muttered, refusing to meet your eyes as he shuffled out of the room. “Least until we get Dean’s head right, or figure out what the hell is going on.”

It’s been almost a day, and they’ve made almost no progress. From Sam’s last update, all they’re certain of is: Sex spell, you and Dean, no other options except you and Dean.

“What do you mean no other options,” you’d said, leaning up to frown at Sam. “Did Dean-“

“No.” Sam shakes his head, giving you a sheepish expression. “I mean, Bobby and I suggested it, but he said no.”

“Oh,” you’d mumbled, falling back down on the mattress. “Why?”

Sam had shrugged, leaning into your line of vision. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“No, Sam, what the fuck-“

“That’s why.”

He’d stood up and left, and you hadn’t had a clue what the hell he was talking about. Sure, you didn’t want to have sex with him, but he was like a brother to you. Dean, somehow, wasn’t. Dean was Dean. And it wasn’t like you’d say no to a random, no-strings attached hookup right now-

Something had tugged in your gut, and you’d realized—staggering to the toilet and vomiting up your lunch—that you could not do a random hookup. You wanted Dean. You needed him. You might die if you didn’t get him, and it had to be him, and he must feel it too, but when you’d asked Sam he said no.

“No?!” You’d rolled over on the floor to glare up at him, wishing you could find the strength to surge up and punch him in his stupid, apologetic face. “What do you mean No?!”

“Dean, um,” Sam had sighed again, and if he kept doing that you were going to kick him in the balls. “He made us lock him in the safe room. He won’t come out until we cure him.”

“Why did he-“ You’d cut yourself off as it hit you, another, softer wave of sickness rolling over your body. The sickness lived in your heart. This sickness was made of the tragic reality that Dean might want you, but he didn’t want you. Maybe that was why he’d never made a move. Maybe he was attracted to you physically, but couldn’t see you like that, and didn’t really want to try to.

Maybe Dean was disgusted by the idea. Maybe he hated that his body found you hot, because he thinks of you like you think of Sam.

“Oh,” you’d rolled back onto your stomach, and prayed Sam would leave soon so you could go back to humping the floor. “Okay.”

Sam had said your name, waiting until you hummed an acknowledgment to continue. “We’re going to fix this-“

“I know.” You’d let out a long, slow breath, curling into your own body. “We always do.”

They would fix this. And then you’d have to look Dean in the eyes, and find a way to be okay with his rejection. Teach yourself how to not turn into a pining dumbass, chasing after someone who obviously didn’t want you. You wouldn’t lose him, he was your best friend, but you’d also have to learn to pretend it didn’t feel like your heart hadn’t just been ripped out of your chest and stomped on.

And now you’re here. Hoping Sam and Bobby will fix this soon, crawling into the empty bathtub to try and sleep. The bed is too warm, too intimate, to inviting of fantasies that will never be reality. Daydreams of Dean’s hands on you, trailing over your skin and setting of little sparks as he maps your body. Those same hands pushing open your thighs, two of his fingers teasing over your pussy, his mouth wrapping around your nipple as he started pumping and scissoring and crooking inside you-

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and you yank your own fingers out of your cunt, wiping them on the towel as you speak, your voice far too hoarse. “Yeah, Sam?”

“Not Sam.” Bobby grumbles, his voice slightly muffled through the door. “You decent?”

You toss a towel over your body, having long abandoned clothing. “Yep, is everything-“

You cut yourself off as Bobby pushes the door open, his face angled up to avoid you.

“I said I’m decent, Bobby, you can look.”

He grunts, and you sit up a little straighter, making your voice a little firmer.

“It’s weirder if you don’t, you know.”

Bobby nods, his gaze slowly dropping to yours as he sits on the toilet, bracing his arms on his knees. “Sorry.” He mutters. “Ain’t tryin’ to make it uncomfortable. Just not lookin’ to see one of my, uh-“

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your head back on the tile. “I get it. Must be weird seeing Dean as well.”

“Eh.” Bobby shrugs. “I’ve walked in on him with lady company before, this ain’t new-“

“But it’s new with me?” You ask, raising your brows, and Bobby glares at you.

“I didn’t help raise you girl. And you’re just as important to me as those boys, but you’re also a girl. I mean, not a girl, but I don’t got those parts-“

“Jesus, Bobby.” You mumble, bringing your knees up to your chest. “I’m teasing. I know what you mean, I promise, just,” you swallow, shaking your head slightly. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

Bobby rolls his eyes, but his voice becomes a little softer, and far less panicked. “That ain’t nice, kid, you’re gonna give an old man a heart attack.”

“You’d be fine. I know CPR.”

He gives you a flat look. “We both know you ain’t in any condition to give me CPR.”

You wave him off. “I’d call Sam.”

“He wouldn’t hear you, he’s down in the panic room with-“

Bobby cuts himself off, and you roll your head to the side, giving him a bored glare.

“You can say his name, Bobby.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Sam’s down checkin’ on Dean. He,” Bobby frowns at the air. “He still ain’t listenin’ to reason.”

You hum, hoping Bobby doesn’t notice how you’ve moved the towel between your thighs, just for something. “Reason?”

“We don’t have anythin’ to cure this except, uh, that way.” Bobby mutters. “And he’s still insistin’ we keep him chained up.”

“Ah.” You swallow. “Awesome.”

Bobby says your name, and it’s gentle. Like he’s consulting a child who’s had a nightmare, instead of a grown woman who was just finger-fucking herself in a tub. “You don’t gotta pretend this ain’t hurtin’ you.”

“I mean, it doesn’t feel good-“

“Not the spell.” Bobby says, and you frown at him.

“What-“

“Dean. He’s bein’ a fuckin’ dumbass, and you don’t need to act like he’s not.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “He’s not what?”

“Killin’ you.” Bobby grunts, scanning over your face. “Rippin’ your heart out and take a big fat shit on it.”

You grimace. “That’s gross, Bobby-“

“Truth ain’t always sunshine and glitter-“

“It’s not the truth!” You snap, your voice suddenly harsh as something wilts and twists in his your chest. “I’m fine! I get it! Dean doesn’t want to do that, and that’s not his fault.”

Bobby leans back on the toilet, holding your glare with his own. “Why do you think you and Dean are the only idjits gettin’ hit by this? Why isn’t Sam humpin’ pillows and leavin’ stains on my walls?”

You feel a rush of heat from that thought—the image of Dean fucking into his hand flashing through your mind and leaving a mark between your thighs—and your voice is almost a squeak. “Because Dean’s the one that got hit?”

“Sam says he was in the line of that bitch’s fire too. But only Dean got,” Bobby makes a vague gesture over you. “This.”

“I don’t-“

“And Sam ain’t in love with his fuckin’ brother, so he was safe.”

You flush, gaping at Bobby for a long, wired silence, and when you speak your voice is a squeak.

“I- I’m, I’m not in love with Dean. I mean, maybe I have a crush, or something, but that’s, that’s not love-“

Bobby gives you a flat, disbelieving look. “You feel safer ‘round him?”

“Yeah, but I-“

“You laugh at all his jokes?”

“Maybe, but he can be funny-“

Bobby mutters your name, shaking his head. “I love that boy like a son, and he ain’t half as funny as he thinks he is.”

You frown. “He’s funny-“

“He can be,” Bobby shrugs. “But his jokes ain’t all winners. And you laugh at every single oneof ‘em. And,” he sighs, rubbing his beard. “He laughs at all’a your jokes.”

“Hey.” You scowl. “I’m a riot-“

“Didn’t say you weren’t. But even you can miss, girl. And he never seems to care.”

“So?” You shuffle on the floor, desperate not to starting grinding on the air in front of Bobby, but getting more and more wet from just the mention of Dean. “We’re friends, friends laugh at each other’s jokes-“

“Do friends get connected by sex spells ‘cross state lines?”

“I dunno,” you mumble. “Never been hit by a sex spell before.”

“You weren’t hit by one,” Bobby snaps your name, starting to sound exasperated. “Dean was. And that’s my damn point. Sam and I, we,” he sighs, giving you a long, confusing look. “We got it. We know what’s goin’ on.”

“Fuck,” you sit up, glowering at him. “Why didn’t you lead with that-“

“Cause you ain’t gonna like it.” Bobby grunts. “It’s an old location spell. Back in the day rich assholes would cast it on their highest eldest sons, so he could find his,” Bobby cringes, his last word pushed through his teeth. “Mate.”

“Mate?” You repeat, letting out a dry, huffing laugh. “What are we, fucking dogs-“

“Soulmate.” Bobby mutters, giving you a look that might have been sympathetic, or kind, or pitiful, but you’re suddenly a little dizzy and can’t really think or see.

“That’s not,” you shake your head. “No, Bobby, soulmates aren’t real-“

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “You should know better than to say somethin’ like that in our line of work. Sam called Cas, and he said they’re real, but population increases or somethin’ made them ‘logistically impossible’, so they aren’t on the shop line no more.”

“But- But wouldn’t we have like, I don’t know, noticed? If that was true?”

“You shoulda.” Bobby shrugs. “Cas seemed pretty shocked you hadn’t. Said he had assumed you knew, because the pull is like a magnet or some shit. Spell’s only an enhancer, to move the train along.”

“So why-“

“You hopped in right after Dean got back from hell.” Bobby mutters. “Dean’s soul mighta been fucked enough not to recognize you. Spell mighta jumpstarted it.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

It’s a few minutes before you speak again, and Bobby waits patiently as you spiral. Down, down, down in your head, trying to rationalize how this could possibly be true. It couldn’t be true. There was no way it was true. Sure, you’ve liked Dean since you first met him, from the moment he introduced himself with a cocky grin, smirk, and fake name. You liked him even more when you called him out on his fake name, and he’d just chuckled, figured out you were a hunter, and offered to buy you a drink. You’d liked him when that drink had turned into a long, sleepless night of only conversation, and when you’d joined him and Sam on the road. And you’d kept thinking of him like that, and you thought of him all the time, but that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t love him. It’s not like you feel better when you wake up in a motel bed and he’s next to you, or a smile always tugs at your lips whenever he so much as looks at you, or the thought of him being in alone or pain makes you physically ill. It’s not like, if he grabbed your hand and told you he was done with hunting—the only life you’d ever both known—then asked you to join him in a boring, easy apple pie life you’d immediately say yes and kiss him, because you’ll go wherever he goes and he’s the only person you’ve ever really-

Oh.

You might be in love with Dean.

You might be soulmates with Dean.

“What, um,” you swallow, watching Bobby carefully. “What did Dean think? Of this?”

“We have told him yet.” Bobby’s jaw ticks, holding your gaze. “We ain’t sure he’ll-“

“Yeah.” You whisper, turning your attention back to the ceiling. There’s a little crack on it. Jagged and split through the white paint, easy to stare at and get lost in. Helpful in pretending this doesn’t hurt like a bitch. “Okay.”

Bobby mutters a promise of at least trying to talk some sense into Dean, but you both know his words are empty. Because Dean won’t believe this. It won’t be a matter of you and Dean, it will just be Dean, believing something like a soulmate could never happen to someone like him. He’ll insist they’re lying, or Cas is wrong, or all of this fucking bullshit.

“You ever wondered about aliens?” He’d asked you once, leaning against the Impala as you lay on the hood, watching him from an upside-down angle.

“Just like, in general?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess,” you’d tilted your head at him. “Why?”

“I dunno, just curious.” There had been another moment of silence, then, “You think they’re real?”

“They have to be right?” You’d reached over your head, grabbing his chin and tilting it up, until he was staring at the night sky. “I mean, look at that, De. It’s huge.”

He’d chuckled, swatting your hand away. “Where have I heard that before-“

“Eat me, Winchester.” You’d rolled your eyes, and his shit-eating grin had grown. “No. Shut it.”

He’d raised his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say a thing.”

“Uh huh.” You’d let your own attention trail up, over the vast darkness above you, splattered in infinite stars that you think—if you really tried—you’d be able to grab and hold in your hands. Maybe offer one to Dean. He’d deserve it.

You were silent for a while longer, you watching the sky, Dean waiting for you to come back to earth, and when he’d spoken again his voice was soft.

“You think you’d want to go? If they were?”

You’d looked back to him with a frown, and found him already looking at you. “What, aliens?”

He’d nodded, and you’d furrowed your brow in thought.

“Maybe. I’ve never thought about it before. I kind of like Earth.” You’d rolled onto your stomach, swinging your legs around to rest in Baby’s open window as you looked down at Dean. “What about you?”

“Nah,” he’d held your gaze, pulling himself up to sit at your side. “Not now.”

“Not now?”

“I would’ve when I was younger, if I coulda taken Sammy with me.” Dean had let out a dry chuckle. “But I’m not that lucky.”

He wasn’t that lucky. Dean didn’t get to be abducted by aliens, because he wasn’t lucky. Because saviors and little lights to guide you forward don’t just drop out of the sky.

But you didn’t drop out of the sky. You’d been on the ground, and tangible, and very, very real.

You feel real, to yourself. You didn’t feel like a possibility, or a myth, or a lie.

And you might love Dean.

And you know that, the longer you don’t get to at least see him, touch him, breathe him, the more you go mad. The harder it becomes to speak to Sam and Bobby when they check on you, the less you allow them to even say the word Dean, because it makes you writhe and moan and everyone just gets very uncomfortable.

So if Dean’s too much of a righteous, noble, self-loathing buttface to do something about this, you will.

You wait until the house is dark and quiet. Until you hear Bobby mutter a goodnight through the door—about an hour ago you’d started whining every other breath and fucking the edge of the bathtub, so Bobby wasn’t coming into the room anymore—and Sam walks in backwards to make sure you’re not dead and have enough food and water. Like you’re a caged animal.

You do feel a little like one. You feel like someone’s sucked everything rational and careful out of your brain and replaced it with Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, you need him or you’ll die. He needs to need you, or something worse than death will happen.

And you’re willing to risk that, that small possibility of Dean looking at you—bare and wet and pleading for him—and still turning you away, because at least you’ll see him.

You need to at least see him.

It’s shocking easy to sneak around the house. For two seasoned, well-respected hunters, neither Sam nor Bobby seem to wake up as you crawl down to Dean, despite the floorboard creaking under you movements and the downright pathetic whimpers that keep escaping your mouth. It takes all your focus to grab the key to Bobby’s panic room, unlock the door, and push it open.

It’s dark. Pitch black. But you know Dean’s in here, because every nerve is trying to fly off your body and into the shadows. To Dean.

“What the hell are you doing,” Dean groans your name from the back of the room, and you feel molten. “You can’t be here-“

“It’s not your panic room, Dean.” You mumble, pushing yourself up on the wall and fiddling around for the light switch. “I can be wherever I want-“

“Not here.” Dean snaps. “Go.”

You shake your head, and the lights blind you as you flip them on. It takes a moment to adjust—blinking and hugging your body in a desperate play to not leap across the room to Dean the moment you see him—and when you do a high whine escapes your mouth.

Dean looks as feral as you feel. He’s just as naked as you are, just as drenched in sweat and flushed, and—if the proud, massive cock between his legs, standing at full attention and twitching as he scans over you, is any sign—just as aroused.

“Dean.” You whisper. “Please.”

“You need to leave.” He grunts, his fists clenched at his sides. “Now.”

“I don’t want to go-“

“Yes, you do.”

You frown. “You don’t get to tell me what I want, Dean. I want to stay-“

“No,” he hisses, and you might come just from him looking at you like that. Primal and wanting, with a gleam in his eyes that feels like a promise. “You don’t know what you want-“

That gets you to scoff. “Fuck off, asshole-“

“See!” He makes a dramatic gesture, then flinches back from himself. “I, I can’t let you do this. You don’t want me,” Dean mutters your name, running a hand over his face. “The spell wants me. Doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, the spell does want you, you idiot!” You take an unsteady step forward, and he steps back. “Because I want you!”

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do! I need you, Dean, and I think you need me-“

“Doesn’t matter what I need.” He grunts, bracing his body and you take another step. “Go back upstairs.”

“Did Bobby talk to you?”

He scowls. “Bobby’s wrong. That’s- No.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, and it’s too quick. “Because that, that’s not a thing. People would be runnin’ around, selling soulmates in little bottles if they were real. And we’d have known by now-“

“We do know now.” You whisper, swaying slightly in the middle of the room. “And Cas says-“

“Cas is wrong.” Dean mutters. “I don’t, there’s no way that’s true. Not for me.”

His beautiful, deep eyes look so sad. Glossed over and weighted down of years of that being the truth. That things like that, like this, don’t happen for Dean.

You’d really love to be the first exception.

“What about for me?”

“What are you-“

“What about for me, Dean.” You watch his jaw clench, his nostrils flaring. “Does it get to be true for me?”

He doesn’t answer, and you push on.

“If it’s true for me, it’s you.” You talk another step forward, and this time he doesn’t flinch. “Just you.”

“It’s just the spell.” He mutters, and you don’t think he’s convincing himself. Not when his throat bobs and his eyes darken. “You don’t want me, baby, not really.”

You almost fall over from that. From Dean calling you baby, and saying it the exact same way he says your name. Low and rolling and lined with something soft.

“I do.” You hold your ground, raising your chin. “I want you, Dean Winchester. Fix this.”

He shakes his head, barely a jerked movement, and you start to feel a little faint.

“Dean. I need you to look me in the eyes,” your voice starts to rise, growing pleading and frantic. “And tell me you don’t want me. Say that you wanting me is just the spell, and I’ll go. I promise. I just need to you to fucking say it, Dean, just fucking say you don’t want me or need me or love me-“

He moves before you even realize what’s happening. Almost leaping onto you as his mouth crashed into yours, his hands cupping your face as he walks you back, back, back into the wall and growls down your throat. And you’d been wrong. His hand on you don’t feel like small bursts of electricity. They’re like lighting. Dragging something you hadn’t known existed to the surface, and setting off a storm of need in your body.

“Course I want you,” one arm snakes around your waist, pressing your right into his erection. “Always fucking wanted you. You’re smoking hot,” he starts to kiss over your face, his words slightly muffled against your skin as you cling to his body. “Funnier than I am, and smart as hell. You feel like home and smell so good and, fuck, I’ve lost sleep thinkin’ about how it’d feel to get lost in you. I’d have to be fucking blind and dumb not to want you,” Dean grunts your name, returning your mouth to yours with a painfully soft, gentle, featherlight kiss. “But I’m not-“

“If you say good for me,” you mutter, leaning back to glare at him. “I’ll punch you.” He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, rumbling from his chest into yours. “I’m not-“

“You are.” You whisper, offering him a small, slightly broken smile. You need him to get this. You might start crying if he doesn’t. “You’re good for me. And I want you. I love you.” Something flashes in his eyes, and you don’t care if he believes you. He doesn’t have to believe you. He just needs to get it. “No spell, Dean. I’m here, and I’m yours. Take me.”

Your nails dig into his skin—attempting to leave a mark of him if he turns you away—and his breathing is ragged. Heavy and hot, fanning across your face as he stares at you, just stares at you, why is he just staring at you-

“Dean-“

This kiss is brutal It’s teeth and tongue and bruising lips, like he’s trying to move into your body. His hands are everywhere on you, squeezing your ass and palming your tits, rolling your nipple between two fingers before groaning down your throat when you moan.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters your name, his hand on your ass glides onto your pussy, playing with your folds and flicking at your clit once, twice, three times and you feel fucking high- “So wet for me-“

“For you,” you whimper, nodding stupidly as Dean presses him thumb down on that bundle of nerves, rubbing slowly. “Fuck, Dean, all for you-“ 

“Need to taste you,” he growls, pulling his mouth fully back, watching you grind onto his hand with a dark gaze. “You gonna let me taste you, baby? Let me eat that pretty pussy-“ 

You’ve barely nodded before he’s on his knees, one arm still around your waist to support you both as he dives into your cunt. 

Oh.

He’s good at this. Really, really fucking good at this. You can’t really think anything that’s not Dean, or make any noise that’s not a moan kind of good at this. He’s ravenous and starved, his nose bumping and pressing into your clit in an impossibly mind-numbing rhythm, his tongue plunging in and out of your cunt until your squirming above him, desperate for more.

“Dean,” your hand tug at his hair, and you don’t know if you’re trying to push him deeper or pull him away. “Shit, Dean, I’m gonna cum-“

He groans against you, his eyes opening to watch you come apart above him, and you think he might be getting off on this.

“Please,” you whimper. “God, please, I need to cum-“

Dean bites your clit, and your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave. It’s all bliss and relief and a high, bright haze of Dean, and then you’re falling down.

Dean’s pulling you down. Onto his lap as he leans back, moving you to straddle over him as his cock throbs between his legs.

You want to touch him.

You push back on him, just enough for his grip to loosen, and take him in your hand. He’s huge. And pretty. Dicks aren’t supposed to be pretty, but Dean’s is, and it might be because every part of Dean is pretty. Every part of him is impossible pretty, from his cock twitching in your hand as you run your thumb over the slit, to his lidded eyes and parted mouth as he watches you with wonder.

“Shit,” he moans your name, and fuck, even that was pretty. “What are you doing to me-“

“Handjob,” you whisper, placing your free hand lightly on his chest in a silent request for him to lay back. “I think.”

Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back with a smirk. “Ya think? You sure you know what you’re doing with that- Fuck-“

You hum around Dean’s cock, your lips wrapped around the base as your tongue swirls around his shaft, and his groans are sinful. The fire in your corse hadn’t lessened by any means from your orgasm, but it grows unbearable as you move Dean’s hand to your hair and let him guide you up and down. Let him set the pace, moaning when his hips jerk and he hits the back of your throat, and squeezing his thighs in silent reassurance that you’re good. You’re really, really good. You’re grinding onto Dean’s knee as he fucks your face, playing with his balls with your free hand and devouring every bit of slightly slurred praise that falls from his mouth.

“Fucking hell, baby, you always been this good at sucking cock? You’re, shit, you look like a wet dream, look like an angel, fuck.” He hisses at your teeth graze over him. “You look so good like this. Mouth stuffed full of cock, desperate and wet for me-“ You roll your hips against him, and Dean tugs you fully up, smirking at your swollen lips and glossy eyes. “Careful,” he warns, sitting up as his thumb swipes a little bit of drool from your cheek. “When I’m cumming tonight, I’m cumming in you, baby, got that?”

“Yes, please,” you whimper. You’re on the pill anyway. “Dean-“

“C’mere.” He tugs you into his lap with careful hands, scanning over you with a small shake of his head. “Son of bitch, you’re gorgeous. You’re sure you-“

“I’m sure.” You grind against his cock, never looking away from him as the head of him bumps your clit. It goes on for too long, Dean just watching you fuck yourself on his lap with his hands bruising your hips, and you start to whine. “Shit, Dean, need you-“

Dean surges forward, kissing you long and deep and slow, and keeps his brow pressed to yours as he looks down to where you’re moving on him.

“Hold on,” he mutters, and you follow the order without a second thought.

Your arms wrap around Dean’s neck just as he lines himself up, and you almost scream when he pushes into you.

“Shit,” he looks back at you, eyes wide. “Are you-“

“Don’t stop,” you moan, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “Fuck, it feels so good, Dean, don’t stop.”

He nods, kissing the side of your head, and slowly moves into your aching pussy until he bottoms out with a long exhale.

“Gonna, fuck-“ He groans as you squeeze around him. “Can’t do that, baby, I won’t last a minute-

“Sorry,” you mumble against him, playing with the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Didn’t meant to-“

“It’s fine.” He grunts, still not moving. “Just, fuck, you feel so good. So warm,” he groans, pressing his face onto the top of your head. “So tight and warm, feel so good-“

“Dean, please-“

You gasp as he gives one, short thrust upward.

“So good,” Dean growls in your ear, making another small, dizzying movement that presses him right up against that spongey spot deep inside of you. “Ready?”

“Ye-“

You squeal as Dean rises to his knees, keeping himself sheathed inside you as he falls forward, his hand splayed on your back and holding you carefully against him. His face is resting between your breasts, his cock angled so deep inside you it might drive you insane if he doesn’t start to fucking move, and his eyes stay yours as you only watch each other for a long moment.

He’s asking permission. Dean’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving, because he’s offering you one last chance to turn him down. 

You move one hand to hold his face, wrapping your legs around his waist and squirming around him in silent encouragement.

It snaps something in him. Dean grabs your hand, moves it onto the back of his neck, and lowers you fully onto the ground so you’re caged between him and floor. He scans over you for only a second, a small, cocky smirk crawling onto his face, leans down to give you one last, almost sweet kiss.

A soft moan leaves you as Dean traces his tongue over your lips, and his low growl is the only warning you get before he starts to fuck into you like an animal.

It’s sloppy and wet and loud, skin slapping against skin as Dean abuses your cunt, and fuck you’ve never felt better. You feel full, split open on his cock and right where you belong, alive in a way that seeps right into your soul and ignites your blood into a holy fire of Dean. Groaning your name on your skin and touching you with calloused, big, expert hands. Watching you as you unravel beneath him, scraping your nails over his back and making needy sounds that only spur him on.

You’re going to fly out of your body. Dean’s muscles are ripping above and around you as he fucks you into the floor, and his mouth is mold perfectly onto yours. Neither of you seem to care to breathe, or speak, or do anything but nips and suck and lick at each other. Trying to get impossibly closer, to drag the other over the edge so you can fall with them. You grind up into Dean, and Dean bites your lip. Dean rolls his hips as he bottoms out, making your mouth fall open for his tongue to plunge down your throat, and you scrape and claw as his chest until he groans, and you manage to slip one hand down to play with his balls.

He wins he swats your hand away and starts to rub small, firm circles on your clit. He’s unrelenting, and watching you with an affection that feels a little misplaced for the carnal hunger on his handsome features.

“Always want you,” he mutters your name, pressing his thumb flat against you. “Cum for me, baby.”

Your vision blurs as you find release, and it feels like heaven. Like stars and fire and water and light under your skin, in your blood, like a halo around your head that’s all just the pleasure Dean’s is still wringing from your body. Your pussy is fluttering and gushing around his cock, and it sends him over the edge with a roar, his hips slamming home as he paints the walls of your cunt white.

And when you’re both spent and Dean rolls you over—carefully adjusting you to be right on top of him, his body a barrier between you and the now-cold floor—you feel good. Really, really good. Fucked out and high, nothing trying to burst out of your skin or eat at your stomach. You feel better than you might have ever felt in your whole life. The only warmth in your body is heat you’re trading with Dean, and you feel good.

“We, um.” You trace over his tattoo, looking up at him under your eyelashes. “We should probably talk, or something-“

“Or something.” He agrees, grinning down at you. “Don’t feel like it’s a rush though. Sammy and Bobby will find us in the morning. Right now,” Dean kisses your brow, squeezing his arms around your body. “You’re all mine.”

You can be all his. It’ll be really, really easy to be all Dean, because he hasn’t said he loves you, but he does. You know he does. It lives in how he’s still touching and holding you, still talking to you like you’re his best friend and not a mistake, and running his hands through your hair mindlessly.

And you’ll have a lot to talk about later. A lot to fight about, and fuck about, and laugh and cry and scream about.

But right now you just have to be Dean’s.

And that will be really easy.

End Note: Bobby Singer you are fifty times the father John Winchester could ever HOPE to be.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Truth Or Dare

✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦ ✦summary: a late night game with Dean turns into something more.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader. light angst, pining, ovulation level smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, teasing, dirty talk, he's a meance and i need him, fingering, overstimulation, finger sucking, oral f!receiving, body worship, squriting, dumbification, pussy spanking, dean winchester canonical munch), they're a little tipsy but very lucid, love confessions, fluff✦ ✦wc: 4.7k✦ ✦author's note: request from anon! oh to have Dean Winchester yearn for you.✦

You’ve forgotten what it’s like, to have someone close to you.

It’s gotten to the point where you savor every brush of skin, every bump of shoulders. You’re mostly fiddling with your own hands in your lap, hugging your own stomach, glancing at the bar when you go out and wondering how fast you could get someone to take you home. You don’t even need to be loved. You just need to be touched, to have hands on your skin that remind you you’re still something tangible. Still someone here.

You blame Dean.

He doesn’t know, and he didn’t even technically do anything, but it’s his fault.

You’re not good at pretending to want. Not good at looking at a blank face in the dark without projecting someone else onto it. And if you do stumble into a bathroom or smile at someone across a low lit room, there’s always that itching thought in the back of your head.

Why aren’t they Dean?

It’s not fair to him. Not fair to the few people you tried to find comfort in, only to end up calling Dean’s name. One of those guys had pretended he didn’t hear it, let you scream it as much as you wanted. The other two kicked you out, and you’d dragged your feet home with a burning embarrassment coiled in your stomach.

“You’re home.” Dean had said the last time it happened, and you’d almost screamed in surprise.

“Jesus- Why are you up, it’s three in the morning-“

“You ditched.” He’d grunted, not looking up from the laptop. “Wanted to make sure it was just that, and not something I gotta worry about.”

You’d sighed, kicking off your shoes. “I told Sam where I was going.”

“I know. Better safe, right?”

Then he’d looked up. Met your gaze with raised brows. You’d just swallowed, and shrugged. You didn’t want to talk to him. Not when you’d just screamed his name into a mattress, and your skin still felt so cold.

“You have fun?” He’d asked, and you’d looked down at your feet.

“Yeah. Tons of it. You?”

“Time of my fuckin’ life.” He’d grunted.

“Good.”

“Good.”

You’d glanced up to find him glaring back at his computer, his grip white-knuckled on a beer bottle.

There had been bags under his eyes. He’d been rubbing his knee restlessly, and you’d known. He’d really been waiting for you all night.

You’d stopped trying to chase something. It was like scavenging through a dumpster, when you had a five-star meal just walking around the fucking house and making stupid jokes all the time. It’s a meal you’re not allowed to eat, but you find enough to sustain you. His knuckles brushed yours yesterday, when he passed you a book. Your knees bumped on the couch, and for a split second it had seemed like Dean was going to press your thighs together. He hadn’t. He’d scooted away with a cough.

But then he’d rested his arm on the back of the couch. His fingers had grazed your shoulder every few seconds, and just that brief contact had made you dizzy. You’d bitten on your lower lip to stop the sharp inhale. When he stood up and walked away to get another beer, his big hand had landed on the top of your head for a split second. Almost petting you, making you freeze for a long second, before he was gone.

Tonight Sam wants to go out again. You pass. You’ve been passing. It’s easier to just wallow in the dark, where nobody can see the gloss of tears, you can try to satisfy yourself.

Then Dean says he’s going to stay home as well. And you and Sam gape at him, but he just shrugs like you’re the crazy ones.

“What? It’s my place too. I’m stayin’ home.”

“You know hookups won’t like- Come to you, right?” Sam says. “You have to go and look for them-“

“Yeah, Sammy, I got that.” Dean scowls, crossing his arms. “Just don’t want a hookup right now, alright?”

Sam shoots you a worried look, and you just shrug.

“Dean, are you feeling okay-“

“I’m feelin’ fine. God forbid a man want to live in his own damn house-“

“It’s not a house.” You mumble, and his lips twitch.

“Well, his own place. We’re gonna watch movies and eat the whole kitchen, sweetheart. It’ll be fun.”

Sam frowns. “You’re… staying in to watch movies.”

“And eat the kitchen.” You add, and Dean grins.

“See? She gets it.”

You give him a flat look, and he just winks.

“Fun. You and me. No arguing.”

Dean grabs your shoulder. It’s only for a split second, as he walks down the hall, but it leaves an electric burn on your skin. You reach up to touch the spot, when he’s gone. Sam gives you an unimpressed, pointed stare, and you flip him off.

“I didn’t ask him to-“

“I know. But-“ He runs a hand over his face. “Never mind. Have fun.”

Sam leaves, with a grumble about how even if he strikes out, he’ll be back in the morning. It’s not that unusual. He’s cooped up with you all the time, and sometimes wandering feels like breathing fresh air for the first time in months.

You think about changing your mind and wandering with him. You don’t want to have fun with Dean tonight. It’s going to make the world feel bigger and further away, when he turns in for the night and you’re left, untouched and alone.

But he’s smiling at you. The wide, boyish smile that’s so rare to see on his face, it feels deeply important to preserve. A precious, rare gem that you’ve spent so much time begging to unearth a little further. So much time had been put into getting him to smile at you like that. You’d be selfish and cruel, to waste it now.

So Dean says watch a movie, and you watch a movie, tracking his body on the couch the whole time. He makes dinner, and when he passes you the plate your fingers tingle like you’d been zapped. He says you should get some of the fancier drinks from the Men of Letter’s old stash, and you just nod. He’s magnetic all the time, but there’s a gravitational pull to him when he’s smiling. Like the world could give out from under your feet but you’d just float, because Dean’s smiling and that would keep your head above water.

When he suggests truth or dare, you agree. It’s a bad idea, but doing anything alone with him is a bad idea. You might as well get a little tipsy and have fun about it.

“Truth.” You stare at the ceiling, lying flat on your back. Your legs are resting up on the couch, Dean leaning back against the cushions, and sometimes his fingers graze over your calves when he wants your attention.

You’re being pretty normal about it.

“That’s your third truth in a row, y’know.” Dean nudges your knee with his thigh. You swallow a moan. “Live a little, pick a dare-“

“I don’t like dares, I told you that-“

“I can only come up with so many freakin’ truths-“

“Yeah, but your dare is gonna be something stupid.” You crane your neck, giving him a pointed look as you drop your voice to a mocking, deep tone. “Dare, sweetheart. Go steal Sammy’s underwear and wear it ‘till he notices.”

Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Yes, you do-“

“And I wouldn’t dare you to wear Sam’s underwear.”

There’s something darker, running under his tone. It makes you pause, lips turning down, and Dean just raises his brows. There’s a challenge in his gaze that you don’t understand. You settle on just flopping back down and rolling your eyes.

“I’m not doing a dare.” You wrap an arm around your stomach, trying to physically trap the desire blooming in your gut. “Give me the truth.”

Dean groans. “C’mon, one dare-“

“No-“

“I’ll let you off the hook for this truth.” He says quickly. “Take it on myself. And I’ll go easy on the dare. Nothing crazy, swear it.”

You look up, and he’s got his hand on his heart like he’s taking an oath. “Dean…”

“Please?”

“I- Fine.” You flop back down, biting your smile as you catch him pumping his fist in the corner of your vision. “You’re such a loser.”

“You love me.” He pats your knee, and you grunt, taking a very long drink. “Alright, hit me.”

“Um…” You wrinkle your nose at the ceiling. “What’s your favorite animal?”

Dean snorts. “No, try again.”

“It’s a truth!”

“It’s a lame truth. You gotta ask me something interesting-“

“That’s interesting!” You protest, glaring at him under your eyelashes. “I like knowing things about you, that’s interesting to me!”

Dean stares at you for a second, then sighs. Takes a long drink, staring at you the whole time. It’s not doing anything to help the growing ache between your thighs, burning for just a little bit of that attention.

“I like wolves.” He grumbles. “Think the pack shit is cool. Like lions, too. And-“ He sighs like you’re prying something out of him. “Baby ducks.”

You beam. “You like ducklings-“

“It’s fuckin’ adorable when they walk in a line, alright?” He snaps, and you giggle.

“You’re so cute.” You nudge his leg with your foot, and his scowl deepens.

“Shut up.”

“No, you like ducklings-“

“I’m not a damn monster.” He grabs your foot, stopping it from bumping him again. “Ask me another. Somethin’ real, this time.”

You scoff, leaning back down again. It’s hard to think, when he’s touching you. When his thumb is rubbing circles on your ankle, and you don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, and it’s chasing too many thoughts from your head to think anything but his name.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do it.” He’s mocking you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. He needs to stop. “I can help if you need me.”

You try to kick him, but he just squeezes your foot tighter.

“How about my favorite sex thing?” He suggests, and your mouth falls open.

“Dean-“

“Good question, me.” He drawls, rubbing your foot as he speaks. “Hm. Gotta think about it. There are so many.”

“You-“ You sit up, trying to glare at him, but he’s just grinning at you like an idiot. “Come on, that’s- Dean…”

“I like eatin’ a girl out.” He says, the moment your eyes are locked onto his. “Love seein’ her  under me, watching her squirm.”

His hand is dragging slowly up your leg, getting closer to teasing near your knee. He’s giving you plenty of time to pull away, to just laugh and hit him, moving you both on. But you catch. You’re just blinking at him hopelessly, your legs slowly falling open, the world starting to get hazy because no one’s touched you like that in so long.

And it’s Dean touching, and that makes it better, or worse. It makes you putty. All you can do is blink at him hopelessly, begging for him to just take you, or stop know before it gets too far and you’re left a teary eyed, whining mess on the floor.

“Always tastes good, too.” He drawls, watching you so carefully. “Real fuckin’ pussy tastes like heaven, sweetheart? You ever tried it?”

You can’t even answer, and he chuckles.

“Look at you, pretty girl.” He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle, and you’re not sure what’s happening. You’re half convinced it’s a dream. “Can’t even mouth me back? That worked up, just from some dirty talk?”

His fingers graze the soft skin under your knee, and you squeak. He leans forward, dragging his hand a little lower. Along the back of your thigh. You press your legs together, sure that you’re leaking through your panties.

“Dreamt about how you’d taste.” He mutters, and suddenly you’re being dragged forward. Dean grabs your ankles and pulled them into his lap, leaning down to haul the rest of your body up.

You stare at him, your faces suddenly only a breath apart. He’s so close. So warm and close, and you’re slumping over him like a ragdoll, your lips parted and breathing shallow. Dean splays a hand on your back, and you arch into it without thought.

“Jesus, you’re reactive.” He mutters, his attention dropping to your panting, swollen lips. “You really- Sweetheart, I need you to tell me you’re alright. If I…”

He trails off, his arm around your lower back wrapping a little tighter. The angle brings you closer, lets his fingers dip under the band of your shorts, tracing over the skin where your thighs and core meet. You shudder, leaning closer, and Dean stares at you like he’s watching a miracle.

“Dean…” You gasp, and his throat bobs.

“Breathe.” He reminds gently, flexing his hand on your back, and you nod.

The ragged, desperate breath you take only makes his eyes glint sharply. He’s leaning back on the couch, letting you settle in closer. You don’t think, after this much time, you can ever be close enough.

Dean’s hand drags up to cup the back of your head, then around to trace over your face. Your eyes flutter, your breath catching, and his eyes go darker. You’re only made of fire now. Melted so far into him that you can only feel him, only get drunk on his featherlight touch.

“Are- Are you serious?” You whisper, because you have to check.

Dean nods, not offering a split second for doubt. “Deadly. You want your dare, baby?”

Baby. That’s not something he calls girls at bars. That’s something that feels delicate. Something that makes your heart grow wings and start to flutter. You nod, and his mouth curls up.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters.

You don’t have to think. You’re not sure you can anymore. “You.”

Dean’s throat bobs, his voice dropping lowers. “How.”

“Anything.” Your fingers grab at his shirt. “Please.”

For a moment, Dean stares at you. Looks at you the same way he looks at a case, like he’s trying to figure everything out before he moves with a cutthroat efficiency. But he’s taking more time on you. His thumb is caressing your cheekbone, his fingers near your core toying with your panties. You can’t take it. You shift slightly, making his knuckles graze over your heat.

Dean’s jaw tightens, and he stills completely. For a second, you’re worried you took it too far. That you already ruined it.

Then the tip of his forefinger drags up the wet spot on your panties, pressing between your pussy lips through the fabric. You moan, loud and shameless, bucking into his hand.

A low rumbling sound comes from Dean’s chest. It’s possessive, vibrating against your core, and you start to grind desperately against his hand.

“De- Dean-“

“You got no idea.” He mutters, repeating the motion with two fingers, the pressure just a little firmer. “How many times I’ve thought about this. No fuckin’  idea, baby, all the shit you do to me.”

He grabs your hand suddenly, planting it over his heart. You can feel the uneven rhythm, almost in perfect time with yours. Dean smirks at your slack expression, dragging your ruined underwear to the side. One thick finger teases your fluttering hole, and you bite your lips to stop the whine.

“Ah.” Dean stops, pulling slightly away. “Wanna hear it.”

He presses his finger back, pushing it slowly into your drenched heat, and you let yourself moan. Dean hums, crooking deep inside of you and tickling over that one spot deep inside of you, making your pussy contract around his finger.

“Fuck…” He groans, his head ducking to kiss along your jaw. “You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t you. You been soaked this whole damn time?”

He drags his finger slowly out before slamming it back up, adding a  second with it and splitting you open. You squeal, nails scratching at his shoulders, and he groans against your throat.

“Only get like this for me. Bet you been waitin’ this whole time, hoping I’d touch your greedy fuckin’ pussy like this-“

“Yes.” You moan, turning your head against his, holding on for dear life as his fingers start to scissor. “Just- Just for you, Dean- Yes-“

That same deep sound rumbles from Dean’s chest again, and he grabs your neck, dragging your mouth over his in a harsh, claiming kiss. Your mouth is slack against his, taking him in with loud whimpers and broken pleas, his fingers drilling into your cunt at a skin slapping, brutal pace.

Dean moans against your lips, sucking one the lower one as he twists his fingers deep in your pussy, bullying your g-spot until you’re squirming hopelessly in his arms. His hand on your throat slides up into your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. You’re grinding on him so that your clit rubs over the hard budgle in his jeans, and in the split second where you pull away for air, you catch a glimpse of Dean’s wrecked, drunken face.

It’s not the beer. You can barely even taste it on his lips.

It’s just you. He wants you.

Dean slams his hand into your so hard stars dance at the edges of you vison, and you seize up around him. Your whole body shakes with the orgasm he’s dragging from your pussy, and when his hand glides back to your cheek, you turn to try and kiss at his wrist.

His throat bobs, and he tests his thumb on your kiss-swollen lips. You flick your tongue over the pad his finger, and he groans. He’s pulling you through the orgasm with beckoning fingers on your g-spot, and you’re almost drooling on his hand. He slowly pushing his thumb a little further, and you start to suck on it without hesitation, just fucking desperate to have a little more. Dean ruts up with a grunt, hitting your clit, and moan lewdly, eyes rolling back as you swirl your tongue around his thumb.

“Son of a bitch.” He growls, and you pull on his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Look at you, sweetheart.“ He pulls his hand out, slapping your pussy once, and you moan around him. “Fuck yeah, you like it, don’t you. Like lettin’ me play with this pussy ‘till you’re screaming.”

You whine, eyes fluttering, and Dean groans.

“So damn desperate.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed, dazed expression as he starts to rub tight circles around your clit. “When was the last time someone took care of you, baby? What motherfucker was touchin’ you so bad that you can work up this damn fast.”

He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, spanking your clit before going back to dragging those taunting circles, and the confession pours thoughtlessly out of your mushy brain.

“No one.” You whimper. “No- No one does it for me, Dean- No one, I- I need-“

You cry out as he hits your oversensitive pussy again, this time going faster and faster, making your whole body tremble in his arms. You keen in his hand, your fingers dragging down his chest to scrape against his abdomen. Dean grunts, his free hand ducking under your shirt to wrap around you back, holding you just how he wants in his lap. When you try to do the same, his muscles seize up under your touch, and he makes a deep, feral sound that only makes you come undone all on it’s own. He starts to kiss and lick at your shoulders, your collar, your chest.

“Say it.” He grunts against your skin, nipping at soft skin. “Tell me, sweetheart, who do you need-“

He starts to rub back and forth on your clit with every slap, and there’s something hot like lava winding in your lower stomach. It’s strange, but not bad, almost like you have to pee. You almost grab his wrist to stop it, but it’s also driving you so close to an edge you want to tumble over, so you just moan.

“C’mon-“ Dean’s rock hard against your inner thigh, fucking up against the full flesh as he keeps working your pulsing clit. “Words, baby, use ‘em for me, who do you need-“

“You.” dropping your brow against his. Your gaze falls to where your bodies are pressed together, and it’s the most sinful, amazing thing you’ve ever seen. “Need you, Dean, needed you, couldn’t- Couldn’t with anyone else- Oh my god-“

Dean yanks your head back up, his lips slamming passively over yours. You almost  scream as you orgasm tears through you, and the lava gushes down with your release. You can feel your whole body rolling, your head trying to tip back but trapped in Dean’s hold, his lips working restlessly over yours as he works you through the orgasm.

He makes the hottest sound you’ve ever heard, when your slick hits his hand, and suddenly three fingers are being slammed into your cunt. You’re gaping, the pleasure overwhelming, and Dean’s working you open like he’s trying to take more still. You didn’t know this, squirt like a fucking porn star, but the shame that’s burning on your cheeks is nothing to the way Dean seems to have gone feral.

You’re being almost thrown off his lap and into the couch cushions, your pussy spasming with overstimulation, but Dean doesn’t seem to care. He rips off your shorts, his eyes black with desire, and bites at your inner thigh as the after-shocks of the orgasm spray on his face. He moans on your skin, his tongue dragging over the little hurt, and you moan desperately, somehow not wrung so far out that you want him to stop.

He checks, though. Even as you roll up against his jaw, Dean pins you to the couch with one hand and looks up at you with raised brows. Your fingers slide into his hair, the sight almost enough to make you cum again. His pussydrunk expression, his sheer attention, the weight of him between your legs. You take a ragged breath, and nod.

“How many-“

“Anything.” You breathe, trying to spread your legs wider. “Please.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and he nods. He watches you, as he parts your puffed lips with two fingers, dragging his thumb over your fluttering hole. When you squirm under him he chuckles, grabbing your shaking thighs and pulling them over his shoulders. He spits, right on your clit, and you make a high, breathy noise you didn’t know you could make.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I’ve got you, baby, but- Fuck-“ He looks down to what you’re sure is a pathetically glistening, fluttering pussy.

There’s nothing but admiration in his eyes, though. And he leans forward, pressing one soft kiss over your clit, then another. His tongue darts out, flicking back and forth, and your legs tighten around him. He groans, his hands gliding down over your ass, and he squeezes once as he flattens his tongue on your cunts and groans.

You pull at his hair, the sensation overwhelming, and he leans back, kneading at your ass.

“Beautiful.” He mutters, kissing over your entrance. Dipping his tongue slightly in, and chuckling when you squeal. “So. Fuckin’. Beautiful.”

He kisses up your pussy with every word, and you’d protest if you could think, but it’s only Dean. Only his tongue, licking slow, lazy stripes up your pussy. Swirling around your clit before changing to tight, quick kitten licks that make you writhe. He’s not playing with you anymore. Not like a toy, just having fun with your willing body. He’s eating you like a man starved, playing you like an instrument.  

It’s relentless, his mouth covering your pussy wholly, his tongue tracing around your clit before sucking on it, his tongue flicking in a rhythm with his hands kneading your ass, before dragging down to your fluttering hole and tongue fucking you shallowly as his nose bumps your clit. His stubble tickles your thighs, the open mouth kisses he leaves all over your core making you roll into his face, even as the sensations become dizzying. You’re stupid beneath him, barely able to breath as he move back to licking your clit like ice cream, his tongue twisting and pressing, his hands pulling your ass off the cushions be can bury his face deeper into your sensitive pussy.

You can feel it coming again. It’s too much, and still not enough, burning in your cunt as he eats you alive.

“Can’t-“ You squeak. “Can’t- Dean, I- God, I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He grunts against you, slapping your ass as he starting to shake his tongue back and forth over your clit.

You scream, pulling at your hair and locking your thighs tight enough to suffocate him, but that only drives him on. Dean nips and tongue fucks your whole pussy, his whole face molded into your core, and you can feel it again. It’s building faster than last time, but stronger. Your whole body is a live wire about to snap, and Dean’s lighting, striking you in all the right places.  

It happens again. Pleasure washes through you, your vison going white as you almost drown in your own orgasm. Dean moans against your pussy as it squirts into his face, and when you blink through blurry, dazed eyes he’s fucking his hips into the couch. He’s getting off on it, on you squirting into his open mouth, and the thought drags your orgasm out even longer.

Dean grunts, pinning you to the cushions as you start to come down, still not finished with you. His tongue his softer now, lapping you up as you tremble below him. When you try to wiggle away he pulls your right back, humming a soft praise on your skin and kissing right over your mess of a pussy.

He rises back over your slowly, kissing up your whole body with no rush. When he reaches your neck you grab his face between your hands, dragging him right back up to your mouth. You need it. The gentle tenderness of this kiss, the kind of one that might trick you into thinking you’re lovers rather than just a quick fuck.

Like he can read you mind, Dean rises back up. There’s a soft awe in his face, as he brushers away the hair stuck to your brow.

“Ask me another truth.” He mutters, and you laugh weakly.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He drags his hand slowly up your side, like he’s memorizing it. “Please.”

You blink at him, and you can see it written over his face. He needs it like this. He’s given you everything he has, and the slight shield is all he needs for the that last, shrouded and raw part of his heart. The part you think he moved into you with his tongue. That you can feel, unsteady under your hand.

“Truth.” You whisper, and he lets out a heavy breath. “What are you thinking?”

Dean’s lips twitch, and he grabs your hand on his chest. Pulls it up to his lips, kissing it gently. Like a gentleman, like you’re not still stupid and high on him.

“I’m thinkin’ I love you.” He rasps. “And that I’m real bad at this stuff, but- I can’t do that once. You’re…”

He shakes his head, words visibly failing him, and you smile.

“Ask me now.”

He swallows. “You don’t gotta-“

“Ask me.” You whisper, squeezing his hand in yours. “You know I love truths.”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “Yeah alright. Do you…”

“Yeah. I love you.”

“Baby, you really-“

“It’s truth, Dean.” You say softly. “I do.”

He smiles, and it’s wide and boyish again. He’s draped and stained all over you, and when he leans down to kiss you again, even the sweetness of it is filling. You’re developing a taste for it. Being touched all the time. It’s like being dropped into an oasis, after years of being stranded in a desert.

Dean clings to you in the same way, when he finally just settles fully over your body. You hold him there, brushing your fingers through his hair as he buries his face in your breasts.

You think he’s going to stay there for a while. You might suggest he never leave.

And with how he smiles at you, you don’t think he’s going to protest that idea at all.

✦End note: guys can you black out from writing about sex?✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[writes-of-plights]

Bonding Activities

Adrian Chase x Reader, 8.3k

Adrian and you have developed a rather close friendship, and Adrian wants to ensure you get ample bonding time together. He really likes you and wants to have a stronger connection. You, on the other hand, really want him. All because of a friendly massage, you're left reeling. 

Tags/warnings: 18+/MDNI, mature language, Adrian Chase x Reader, no use of y/n, true neutral reader descriptions (No hair, skin color, body descriptions), pining, slight miscommunication, everybody say hi to Adebayo and Economos they’re in here for 5 seconds, pwp, dry humping, unprotected sex, cream pie, cowgirl/cowboy, Switch!Adrian, make-this-man-whimper.com, Demi!Adrian, ND!Adrian, I am projecting onto him a little bit sorry chat, Consent is King, slowish burn, fluff, slight emotionally avoidant behavior, both Reader and Adrian don’t want to confess

an: Hiiiii this is my first published fic ever. Long-time reader, first-time author y’know the deal. Bit of a forewarning: I have not watched Peacemaker directly. I had friends who watched it and have consumed a metric shit ton of fan content. I know that’s not the same as watching the show, so I apologize for any egregious OOC moments. This may or may not have been kickstarted by my own desires for a massage.

૮ • ﻌ - ა .ᐟ✮⋆˙.𖥔 ݁ ݁˖

The day had been agonizing. Running and climbing, hitting and getting hit, and Christ you were only being fueled by burnt coffee and... Four hours of sleep? Five if you're being generous. God knows you haven't been collected enough to keep a sense of time. 

To top it all off, your very wonderful colleague and self-declared best friend is greeting you as you slump through your front door. He's oh-so-respectful as he lounges comfortably on your couch, eating your cereal, and using your TV to watch the news. 

"Welcome home," his eyes are wide as he analyzes your disheveled soul.

Normally in this state you'd give him some blunt response before asking him to get the fuck out of your house, but alas: your body was losing on all fronts. Instead, you drag your feet to the nearest flat surface to drop your duffel bag from your aching shoulders. Adrian is speaking, but not loud enough to overtake the fog surrounding your brain. As the weight of your bag shifts off of your body, a sharp ache spreads along your neck and shoulders. 

A wince escapes you as you attempt to soothe the muscles. Your unwelcome guest hasn't stopped talking, the words "crazy" and "awesome" pop into focus before you cut him off: "Adrian, why are you here?"

You see the wheels turning in his head before he matter-of-factly responds: "Should I not be?" 

No. Adrian should not be here. He doesn't live here. You would love nothing more than to have an empty couch to fall onto. You want to be alone to suffer in your aching muscles and joints and bruises. Instead, you have Adrian greeting you. 

It started as him coming by when he was bored and knew you were home. Then he would tag along with you after gatherings, and then after you were both done with work. You slowly got more familiar and the lines started to blur. You didn't live far from his mom's house, so it began to feel like you were both little kids on summer vacation. Well, to Adrian it felt that way. That's why he started showing up unannounced. And without you being home. 

You had ignored your growing frustration with his sudden visits because he always looked so happy to see you. It felt nice coming home to a bright eyed doofus who would talk your ear off. The problem lied in how it all changed without any formal conversation. Casually, his life bled into yours, with no rules discussed. You had plenty in common. You both loved niche animal facts, often watching YouTube documentaries or trivia compilations. One of the earliest memories you had with him was you going bar-for-bar about great white shark facts at the office. He insisted they had two pairs of jaws. 

"Like a xenomorph?" you howled with laughter.

"No! Like-- like they're stacked on top of each other!" he stammered between laughs as he demonstrated with his curled hands overlapping.

Through tears you explained that they have rows of teeth, but only one pair of jaws. Then it turned into a regular competition, you two would go back and forth on various nerdy subjects. Adrian didn't avert his attention from you when talking, but you saw the annoyance spread on nearby faces at his excitement. You became attached at the hip afterwards, and slowly you went from one of his favorite people to his "number one best friend" after long enough. With how he was treated, it wasn't much of a competition.

Despite all of the endearing parts of him, and your genuine care towards him, you want your private domicile to be private right now.

"You know I don't always mind when you come over," you start to explain before he cuts you off.

"'Always' like... Like right now you mind," he looked like you took away his gameboy for the night.

"Right now, until I can recharge my crumbling body, yes," you continued. 

Turning the TV off, he rises with his empty cereal bowl in hand. He nodded silently, little apologies flitting in his head. His brain began to rewire what was and was not acceptable between you two, and tried to find where he should've done better.

"Sorry, should've known after patrol you'd want alone time, I'll uh--" he turned to the kitchen, "I'll wash my bowl out and leave you be," he smiled an empty smile towards you as he marched to the kitchen sink. 

A pang of guilt hit your sternum like a .22 caliber. You shouldn't feel bad about kicking him out, he doesn't live with you. A little voice in your head is murmuring desires and wishes, though. How, maybe, it wouldn't be too bad if he stayed. Maybe he could help ease your aching. The image of your empty home flashed, with an indent in your couch of where he sat patiently waiting for you. It wrenched your heart out. You spoke before you could think. 

"Well-" The sink shut off immediately, Adrian turning to listen to you, "You don't have to leave. I just need some alone time to deal with my back," you were picturing a nice hot bath, maybe laying on the floor of your bedroom for a while. Anything to ease the tension around your neck. 

"What's wrong with your back?" he was beside you in a blink. His face was studying your outfit, looking for any scrapes or holes that would indicate an injury. He was concerned in an analytical sense, wanting to help you avoid further damage. Your hand works up to the juncture of your shoulder and neck, deeply rubbing the cords of muscle. 

"It just aches like crazy today," your grimace doesn't help hide your discomfort. Your shoulders and upper back have been aching more and more as the weeks have gone on. You always had difficulty with muscle tension, and how lucky are you to have such dutiful shoulders to bear all your anxieties. There was a thought to buy yourself a muscle massager for the holidays, but you never managed to. 

As you rub your tender aches, you nearly forget that Adrian is beside you. That is, until he speaks: "I could give you a massage."

You freeze. Entirely. The electricity in your brain fries every neuron. Your lungs still, as does your hand. For a brief second, your shoulders no longer ache. The concept of Adrian working your muscles loose is enough to soothe them for a moment. The silence hangs heavily. You turn your gaze to his eyes expecting to see a smirk or a shred of sarcasm, instead you find his deeply genuine gaze. He's being serious.

"You know how to give massages?" you huff out a little laugh to disperse the tension building.

"Yeah! I watched a couple videos a while ago, it's good for your health and circulation and all that so... I don't know I thought it was important to learn," he takes a couple steps to situate himself in front of you. "It's just your back, right? That's simple enough," he goes to grab your arm before stopping himself, "Do you want that? If not, that's totally cool!"

His eyes are beaming and that boyish smile is beneath them. Your mind calculates, and that little voice begins murmuring again. Surely he has some motive. He wants to talk to you and knows your mind is preoccupied on the pain... so he's eliminating obstacles to his conversational desires. He's not offering a deeply intimate action for any purpose other than that. That's not how Adrian operates. He wouldn't want to touch you otherwise. That little voice talks about a warmth spreading between you two. How maybe the famously apathetic and disconcerting Vigilante could be looking at you with a deeper affection. You blow the little voice's head off. 

A sigh is released from your tight lungs, "You know... Sure. I'll take anything at this point." Adrien let's out a quiet "yay" before grabbing your arm and leading you to your couch. You cross your legs and get situated, your back facing him.

He claps his hands, "Now, let's keep your clothes on. Don't want this to get weird, right?" 

Your face heats up, "Man, I wasn't even thinking of doing that." He laughs. It's a bit of a cackle. You can see his face in your mind, the way his smile splits. It makes your face even hotter.

"Who knows what's going on in your head, freak..." he jokes.

You feign an appalled gasp, "You're the freak! Using my spare key to squat in my house while I'm gone, who does that?" His weight shifts behind you. You swear you could feel his breath fan across your exposed back. Your throat dries. 

He responds, "A really good friend, that's who," his hands land on your shoulders before applying pressure. Before you could think to stop it, your skull drops forward. Eyes glide shut, the feeling of Adrian's hands tracing along your muscles overwhelms you. "Let me know if any of this hurts too much," his tone is a chipper contrast to the pit of velvet warmth you find yourself in. Chewing your lip to swallow any involuntary noises, you nod your head to respond to him. 

The sound of his hands against the fabric of your shirt filled your ears. His breathing followed suit, then little hums he sang out. Was this relaxing to him too? "Enjoying yourself?" you prod jokingly.

"Yeah, actually," his fingers tap along your back, "I'm gonna push a little harder, you got wicked tension going on... You always this high strung?" 

A laugh escapes you, "You have no-" he presses hard into a knot above your shoulder blade. You wince and all words die on your tongue. His thumb drives deeper and deeper into the taught muscle. Your mind runs blank. A deep comforting pain washes through your fibers. All that energy courses to your cheeks. Weak whimpers emit from between your lips as the muscles melt.

"So noisy..." he teases as his thumbs rub soothing ovals on your limp shoulders. You want to bite back. He of all people should not be commenting on noise. Yet his voice keeps looping in your head. The timbre of it, the sing-songy tone, it repeats and repeats. That little voice returns with a vengeance to whisper in your ear what that phrase would sound like... Closer. 

Before you can carry yourself too far away, you feel an absence. His hands have removed themselves from your back. Adrian huffs out a contented sigh and pats your shoulders roughly.

"There! All relaxed now?" he giggles. Your mind snaps awake, the clarity a bitter drink. A nod, a shuffle, as you attempt to hide your boiling skin from him.

"Thanks, man..." you urge out unconvincingly.

He doesn't notice, thankfully, "No broblem, Pob!" 

He flashes the most egregious grin towards you as you reposition your seat. You steel what little composure you can muster to playfully shove at him and roll your eyes.

He cackles away, "But seriously, you alright now? If you still hurt I can get you an ice pack or something--" he lightly grinds his elbow against your side, "can't have my number one fall to some preventable injury shit."

You swallow thickly and nod, still attempting to shake your brain back to reality. He, unfortunately, notices this time. "Wait, are you gonna puke or something? Massages release like acids and-- shit sorry uh, wait right here!" And off he goes to grab your bathroom garbage bin. At least you get a moment to yourself. 

You'd never had such overt thoughts about Adrian before this, right? Wracking through your brain you try to find the source of this insesent desire. He's physically attractive, and his smile's pretty cute, it's not like you were opposed to the idea wholeheartedly. Maybe you'd been caught making googly eyes at him a few times when everyone would get together outside of work. And yeah, maybe after a few drinks his typical energy and goofiness had warmed you more than liquor could.

Maybe it wasn't the booze. Maybe you'd always felt this way, a little bit. A lot... A bit. You physically rattle your brain to focus up. Adrian didn't feel that way towards you. He doesn't feel things like that. Right? 

Quick as a flash, Adrian slides in beside you with the bin placed between your knees.

"I'm not gonna puke, Ade," you smile at the very thoughtful action.

"Really? Cus you looked kinda... I dunno like a puker," he bends further down to try and lock eyes with you.

"I'm alright, really," you urge, "thank you for helping me out."

That grin crosses his face again before he responds, “It's bonding! Glad I didn't bust your shoulders up." He lightly pats your shoulder before turning the TV back on.

You sink further into the cushions. Adrian puts on a nature documentary and talks all the way through it, while you eventually slouch into a blissful nap. 

The week that follows is typical. Adrian never brought up the massage again, but it was constantly being remembered by you. Any glimpse of his hands and you were back on the couch. The disturbing twist of memory and imagination entwined as the picture of him inches away from your spine flash as you type away a report. His broad and firm hands repeat phantom actions on your shoulders as your eyes slip shut. A jolt of fear shoots through you as real, warm hands clamp on your taught shoulders. 

"Hey, up-and-at-em!" Adebayo laughs. You jostle your shoulders and sigh. Spinning to face her dazzling smile, and wiping Adrian's visage from your mind.

"Sorry, didn't get much sleep last night..." you lie.

"Right, I bet Chase keeps you up all night long," she winks. You knew how she meant it, but you couldn't help the embarrassment that bubbled up at the thought of her teasing you for a crush. 

"Does he still crash at your place twice a week?" she laughs.

"It's more like... 3-5 times a week nowadays," you find the wall of your cubicle oddly interesting.

"Really? You let him do that to you?"

You laugh at her incredulous reaction, "He's not putting me out, and I appreciate the company," you turn and shut your laptop before returning to face her as you stand, "I like having him around." 

She shakes her head as she laughs, "Hey, I like the guy but I dunno how you don't get tired of him..." The pair of you walk towards the nearest vending machine.

"He's got charm," you shrug.

Ads responds quickly: "The violent, cruel justice, kill-you-for-jaywalking kinda charm?"

You hold back statistics you'd gathered on jaywalking from a previous argument you had with Adrian and instead reply with a laugh, "Yeah, something like that.”

Adebayo doesn't laugh. You plug in a few quarters into a drink machine. She's looking at you with a steady gaze. "You wanna fuck him."

As you're about to bend to grab your drink, you swivel to face her. Shock paints your face as you whip your head around the office space. No one in earshot seems to have noticed.

"No! What? What the hell makes you say that?" you panic. You let it slip a bit too obviously, then again it had been a growing suspicion of her's for a while.

She just nods at you, perfectly understanding your psychology. "Yeah... You want it bad." she begins to walk away from you. 

You call after her as you hastily grab your drink from the gutter of the machine and scamper to catch up to her, "You can't be saying that kind of stuff, people are gonna talk!"

She rolls her eyes, "People already talk. They've been talking since you watched him with those lovesick eyes when he did that dumbass song at karaoke."

That was months ago. Adrian wasn't completely oblivious, what if he overheard people talking? Would he be offended that his "number one best friend" had the hots for him this whole time? You'd only just started confronting your feelings, and you didn't want to isolate him from his most comfortable place. 

Mind racing, and desperation growing, you urged: "Please, Lee, you can't let this get to him. I don't even know if I want anything with him like that. I just... Please." you're sincere in your words. Enough so that she sees the twinge of fear in your words.

She nods and lets out a diffused laugh, "Don't worry, I'm not that kind of asshole. Just keep it at home.” With that she walks off to continue her business. Leaving you to stew in your paranoia of who has said what about you and the rock calcifying in your chest. 

Time wears on through the day, and eventually a chair rolls up to you. Seated in it is a slightly sweaty yet energized Adrian. "Hey, bud! How's the paper pushing been?"

Without looking you flatly respond, "Boring as shit."

Without really responding, Adrian begins: "Hey! I was thinking we could watch an old shitty sci-fi movie tonight and shoot the shit, what d'ya say?"

You nod immediately, "Sure, Ade, what movie?" 

He leans back in his chair and spins while blowing raspberries through his grinning lips. "Well..." he dramatically announces, "we could watch Invasion of the Saucer-Men, or The Monster That Challenged the World..." A snort could be heard from behind you.

Economos chimed in, "So any monster movie where a distressed and barely clothed woman is on the poster?" 

Adrian laughs, "Yeah! Tell-tale sign of a shit fest," he turns to you, "either of those pique your peaks?" If he had one, his tail would be swaying excitedly. His eyes are bright and his posture is stick straight as he awaits your answer.

You hum, "Well, I have to know how challenging that monster was. Y'know-- for occupational purposes." 

You enter your home with Adrian in toe. Kicking off your shoes and setting down your bag, you notice Adrian quickly makes his way to the kitchen.

"You hungry?" he announces as he rips open the freezer of your fridge.

"Are you?" you laugh as you join him in the kitchen. 

Placing a box of taquitos he brought over who-knows-how-long ago on the counter, he replies, "Absolutely starving. I mean, I'm completely ravenous over here. You could lay anything out in front of me right now and I'd eat it all."

As he opens various boxes and begins to heat up an exquisite frozen platter for two, you can't help but suffer your wandering mind. You imagine yourself laid out on your counter instead, with him kneeling on the tile and his hands placed just where he should've had them last week--

"Yo, ground control to major Tom, you okay?" he nudges your leg with his foot. "All those spreadsheets melt your brain? You know they should really give you a mandatory break from that stuff to rest your eyes," he turns his focus back on the microwave as the plate spins.

Since when did he care about your bodily well-being so much? "You've been awfully considerate of me lately, you planning my euthanization or something?" 

He laughs, "Not yet, ol' yeller." The microwave beeps and he quickly pulls the plate from the machine.

"Yet? So it's on the horizon?" you joke, though with your line of work it's never out of the realm of possibility that one of you would be required to point your gun…

You shake the thought as you realize Adrian is about to put a burning hot taquito right into his maw. "Ade third degree tongue burns, think of the texture on your tongue." Immediately, out of imagined sensory hell, Adrian places the tempting but offensively warm snack down. 

"Since when did you get so considerate?" he parrots in a teasing tone. Waltzing past you, he moves to the living room.

You follow suit, "Since you started being my unofficial roommate," you respond, "plus I'd like to avoid having to ice your tongue for you."

He let's out a rough laugh, "You'd still do it for me, you're nice like that." he sticks out his tongue as he reaches for the remote. 

His tongue. His stupid face. The thought of him on his knees flashes back into your mind. You force it back into the void it was birthed from. Replacing it is a jarring orchestra. The music flowing from your TV is grainy, with the characteristic warmth of old movies. Right, the movie you agreed to watch. The movie you should be casting your focus onto. Definitely not focusing on the bizarre man beside you. The bizarre man who is staring at you. 

"You alive?" he asks. Your pulse skyrockets, a definite affirmative.

"Yeah? Why?" you turn to respond.

His arm is placed along the back of the couch, mere inches from your shoulder. He leans and pokes you right in the trapezius. You wince slightly at the prodding. Your neck had regained tension in the week following his gracious service. You absolutely were not going to ask him to continue pampering you, especially with the fear of him catching onto you ever present. 

He twists his face and looks between you and the TV. He was weighing things in his mental scale. "Adrian, we can just watch the movie--"

He interrupts you with a question, "Which is a better bonding activity?" he turns his head to face you.

"They're both good, let's just watch the movie," you attempt to reassure him. 

"But you're uncomfortable, so it's not the better activity," he argues.

You won't be able to find a logical way out of this without outright denying a massage, which will lead to more of his questions. Why don't you want a massage? Is he bad at it? Does he make you uncomfortable? Or do you feel too hot and bothered to accept another? Adrian will accept your refusal regardless, but you worry over the ramifications. It's not like you never want his hands on you again. 

"I'm not that stiff, let me settle into the couch and we'll see how I feel later," you wager and luckily your bet pays off.

"Alright, whatever you feel," he drops the subject. You both return your focus to the film just in time to witness a monstrous shadow terrorize a sailor. The man's expression is ridiculous and pathetic.

"Come on! It's just a little eldritch abomination, we fight those like all the time!" Adrian cuts up. The oceanic monster continues to terrorize the boat as you two laugh away at their antics.

"Upstanding men of the 50's pissed themselves at the sight of anything dripping wet," you shake your head in morose disappointment.

Adrian giggles, "Are men of the current age any braver?"

You immediately respond, "I don't know, are you?" 

You were never the most clever person in the room. Adrian was cunning in his own right, but words would often fly over his head. Not this time.

He cracks a grin and speaks, "I'm not prone debauchery, but I'm no bitch either," his chest puffs out just a bit as he glances over to witness your reaction.

Through laughs you respond, "'Prone to debauchery'? You sound like the dorkiest virgin ever."

Adrian's chest slumps, "I'm not a virgin! I just don't do it a lot, it's not really a thing I think about," he reaches for the finger food on the coffee table and happily munches a couple crunchy morsels. 

That makes you a whore, you reason. Not only are you thinking about it quite frequently, but you're thinking of this man in the filthiest ways. A pervert, a wretch, that's you.

"What about you, huh? You never talk about your private life," he questions. You stare blankly at the screen. You're not processing what's happening but trying to appear engrossed all the same. Adrian doesn't drop it. "I know all about what Chris does, Adebayo too I guess, and they know all about me," he nudges you a little, "you don't gotta tell me tell me but... It's a bonding thing, right?" 

Before you can come up with a dismissive answer he continues, "I mean you don't bring anyone around so I guess I have somewhat of an answer there," he's smirking a little.

"I can't bring anyone around because you're always here!" you find an out.

"I'd leave immediately if you have a booty call, you know that!" he leads you to a dead end, "Who would you bring here anyway? You don't really go out--" you strike him with a pillow. He laughs, "I'm just saying! No need to get hostile!"

Your face is sweltering as you attempt to gather some excuse that isn't pathetic. You know Adrian won't judge you harshly, this is all a simple conversation to him. Nothing more. "Work's been busy, and I just... Don't have the desire to bang a stranger," your eyes are glued to the screen. You watch as a helpless woman gets dragged beneath the water's surface and into the jaws of the monster. 

"Well, if you ever need help with that, let me know," Adrian murmurs. You almost miss it. He adjusts himself in the couch, and you swear his hand is closer to your shoulder. That little voice returns and won't shut the fuck up about him offering "help". 

The film goes on, there's a brief discussion of snail biology that Adrian finds captivating. You're totally removed from it. There's sound happening around you, sure, but in your head you're fixated on what he said. It boils and churns in your mind. The film regains your attention as a romantic date between two characters unfolds. You squirm in your seat. Adrian catches your discomfort. 

"They should really get back to the monster shit, huh? I mean a giant snail is pretty sick," He dramatically shivers, "Imagine all of that mucus and shit covering you as you stab it to death..." You laugh before wistfully returning to the scene. You want to disregard the burning feeling in the back of your head, but you can't.

Before long enough, you ask, "What did you mean by help?" 

"Huh?" Great, you have to remind him.

"Earlier, you said you'd help me with my uh..." you vaguely gesture with your hands.

He catches on, "Oh! Yeah if you ever want to, I mean I did stuff with Chris not that long ago," you remember it clearly: Adebayo's disturbed face as she recounted what happened between the two of them to you. That was just "friend" shit to him though. Bonding. What you wanted was a bit more than that, right? Could you casually sleep with the guy you've spent most of your nights alone with? 

Adrian's attention snaps back to the frankly boring ass film. He's prattling about the logistics of a snail monster, how it doesn't seem very "challenging" like the title promised. "I mean, fuck, it’s a giant snail. Okay? Cool? I guess? Just shoot it with some salt. Carthage that bitch," You realize then, very quickly, that you couldn't be casual about it. 

It's ridiculous, he is ridiculous, but you've found a deep attachment to him. He'd sit at the foot of your bed and be an ever present force beside you if you asked. He's loyal to a fault, and despite him saying otherwise he is deeply emotional. He just feels it all differently. You found a sincerity within him, and reflections of yourself in his mannerisms. "Also-- the WORLD? This minivan sized snail challenges the world? Really?" He puffs a laugh. 

Every morning you’d love to have him. Whether it’s just a warm body to lie next to or a heat to envelop you with need, you wanted Adrian. That much had been made clear to you. Recounting the first day you caught him in your home, he was oddly emotional. He mumbled something about wanting to get out of his house, and how he wanted to make sure you got home okay. You played video games together until he couldn’t stop smiling. You made his life brighter, and he made yours a glimmering sun. 

The days after that he’d make himself useful to you. He’d clean up your kitchen, or offer to fold your laundry. He wasn’t completely parasitic to your humble home. To you, despite the sudden intrusions, his presence more than made up for it. You were constantly surrounded by people you felt you didn’t resemble. You didn’t have the right words to say in the proper order in any conversation. You would be met with odd glances and interactions you were certain you “failed” time and time again. With Adrian, however, none of that mattered. He was direct and honest, brutally so. He was what you wanted, even if he was a psycho killer weirdo. 

Adrian cheers as the 12 foot snail, centipede creature is slain in the final minutes of the film. "Do you think we should bring fire extinguishers with us? Is that good monster deterrent?"

You hum, "I think guns do the trick just fine, Ade."

He ponders a moment before arguing, "What if you're all out of ammo? Bet a fire extinguisher could save the day,"

You laugh, "Have fun carrying one around then." Getting up from the couch, you carry away the now empty snack plate. 

He follows you closely. "Is your back still hurting? You never said it stopped," You'd imagine he'd forget by now.

"It always feels a little stiff, it can't be helped," you shrug as you place the plate into your dishwasher. He purses his lips. You attempt to steer him down a different path and back to the couch, “What next? The night is young," That little voice whispers about him "helping" you with your back and then grabbing your waist and tipping you forward until your chest-- "I could beat your ass in Mario Kart," you sound a bit panicked when you say it. It was an attempt to silence your rapidly developing mental porno. Adrian still had that look on his face. He hadn't turned to follow you back to the couch. 

"Adrian?" you hadn't seen him this concentrated in a while. He was staring into your kitchen sink like it was a puzzle. "Earth to Adrian," you pushed.

He shifted his lips before turning to you, "Do you like me?" his eyes are misty and confused. 

You dumbly stare back. The pout on his features is a rare sight, and a heartbreaking contrast to his typical demeanor. “Of course I do, Ade, what’s going on?” He shrugs at you before adjusting his stance. Facing you, but not turning his gaze back to meet your own, he lightly shakes his head. You take a couple steps towards him, “Why are you asking that?”

He chews on his lip before coarsely responding, “You’ve been pretty out of it today, not really laughing at my jokes or— I dunno it just feels like you’re somewhere else,” A tense silence fills the air as you reel in a response. Before you can, he sighs and continues, “It feels like I’m annoying you.”

You immediately take a further step, now only a couple breaths apart from him. “Adrian, you are not annoying me. Never.” You have to find an explanation for your behavior that isn’t “I was daydreaming of a life with you, and of your hands down my pants” quickly.

“It’s just,” it’s technically the truth, “Adebayo talked with me today and she was teasing about us hanging out all the time, said some people might be thinking we’re…” you flap around your hands, unable to say the word for fear of heart palpitations.

“Dating?” Adrian’s eyes were a bit sad as he finished your sentence.

“Yeah, not that that’s a gross thing, or whatever, I just don’t like it when people talk behind my back. Y’know?” He nods. There’s tears in his eyes still. You continue, “That’s what I was thinking about, sorry it seemed like something else.” His eyes don’t meet yours. You cock your head to find them. You’d gotten into mixups like this before, but usually Adrian bounced out pretty quickly.  You could tell something was being processed in his head, the way his eyes darted around indicating as much.

Finally, he spoke: “I heard people talking too.”

Shit.

“What’d you hear?” You try to keep your voice neutral. Indicating any foreknowledge about your rumored crush could botch the whole operation.

He plays with his hands as he looks to the ground before answering, “It’s dumb, but… I heard some people talking about how you had a thing for me a while ago,” A defibrillator to your chest would give you less of a jolt. You choose to let him finish before digging your own grave. You have a lovely spot in the backyard you’ve been eyeing for a while now. 

“So I went to Chris, and he said you ‘totally do’ and tried giving me tips… But you don’t feel that way, right? So I guess he was just fucking with me,” He’s spiraling before you. He’s shaking his head with a teary smile and avoiding your eyes.

“That’s not true,” you want to lunge for him, to kiss all the tears away and to hold him so closely he melts into you forever. His eyes snap up to you, awaiting your explanation. 

“I do have feelings for you, I really really do,” your throat is closing up under Adrian’s intense gaze.

“But you turned down my massage earlier?”

You shake your head and crack a laugh, “What did Chris tell you?” He had to be to blame.

“That giving you a massage would show me you felt the same way and bring us closer… He also said you’re a tight ass who probably needed one anyway,” You bust out laughing. Oh, you were going to kill Chris for sure. “I don’t think that by the way, I mean I don’t know anything about your ass and that’s a rude thing to say but like, whatever, right? You actually like me? Like, romantic feelings?” His face cracked into a huge smile at the sound of your laughter.

Calming your breaths, you respond, “I do, I have for a while,” your tone almost sheepish.

His eyes go wide and he cackles before excitedly grabbing you and running towards the couch. You laugh as you’re dragged along. He guides you onto the couch carefully, though very quickly, before plopping himself beside you.

His face was bright red, “Man, thank fucking God! I was dying here every day thinking you didn’t want anything to do with me,” He panted before running a hand over his hair. 

He really sat on your couch in agony, trying to place himself in your home so he could be closer to you. So you would love him.

“How long have you felt this way?” You wanted to know how much time to make up for.

“Oh a while now, like since I crashed your place that first time, I think?” Energy radiated off of him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He poked your knee before mocking you, “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Because I thought—“ You stop yourself and stare at him. His smile is wide, pure joy emitting from it. What a fucking pair of idiots you were, staring lovestruck at each other. You shake your head, “The massage advice wasn’t all bad, I owe Chris that much.”

Adrian’s head perked up, “You liked it? I thought I made you uncomfortable or something,” He played with his sleeve, pink dusting his cheeks, “Like I teased you too much during it or something.” 

Heat crept up your neck, “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you murmured. Adrian tapped your knee with a single finger. You rose your gaze to match his. His glasses hung low on his nose, his irises peaking through his lashes.

He spoke lowly, “How did it make you feel?” Your mouth felt dry. Shame and heat filled your body, and that little voice whispered all sorts of answers into your throat. 

“It made me feel… good,” You were a bit pathetic.

He tapped your knee again, “You’re more creative than that. Tell me exactly what was going through your head.”

It wasn’t often you got to see Adrian this direct. His eyes were dark. Gone was the jovial man you adored, in his place a new shade of him you craved. You corrected yourself, “It made me picture your hands everywhere. It made me want so much more. Adrian,” You took in a breath, “I wanted to feel you against me, your words in my head, and your dick shoved—“ 

Rushing fabric passes your sides as Adrian cages you in. His arms stationed on either side of your body, his face inches away from your own. You can feel his breath against your face and neck. His eyes are nearly black.

“Do you want that right now?” His voice is gravelly, and it scratches every inch of your body as you shiver. You’re helpless as you limply nod. He shakes his head. In a semi-serious tone he emphasizes, “Need you to say it, say: ‘I want you—“

“Adrian Chase I need you to fuck me.” 

He immediately ripped off his shirt. You could feel every inch of yourself burning for him. Returning the favor, your stripped off your top. Your core felt tight and hot. His hands cautiously went to hold your waist. He looked certain, ravenous, but still nervous.

Easing him, you reached for his glasses. “These are gonna fall off anyway, right?” He holds perfectly still as you remove them from his face. Setting them onto the nearby table, once your gaze returns to his your breath stills. A bright red dust covers his face, down his neck and onto his shoulders. His lips are parted in slight awe as he calibrates. 

Leaning forward, you drift a hand behind his jaw and into his curls. His eyes drop to your lips, then slowly flick back to your own. Within them he conveys his love for you, and the need burning in his chest. Tipping your head towards him, he gratefully meets you halfway. The kiss is greedy and full of desire. Adrian inhales you as he places his clamoring hands onto your waist. His firm lips work to memorize the sensation of yours upon him. Breath fails you both as you part, a foggy heat surrounding your bodies.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers as he leans into your neck. Kiss after kiss trails down your neck, across your collar bones and down your sternum. A whine escapes your lips as he lifts your hips, shifting you onto your back.

He tuts a laugh before removing his pants. “You’re gonna be noisy again?” You throw your hands over your face before moaning. His fingers tap along your thighs, “Want me to take these off for you?”

Removing your hands you find his eyes staring sweetly at you. His hands are placed beside your bent knees, and a small smile plays on his face. Nodding, you move to aid him in the endeavor. Quickly, clad in your underwear still, Adrian braces his hands on either side of your hips. His gaze drops to the apex of your thighs and drag up every inch of your exposed flesh before landing on your eyes. You feel disgustingly vulnerable beneath his gaze. Your cheeks melt as he presses his thumbs into the voids of your pelvis. A moan escapes your lips.

“Keep being noisy, baby,” He slots his pelvis against yours, the feeling of his briefs against you overwhelming. You allow your eyes to drop to witness it. He’s incredibly hard, with a pinhead sized wet spot quickly developing at the tip of his concealed cock. “I need to hear how I make you feel,” he grinds against your heat, panting out a sigh at the sensation. Granting his wish, you release a lewd chorus at the feeling. He grins wildly as he presses into you again and again and again.

“That’s it, good job,” he praises. Your face is on fire from the intensity of his stare. His cock keeps you bare for him, the sensation preventing your limbs from denying him his view. His movements increase in fervor, desperation playing on his features. Your moans are met with his whimpers and grunts.

“You’re doing so good, fuck,” he hangs his head as he increases the speed. His stiff cock now weeping well through his briefs, a trail leaking onto you. You whine, throwing your head back into the cushions,

“Adrian, please, need you,” He laughs at you, the fucking bastard.

“‘Need me’ what? Use your words, genius,” His smile was wicked. The push of his dick against the fabric of your underwear becoming unbearable.

The phantom sensation of him pumping it deep inside of you overbearing, “I need you inside, Adrian, please,” you moan pathetically.

He stills, pulling himself away from you. You watch as his core tenses, tiny jolts rocking through him. His muscles spasm in a hypnotic manner as he chokes on his breaths. His arms are locked as his thumbs push indents into your pelvis. His cock bobs slightly beneath his briefs. Tiny whimpers escape him as he calms down, before shuddering a sigh,

“Christ, you almost made me… Fuck,” He shakes his head as his eyes return to your overblown pupils. You had to ride him. No other thought crossed your mind, the all-consuming certainty was that you needed him beneath you shaking like that.

With a gentle determination, you rose from your prone position. Forcing him to sit properly on the couch, you swung a thigh over his lap before reaching for the hem of his underwear. “Wanna ride you, Ade, that sound good?” His wide eyes stared at your hands. Coming down from a near-orgasm fried his brain. You lean and kiss his damp forehead sweetly. His half-lidded eyes rise to meet your gaze. Your voice as soft and heavenly as warm honey, “Well?” 

Adrian rips his briefs down his thighs before hovering his hands above your undergarments. With a light laugh, you whisper an affirmative before he makes quick work of them. He moves like he’s unwrapping a very precious present, quickly and tenderly. Completely bare before one another, you analyze every inch between you. Adrian’s toned pale skin shudders under your gaze. His eyes map out each detail of your form with a crisp sense of joy on his features. Those brilliant green eyes rise to meet yours. His face adorned with an adorable boyish smirk as he sheepishly wraps his hands around your waist. 

Presenting yourself closer, you press your torso to his. He removes one hand to move it towards the apex of your thighs. Shaking, he speaks, “You sure? Like this?” His eyes are locked on where he’s about to enter you. He swallows thickly as his cock bobs in anticipation.

You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, “Yes, I’m very sure,” your eyes are warm as you tilt down to properly face him. His puppy dog eyes and awe stricken face meet you. Nodding, he grabs the base of his cock and awaits further direction. Keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he feels your thighs shift against him before the tip of himself kisses your entrance. Your mouths fall open in quiet lewd utterances. 

Slowly, you allow him to breach. His eyes never waver from yours as you sink onto him. Silent moans wrack your throat as you feel each inch glide into you. He whimpers out before his hands move to your waist. Unable to prevent it, he curls into you with a shuddering sob.

“So… Fuck, you’re so hot down here,” his voice is that of a pardoned sinner. He whines as he places kisses onto your neck and collarbones.

His arms cling to you as you settle onto him. He’s sheathed fully within you, each heartbeat wrecking him even more. You huff out a menacing laugh as you grind your hips ever so slightly. Adrian groans, throwing his head back to stare up at you.

“You’re so noisy,” You tease. Gritting his jaw, Adrian places his hands onto your waist before slamming up into you from beneath. A choked moan releases from your lungs as Adrian laughs in your face.

Determined, you begin to rise and fall onto him. Slowly, a pace develops, you piercing yourself and Adrian falling further and further into you. His hands grip your flesh as you move. He grits his teeth, insisting on being less vocal than you. You make quick work of wearing him out from that ridiculous concept. With a pointed desire: you form a pattern of raising then crashing into a tantalizing grind onto him, then going quicker and quicker. Adrian’s eyes close in bliss as he releases a throaty moan beneath you.

Softly, through little gasps, Adrian prays to you. A litany of praises fall from his babbling lips, a string of “so good, so good,” and “please, please, please,” that all fade into blissful whimpers. You always loved how much he talked.

Close as clothes to skin, you lean to his ear, “Wanna know something?” Adrian nods fervently. You let the little voice win over.

“I’ve been daydreaming of this— of you, for a whole week,” Adrian’s hands grip your waist tighter.

He locks his jaw in a tight clench before nodding his head and humming a sweet “Mm-hmm?”

Splitting a breathless smile, you continue, “That day you gave me that— that massage?” You have to catch your breath as you pound onto him pointedly. Adrian’s knuckles turn a bone white as he grounds himself. “You could’ve fucked me, wanted you to. God, I needed you to,” you moan as the image flows into your head. Then the memory of him desperately rutting against you mere moments ago, it builds and builds behind your skull. “Didn’t think you wanted me like this, thought all this time that— I was some lewd freak for thinking all that,” you laugh at yourself.

Adrian’s eyes meet yours as his jaw falls slack. “Whenever you want me, I’m yours. I’m all yours, always,” He pants out. Pure desperation and sincerity paints his irises. He pistons his hips up to meet yours in a salacious fever. “I’m all fucking yours, so long as…” He pants headily as his eyes bounce between your eyes and your lips.

You grip his shoulders as you increase your speed, “I’m yours, too, Adrian— and you’re mine, all mine,” Adrian releases a tight and whiny curse as he quickly grips your neck and slams his lips onto yours. Lightning fast movements, desperate utterances, and the lewd chorus of your skin echoing off the walls of your shared home finish with shaking moans and tense muscles. Adrian releases you to witness your shaking thighs grip his own. An empty gasp and a short cuss escape his lips as he watches his cock pulse within you. 

Lungs rapidly filling with and expelling air, the pair of you settle in due time. Adrian’s eyes remain locked onto your joining. Slowly, his spend leaks down and around his softening cock from within you. He shudders as he reflexively bucks into your oversensitive hole. Wracking a moan through you, your hands flex against Adrian’s shoulders. Adrian peels his eyes from his new favorite view to meet his favorite person’s gaze. Above him, you glow a warmth he had been craving his whole life. A small smile about your lips, totally disheveled otherwise. Beneath you, Adrian exudes pure love. Your heart skips entire measures as it hits you with full force. 

Sticky and spent, you lean down and kiss Adrian on the bridge of his nose. His eyes fall closed in bliss before tilting his head to meet your lips. He breathes you in as though you’re his first taste of true oxygen. Slowly parting, Adrian moves to rest his head upon your chest. The uncomfortable state of your skin begins to affect both of you. Gently, you lift Adrian’s head and raise your hips from him. Through gritted teeth, he reacts to your absence from around him. On wobbly legs, you stand in front of him. You reach to his hands and weave your fingers. “How’s a shower sound?” 

Sweetly, clumsily, and with the typical level of banter and laughter expected of Adrian, you both complete bathing. Remarkably, well cleaned and without slipping over one another. He’s calmer than normal, and incredibly clingy. While you’re getting dressed again, his hands are all over you. He’s helping you put on every article of clothing. He has to, in his own eyes.

“Thank you…” He murmurs into your shoulder. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Ade,” You place your hand onto his freshly clothed chest. Studying his nervous gaze, you await his statement.

He continues, “I mean, thank you for liking me. I was so worried for… a while that I was just going to weird you out if I confessed,” he shakes his head, avoiding eye contact, “I mean I thought you wouldn’t like me back, that there’d be no way you did actually—“ he laughs at himself.

You rub your thumb on his chest and attempt to meet his gaze, forcing him to feel your presence and adoration. His glimmering irises meet you.

His lip is chewed raw before he finishes, “Do you wanna date me, like officially?”

You nod, smiling at his boyishness, “I do, Adrian.” He flashes a bright grin before loosely wrapping his arms around your middle, and connecting his lips with yours.

Releasing, he sighs, “Good.”

૮ - ﻌ - ა .✮⋆˙.𖥔 ݁ ݁˖

ps: I AM the kind of neurodivergent to match Adrian’s freak. You have no idea how far I’m pulling back from the deep need to info dump about crows or spiders or sharks or. Literally anything. I'd go to bat w/ this freak so hard. Also, I reference the film “The Monster Who Challenged the World” and all scene references are accurate to the film. It’s obviously not required watching lol. Also x2 do not be fooled by the em dashes, no AI was used in the writing of this fic. I just love (and always have loved) using em dashes.

[vigilantexreader]

adrian chase's official bff list

Adrian Chase x fem!Reader, 4.6k

You work your way up Adrian’s bff list until Chris finally gets demoted.

tags/warnings: the fluffiest fluff that will ever fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, checkmate office dynamics, reader gets shot on a mission, lowkey autistic!adrian

Thank you @embeanwrites for the edits and suggestions!!

Masterlist

Adrian likes to sort things. He organizes his M&Ms into color-coded piles before he eats them. His phone contacts are all listed in his phone precisely with first names and last names so that everyone is in exact alphabetical order. His desk at Checkmate is actually the neatest out of anyone’s, which surprises a lot of the team, but all his documents are set in specific piles with tabbed and color-coded folders so he knows exactly where they are and what they’re for.

He sorts people, too. Socializing has never been easy for him, so he falls back on his usual methods to make things manageable. People don’t often realize how serious he’s being when he mentions his best friend list, but it’s one of his most important tools.

For a long time, the list was very short. Only Peacemaker. A short time later, he added Eagly. His family didn’t count (fuck his brother, and his overbearing mother definitely didn’t make the cut). In high school, he included the group of guys he played Dungeons and Dragons with, but as they grew up and went to college and got new lives, he lost touch with all of them, and they eventually got cut.

When he met the 11th Street Kids, his best friend list quadrupled in size overnight. He also eventually added a few coworkers from Fennel Fields that he found tolerable. It grew again when they founded Checkmate and he added Fleury and Bordeaux into the mix. Even Judomaster had a spot at the very bottom, but he was on thin fucking ice. If he considered the entire multiverse, his alternate self would definitely get added, but he didn’t want to make things too complicated. And that didn’t feel fair to everyone else, really–how could they compete with himself?

Adrian sits down at least once a month to review the list. Names shift up and down all the time, but John and Ads tend to stay near the top. Eagly has been at number two for a long time, but he gets knocked down a peg or two occasionally if he bites Adrian. He’ll typically be forgiven and moved back into position when he gives him a small dead rodent as an apology.

The only spot that stays 100% constant is Chris. Adrian’s not an idiot. He knows that he’s not at the top of Chris’s best friend list. Chris is kind of a mess; he probably doesn’t even have a list. That might help him work some shit out, actually, Adrian thinks. But Chris is still his best friend, and that means something to him. It makes his world make sense, to know where his priorities lie, to know who he trusts and admires and enjoys spending time with the most.

All this to say, the list is a key tool for Adrian, so when you get hired at Checkmate and introduced into the tight-knit crew of the 11th Street Kids, and it becomes clear you aren’t going anywhere any time soon, he slots your name in at the bottom of his list, right above Judomaster where everyone starts when he first meets them. But you don’t stay there for long.

Really, you fit in surprisingly well, considering you weren’t there for all the butterfly-induced trauma bonding or Nazi-universe hopping. It helps that you get along with everyone individually.

Adrian knows he can be overbearing. He’s a lot, he’s heard Harcourt say. He notices the twitch in John’s eye when he talks a bit too much, the way Chris has to stop himself from yelling sometimes. So he tries not to overwhelm you when you first arrive, staying back and giving you space to settle in. He watches, instead–you and Chris shooting the shit in the back of the van on the way to missions, you chatting with Ads about queer music icons, you complimenting John on his endless collection of graphic t-shirts, you sharing your secret chocolate stash with Harcourt when she’s particularly cranky.

A few weeks in, he realizes you’re watching him, too. He starts to warm up to you, testing the waters with little jokes and animal facts. It takes him a while to get a read on you–facial expressions and body language are notoriously difficult for him–but you never tell him to shut up when he’s rambling like Chris. Never get twitchy like John after too long in his general vicinity. You just listen intently, giving him your full attention in a way that no one else really does. You ask him questions not just to humor him, but because you actually think it’s adorable that sea otters hold hands when they sleep and it’s interesting that an octopus has three hearts, and you want Adrian to tell you more about it.

“You’re only my fourth best friend now, Economos,” Adrian calls across the office one day when John does something to piss him off.

“I don’t fucking care where I am on your stupid best friend list, Adrian,” John says, and you overhear the conversation from your own desk. Your eyes bounce back and forth between them, confused.

“Best friend list?”

“Adrian has a stupid list where he ranks his friends,” John tells you. “Kinda messed up, actually. Like we’re in some fucked up competition for his friendship.”

“It’s not stupid or fucked up,” Adrian protests. “It’s important! Everyone should know where they stand. Communication is important in friendships.”

“That’s actually true,” you agree. “Communication is important.”

“See, John, I told you!”

“Why the fuck are you agreeing with him?” John asks, bewildered. You ignore him, turning to Adrian.

“Am I on your best friend list?” you ask, truly curious whether you’ve made the cut.

“Of course,” Adrian says, like it’s obvious. “In fact, you’ve just moved up several spots because you’re actually nice to me, unlike some people in this office.” You flush, apparently pleased, and for some reason, Adrian feels heat rising in his own cheeks, too.

John scoffs as he looks between you. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You’re also funny, Adrian quickly learns, and smart, and kind, and loyal. Pretty, too, but he doesn’t usually use that as one of the criteria for the best friend list. He still thinks it, though, and catches himself watching you sometimes from across the room. Sometimes you catch him, too, but you never make him feel like a creep–you just smile at him and wave with an adorable little wiggle of your fingers. He feels good around you.

On a particularly rough day, he thinks you look a little stressed. Your hands are gripping your hair like you want to pull it out at the root, and he knows that he only does that when he’s really frustrated. 

“Do you think she’s okay?” he asks Ads, and she looks surprised that he’s even asking, that he’s noticed someone else’s emotions at all.

“You could just ask her what’s wrong,” she suggests. He looks terrified by the prospect, so she backtracks. “Or you could just…go say something reassuring.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. “Okay, I can do that.”

So Adrian stops by your desk and says quietly, “You’re doing a great job. It’s okay.”

You look slightly self-conscious, like you’re embarrassed to be caught having a meltdown, but also happy, and he thinks he’s done something right.

The next day, when he walks in, there’s a bag of watermelon Sour Patch Kids and a thank-you sticky note with a little doodle of Infernape sitting by his keyboard, and he grins, wider than he has in a while.

He likes that you remember little things about him like his favorite candy and his favorite Pokemon. It makes him feel important.

So when he gets to Checkmate HQ early one day, he decides it’s time to review the list. He has a lot to consider. He hasn’t known you very long, but you make a significant jump from the bottom, leaping over his old coworkers from Fennel Fields (the ones he keeps in touch with, at least), the guy who works the counter at the video arcade, and almost all of the other employees at Checkmate–even Fleury, who is constantly willing to entertain Adrian’s strange conversations. Then all that’s left is the 11th Street Kids, and for the first time in a while, he has to really think about it.

Chris stays at the top, obviously. John’s been spending a lot of time quizzing him on animal facts this week, so he currently occupies the number two spot. Then Eagly, then…Ads? Yes, that makes sense. She was nice enough to give Adrian a ride last week while the Vigilante-mobile was in the shop. Then there’s just Harcourt and you, and he hesitates, considers.

Harcourt can be kind of a bitch. Adrian tries not to hold it against her–he knows he can be a lot, sometimes. But you never yell at him the way she does, even when he does something stupid, and he does stupid things, like, every day.

“That can’t be right,” he says to himself. He’s only known you a month, and you’ve made your way into the top five?

His train of thought is interrupted as the door to the building swings open and he hears you laugh at something John is saying.

“Hey, Ade, I grabbed your favorite while I was at the store this morning,” you say, chucking a bag of sour cream and onion chips at his head. He smiles, wide, snatching them out of the air.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at the potato chips with pleasant surprise.

Maybe you did deserve that top five spot.

A few months later, you’ve worked your way even further up the list, all the way up to number three. Eagly is Chris’s friend more than Adrian’s, he’s realized, and while Ads is always nice to him, she won’t sit with him and play board games for hours on the weekends the way that you will.

He’s started hanging out with you outside of work all the time, actually. He probably spends more time with you than any other person he knows, and he marvels at the fact that you’re not sick of him yet. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but you still come into the office every day with a smile and ask, “What are we doing this weekend?” and he will take whatever you will give him for as long as you’re willing to give it.

He likes you. Like likes you, and the others are starting to notice his infatuation, even if you haven’t. The way he blushes when you compliment him, and how he hangs on your every word. Normally he won’t shut up, and it’s hard for anyone else to get a word in, but when it’s you talking, he’s puppy-eyed and laser-focused. Everyone’s learned that if Adrian needs to know anything important, they need to tell you to tell him.

Chris and John, who currently occupy spots one and two, call him out on his big fat crush one day in the break room.

“When are you going to man up and ask her out for real, dude?” Chris asks. 

“That’s a sexist concept,” Adrian says. “Why is it ‘man up’ and not ‘woman up?’”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a sexist asshole. You’re avoiding the question! She hangs out with you all the time. She stayed late last night to help you repair your Vigilante suit. She’s obviously into you.”

“Her stitches are neater than mine,” Adrian says defensively. “She offered.”

“Because she likes you, you moron,” John says, exasperated.

You walk into the room on the tail end of John’s sentence. The three men look at you like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been, and you frown, expression hardening.

“Fuck off, John,” you say. “Quit calling Adrian names. You know, all of you should be nicer to him.”

Adrian sags a bit with relief when he realizes you didn’t hear the beginning of the conversation. His secret is safe, for now. 

But he also smiles, because he really likes it when you tell people to fuck off for being assholes to him.

For the rest of that week, Chris and John are on their best behavior around you. The second they open their mouths, all you have to do is glare at them. Adrian spends so much time protecting other people that it’s nice to be protected, for once.

You have his back during ops, too. Over the next few months, you become his preferred mission partner, even more so than Chris–you two have become a kind of dynamic duo in the field, falling into sync like you’ve been training together all your lives. If he thought he was having fun killing bad guys before you came along, it’s a dozen times better with you by his side, because you actually laugh at his stupid jokes.

“Gotcha, you shithead!” Adrian laughs, holstering his gun in his utility belt after nailing a drug dealer with a headshot. He’s in full Vigilante uniform. You’re in your own less flashy Checkmate uniform–simple black pants and jacket with the logo.

“That everyone, Harcourt?” you ask into your earpiece, standing back to back with him in the abandoned warehouse. The gunfire has ceased, and you’re surrounded by a dozen bodies.

“Yep,” she says. “Meet back at the entrance, we’ll regroup and make a plan for cleanup.”

Adrian’s already drifted off, poking his nose around into boxes he probably shouldn’t be.

“Ooh, look at this beauty!” he says, pulling a machine gun out of an open crate.

“Adrian, don’t touch that,” you say, like you’re talking to a toddler. You can’t see his face through the mask, but you’re positive that he frowns at you as he drops it back in.

“Why not?” he complains.

Then you see a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye, and you don’t even think, just react, stepping in front of Adrian right as one of the apparently-not-dead bad guys on the floor raises his gun and fires a shot.

In the split second, Adrian has already drawn his own weapon, and he takes the guy out with a shot to the head faster than you can blink. Then he looks at you with wide eyes. At the hand pressed to your thigh that’s bloody when you pull it away.

“Oh, no,” he says, and you hit the ground. “No, no, no.”

“What the fuck was that?” Harcourt demands over comms.

“She’s hit!” Adrian reports, distraught as he takes a knee and reaches for you, pressing hard into your leg where the bullet entered your thigh. You cry out. “One of them wasn’t dead. Oh, fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

“Get her out of there, Chase,” Harcourt orders.

“I need you to keep pressure on it,” Adrian says urgently. “So I can pick you up and carry you out. Okay?”

“Fuck,” you gasp, wincing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Economos, pull the van around,” you hear Harcourt say, and John gives the affirmative.

Adrian gets his arms under your back and your knees. You flinch with the movement and curse. There’s a lot of blood, he thinks. Too much of it, red and thick and spilling everywhere, darkening the fabric of your pants in a way that Adrian does not like. God, why was there so much blood?

“If you die, I’m gonna kill you,” he says as he races back through the warehouse. His heart is pounding with a kind of fear he hasn’t felt in–well, ever. “And then I’ll kill everyone else, too. So don’t even fucking think about it, okay?”

You laugh, but the sound is faint, your eyes fluttering like you’re struggling to keep them open. But you’re smiling, so he smiles, too, even as he feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. 

“I don’t feel so good, Ade,” you pant. “I think–fuck–I think he nicked an artery.” Then you go limp in his arms, head falling back against his shoulder, and he curses and picks up speed, a full-on sprint toward the entrance.

“No, no, no,” he says frantically, kicking open the warehouse doors. Tires screech as John pulls the Checkmate van around, and Harcourt throws the door open.

Adrian jumps up inside with you cradled in his arms, places you down on the floor, and snaps at John. “Fucking step on it, dude! She needs a hospital!” 

Both John and Harcourt look almost a little terrified of him. They’ve known Adrian for years now, but they’ve never really been on the receiving end of his Vigilante rage. The van falls quiet for a split second, everyone shocked into silence, before Harcourt just says, “Go,” and John takes off.

Adrian has already turned his focus back to you, ripping his Vigilante mask off and tossing it aside so he can see you more clearly. He taps your face, tries to bring you back to consciousness, hits you harder when it doesn’t work at first. When you finally blink blearily up at him, he’s so relieved he feels like he might vomit.

“We’re going to the hospital, okay?” he says, cradling your face with his gloved hands. “You’re going to be okay. I need you to stay awake for me, sweetheart.”

They get you to the hospital, and Adrian sits, worried sick, in the waiting room for hours while he and Harcourt wait for news from the doctor. He’s radiating anxious energy, wringing his hands and tapping his foot and huffing a frustrated sigh every thirty seconds, and Harcourt doesn’t even call him out for being annoying because she’s never seen him like this before, like one wrong word could set him off at any moment.

Once you’re out of surgery, the doctor finally comes to see them.

“She’ll be just fine,” she says, and the relieved noise Adrian makes is almost inhuman. “She can have one visitor, but she’s not awake yet. Room 203.”

Adrian looks to Harcourt for permission, begging silently with wide eyes. She doesn’t hesitate. She knows who you will want there when you wake up.

“Go,” she says, and Adrian bolts.

He sits at your bedside and holds your hand. While you sleep, he reorganizes his best friend list. He moves you up to a new, permanent spot at number two.

When you finally wake, wincing at the bright fluorescent light, Adrian’s hand tightens in yours.

“Hey,” you say. You don’t ask what happened; you remember. “Thanks for the save back there.”

“What the fuck was that,” Adrian says, confused and almost angry, but mostly relieved because you’re awake and you’re talking to him and you’re going to be okay. “You just–stepped in front of a bullet! Why the hell would you do that!”

“You’re my best friend. I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say, like he should already know that, and he kind of does, but this–this is–

“I don’t feel emotions like people do, but I still feel emotions. And I would feel sad if you died,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “So please don’t do that again. Please.”

“Hey, hey,” you say, soothing, your hands coming up to his face to brush away the errant tears that slip their way down his cheeks. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m okay.”

Maybe it’s the sweet pet name that does it, or the soft tone of your voice. He’s not really sure why he does it, or if he needs a reason, but he stands up, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you.

“I really like you,” Adrian says when he pulls away, and you beam at him, wide and bright.

“I hope I’m not just high on painkillers right now,” you whisper. “I really like you too.”

He laughs and kisses you again.

Adrian realizes a few months later that it’s been a while since he reviewed the list. There’s been a lot going on, and it just fell to the wayside–you’d been healing up, Adrian was still going on mission after mission, and now that they’re an official business, Ads is making them do a shit ton of paperwork, too.

There’s also the fact that he hasn’t had a spare minute to himself because he’s been spending them all with you, not that he minds. He prefers it, actually, to being alone, especially now that you’re doing things like kissing and saying I love you instead of just playing video games and skirting around your feelings.

So one night while he’s sitting with you on the couch in your apartment, watching reruns of Doctor Who, he closes his eyes and thinks about his best friend list.

He starts at the bottom and works his way up, his usual method. Not much has changed toward the bottom, but Judomaster is starting to grow on him. He’s been teaching him some wicked fighting moves. Maybe he could move up a spot or two so he’s not at dead last.

Then he gets to the top: Harcourt, Ads, Eagly, John, you, Chris.

Adrian stops. Something feels wrong.

He shifts things around again, swapping Ads for Eagly, then Eagly for John, even trying Harcourt in a higher position than usual, but something’s still off.

His eyes blink open. He looks down at you, munching on pretzels, laying horizontal with your feet in his lap. You feel his stare and glance back at him, furrow your brows. Then you smile, softly, and it clicks in his brain.

“What?” you ask, still smiling, but confused as you read some kind of realization on his face. “Did you forget something at work?”

Adrian stares at you like you’ve just turned his world upside down. Maybe you have, in small, incremental ways over the months that he’s known you, working your way into his soul until you’re suddenly, unquestionably, the most important person in his life.

“Hey, let me up for a sec?” he says, shifting your feet from where they lay in his lap. You acquiesce easily, letting him stand.

“Sure. Are you okay, Ade?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek, but when he draws away, you pull him back in for a real one, lips pressing up into his.

“I love you,” you tell him, because he’s acting weird.

“I love you, too,” he says, and his chest floods with warmth the way it always does when he hears you say those words. He kisses you again, more thoroughly, unable to help himself. “I’ll be right back. Really.” You reluctantly release your hold on him and he heads toward your bedroom, head swimming with this sudden internal crisis.

Adrian’s world has revolved around Chris for so long. At some point, it had become a kind of irrefutable truth of his life that Chris was his best friend. But–he trusts his gut. This list means something to him, and if Chris isn’t at the top of it anymore–well. 

If his world revolved around you, now, instead, he thinks he’s okay with that. More than okay with it, really, because for the first time in his life, it’s mutual, and your world revolves around him, too.

Adrian reaches to the bedroom and closes the door most of the way, leaving it open just a crack so he can hear you call if you need him. Then he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Hey Vig, what’s up?” Chris asks, and Adrian hesitates, just for a breath.

“Hey, Peace. I have something to tell you, but I don’t want to bum you out,” he says. 

“Just tell me, dude.”

“You’re not my BFF anymore,” Adrian says, quickly, like he’s ripping off a bandaid.

Chris is silent on the end of the line for a second.

“You called me just to tell me that I’m not your best friend? I already knew that, Adrian.”

“No you didn’t–how the hell would you know that? I didn’t know that until two minutes ago!” Adrian protests.

“Adrian,” Chris says. “It’s okay, man. I’m still number two, right?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“Listen, I’m cool with that. I’m your friend,” Chris says, “but she’s your person. She gets you in a way that I never could. I don’t know how she does it, but you two were like, made for each other. It’s kinda freaky how perfect she is for you.”

“I never told you who was number one.”

“I’m not an idiot. Obviously it’s your girlfriend. Now get the hell off the phone with me and go be with her.”

“Okay,” Adrian says, but Chris has already hung up on him.

He stares at his phone for a minute after he hangs up. His lock screen is a picture of you that he took three weeks ago, taken at the local arcade. You’re beaming, showing off your skee-ball high score.

When he walks back into the living room, you notice immediately. You’ve laid out on the couch and pulled a blanket over yourself. You hold it up, an invitation.

“Come cuddle,” you demand, and he follows your order happily, settling himself on top of you and pulling the blanket over you both. Your hands come to settle in his hair, fingernails gently scratching. He closes his eyes; he likes the way it feels.

“Were you on the phone?” you ask. “You were gone for a while.”

“It was just Chris. No biggie.”

“Did he need you for something? We can always do this another night,” you say, gesturing at the television.

“I have something important to tell you,” Adrian says, suddenly feeling anxious about it. It feels big and important. You hear it in his voice, and your hands stop their gentle movement in his hair. He starts fiddling with the hem of your shirt, an expression of nervous energy.

“You can tell me anything, you know that, baby,” you say. “Hey, look at me.”

Adrian tilts his head to look up at you, props himself up on one elbow. You plant a lingering kiss on his lips and feel him relax into you.

“What is it?” you ask, with one final peck to the side of his mouth. He smiles down at you.

“You’re my best friend,” he tells you, matter-of-factly. Surer of that than he ever has been of anything else in his life.

“I’m number two, I know,” you laugh.

“No,” he says, and you feel like your heart might stop at the look on his face, the adoration that radiates from his wide puppy-dog eyes. “You’re number one.”

You feel the weight of the words as they sink in.

“Really?” you whisper, feeling emotional. You already know that he loves you, but this feels different, even more important somehow.

“Yeah. I just told Chris he’s not my best friend anymore.”

A laugh bursts out of you.

“Did you really call him to tell him he got demoted?”

“What? He deserved to know!”

You smile; it shines out of you, lights up your whole face, makes him feel golden. How did he not realize before today that it could only ever be you?

“Number one, huh? Do I get, like, a special certificate? Or a trophy?”

“I can definitely make you one of those if you want it! You can keep it at your desk at work. We can go to the craft store tomorrow?” Adrian suggests. “Or maybe we can get matching BFF necklaces! Chris would never wear one, so I never even bothered asking, but–”

“I think that sounds like a great idea, Adrian,” you say, and you draw him in for another kiss to stop his rambling.

[embeanwrites]

Gummy Stash (Adrian Chase/Reader)

Summary: Adrian has a habit of coming over to his girlfriend's apartment to do chores, but he stumbles across what he thinks is candy (it's not)

Masterlist

Smut Part 2

Through her relationship with Adrian she had learned to get used to some of his…quirks. They had been dating for a little over a year and she came to love and understand (the best she could) that he always meant well. Even if he didn’t understand why there was confusion on her part. 

To him, this was how he showed love and no one prior had ever taken the time to really get to know him and understand his quirks. It frustrated her when his friends treated him poorly, but he always assured it was their way of showing him that they cared, it was just different. After meeting a few of them and seeing just how emotionally constipated they all were, maybe Adrian wasn’t half wrong. 

But it still didn’t fully explain Adrian’s behavior. For example, weird calls at even weirder times occurred frequently, normally due to some animal he saw while out patrolling. She always answered, even though she knew she would feel dead in the morning, but hearing his excited voice over the phone was always worth it and he never minded if she dozed off while he was yapping. 

He also really enjoyed just being in her presence. If she said it was okay, he’d come hang out with her while she worked or went grocery shopping. Anything she was okay with it becoming a two person task he would be down. He just liked being around her, it was sweet. 

A more concerning quirk that she was still trying to get used to was ever since giving Adrian a key to her apartment was him making himself at home when she was working or not home. Without telling her. 

She hadn’t even directly noticed it at first, but one morning she left knowing she was in desperate need of submitting a new maintenance request to fix her dishwasher and that she was running low on groceries, too exhausted to really worry about it yet, she went through her day like a zombie. 

It wasn’t until halfway cooking that night did she break out of her exhausted haze to realize her dishes were clean, the dishwasher appeared to be working, and the ingredients she was using weren’t there in the morning. 

She called Adrian immediately. 

“Hey baby! I was just thinking about calling you, I saw two chipmunks-” She held back a laugh, knowing Adrian was almost always thinking about what he was going to tell her. 

“Hey, Ade, I have a quick question, did you come over to my apartment today?” She interrupted, knowing he was at work and she really shouldn’t be calling anyway, she just needed to confirm that she wasn’t going crazy. He never minded getting in trouble at work, especially if it was for her, but she still hated to encourage it.  

“Oh! Yeah I did, is your dishwasher working? I can come by in like an hour when I’m off if it’s still not working.” He said like that was the most normal thing on earth. 

“How did you…Adrian, how did you know it was broken?” She asked softly. 

“Well, I stopped by to help with some chores and I noticed it wasn’t working, it didn’t take me much time to fix it and then I noticed you were running low on groceries so I made another stop before work. Is it working alright?” He said, believing what he did was completely normal.

“I don’t know, I just noticed that things weren’t like how I left them.” She whispered, with a small smile. “That was very kind of you Adrian, thank you.” 

“Oh yeah! I mean of course!” He said, suddenly bashful on the phone, she could hear someone yelling at him in the background, she could only assume it was Dave yelling at him to get off his phone. 

“Hey, why don’t you stop by after work? I’ll stay up?” She asked, feeling like a dumb teenager asking her boyfriend over and not like her big age. 

“Yeah?” He asked, clearly excited, ignoring whoever was yelling at him. 

“Yeah.” She said softly. 

“Fuck yeah! I’ll see you soon!” Adrian said, hanging up the phone as she laughed, she could practically hear the way he was punching the air on the phone. 

Yeah, he might be weird, but he was just the perfect amount of weird for her. 

After that, she could tell the days he stopped by when she wasn’t home. Dishes would be put up, food she was sure his mom had cooked in her fridge, her clothes would be folded. Sometimes she would even find his stuff around, she would open up her dresser drawer and there would be just a few of his shirts and pants or a toothbrush and 2 in 1 would appear in her bathroom. Although she quickly replaced that 2 in 1 and helped him learn how to properly take care of his curls. 

It was sweet, truly. 

That’s how she found herself today. She was released from work early in the afternoon and when she pulled into her apartment complex she noticed Adrian’s sebring. She knew she should be a little annoyed or maybe even put off by his behavior. She also knew Adrian would never harm her and it was just his funky little love language. She was excited to finally get to surprise Adrian in some way.  

She unlocked her apartment and looked to see Adrian looking bright eyed in her kitchen, eyes locked on the door, for a split second she’s worried she’s surprised him too much and Vigilante was going to stop her, but his expression quickly changes. 

“Baby!” He shouted, clearly excited once the initial concern wore off. Their paths weren’t necessarily supposed to line up today since he had a shift that night and she was supposed to work till much later. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. She laughed and returned the hug.

“What are you working on today?” She said, rubbing his back, as he kissed the top of his head holding her close, perfectly content to hold her, his previous tasks abandoned. 

“I cleaned out your pantry! You had a lot of expired food!” He said, causing her to laugh. “Yeah! There was even some old candy back there, they were pretty stale but I still ate them so I wouldn’t feel as bad about throwing them away.” 

“What?” She laughed, “I didn’t have any candy in the pantry, candies on top of the fridge, you know the system.” She said. 

“Nooo, this was a ziplock sandwich bag, I found it behind all your seasonings. They were little rectangles covered in the same stuff they put on sour patch kids!” 

She thought hard, having no idea what Adrian could be talking about, she didn’t keep candy back there, she kept-

“Oh, Adrian.” She whispered with realization pulling back, looking at his eyes. 

“What?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

“How many did you take?” She asked, hands on his cheeks tilting his face towards her, confusion painting his features. 

“I ate all of them! There were like six or seven left in the bag.” He said, smiling slowly settling. “Why? Were you saving them?” 

“Adrian, I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to just answer it, okay?” He nodded. “Have you ever been high?” 

“Like cocaine?” He asked.

“No, Adrian. Well yes, I want to know that answer, but have you ever used pot before?” Her hands gripping the side of his face as his brain seemed to catch up with her question. 

The night turned into four different stages.

The first, being him panicking.

“OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE!” He was screaming, she had to throw her hand tightly against his mouth to get him to stop, even then he continued screaming through her hand. She threw a panicked look at her door. 

“Adrian! Shut up! Shut up!” She whisper-yelled at him, dragging him to the floor with her. “Stop! Stop fighting me!” She finally yanked them both to the ground, forcing Adrian’s panicked eyes to look at her, knees knocking on the carpeted floor with a loud thump, one hand remained over his mouth, the other on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. 

“Adrian, listen to me.” He nodded, eyes widening, but he had stopped screaming at least. “You are not going to die. Yes that is a lot for someone to take who’s never had weed, but you are going to be okay.” 

He shook his head no, not believing her. 

“Adrian, have I ever lied to you?” She watches him closely, but he finally shakes his head no. “I promise it’s not going to kill you, okay?” He finally nodded yes, she slowly took her hand off his mouth. 

“Oh my god.” He whispered, clearly still panicking, but at least not screaming anymore. 

“It’s not even illegal in Washington, Adrian! I’ve smelled it on Chris before! You’ve never smoked weed? Not even in high school?” 

“It was illegal when we were in high school!” She doesn’t think he’s right about that, but decides now is not the time to argue with him. 

“Adrian, I promise you, you’re going to be okay, okay? I just need you to think positively, okay?” He nodded, still looking scared. “How are you feeling right now?” 

“The same, fine, normal. I don’t know, what’s normal?” He whined, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. 

“I think you’re okay, Ade, but let’s get you into some pajamas and I’ll call Fennell Fields to let them know you can’t work the dinner shift tonight, okay?” He nodded and they both got moving. She knew they were fighting against the clock now, she had no idea how long ago he took the edibles and she also had no clue how his body was going to react. 

She wondered, probably too hopeful, that because he healed so quickly that maybe his metabolism would be so high the gummies wouldn’t affect him almost at all. 

Wishful thinking, as after she got off the phone with his boss, explaining Adrian was sick, she found him on the couch, no shirt and in a pair of her pink fuzzy pajama pants staring off into space, his hands rubbing the pajama pants back and forth in a self soothing motion. 

This brought them to the second stage of the evening which consisted of Adrian and her sitting on the couch, him being quiet for the first time in his life. His hand gripping hers tightly, as if he was afraid she would drift away. 

“Adrian, are you doing okay?” She asked softly, rubbing her thumb on his knuckles. 

“I think I feel it.” He murmured, leaning his head down on her. She quickly changed the hand that was holding him so she could hold his hand and put an arm around him, rubbing his back in soothing circles. He stayed stiff, but at least seemed conscious enough. She hoped that he was at least comforted by her being there. She hated to think what would’ve happened if she hadn’t come home early. 

“That makes sense, but are you doing okay?” She asked again, slowly, squeezing Adrian’s hand trying to bring him to the present. 

“Yeah,” He said softly, she watched him closely, his eyes staying on the wall, “I’m sorry I ate your edibles.” She laughed lightly, hoping it didn’t come across as teasing, she was just so surprised to hear that’s what Adrian was worrying about. 

“That’s okay, I forgot they were back there.” She said honestly. “I can’t believe you’ve never smoked weed before, you know it’s legal here, right?”

“Yeah, Chris told me like a year ago.” She fought the urge to correct that’s been legal here for at least a decade where they lived, making her wonder how many weed dealers Vigilante may have killed. She kept her mouth shut, not wanting to panic him into thinking she was upset with him.  

“But you never thought about trying it?” She asked again. 

“Gut smoked in high school once our dad left, but I hated the smell.” He said honestly with a shrug as if hating the smell was the reason, not that it made his brother even more distant, isolating Adrian further in his family that bothered Adrian. She had just started to get Adrian to unpack his issues with his family and decided now wasn’t the time to go poking and prodding. 

“Oh yeah, that’s fair. That’s why I stick with gummies on the occasion I want to get high. Although some brands they’ll taste like the weed smell which is almost worse.” Adrian let out a giggle, one that he quickly lost control of.

“These tasted like raspberries! I thought they were good.” He said between laughs. “I just kept eating them!” 

“Yeah that’s why I had them, dummy. Those ones actually taste good.” She said, knocking herself into him, causing him to laugh harder and wrap both arms around her. She gasped when he dragged them both to the floor, him laughing even harder when she landed on top of him. 

She attempted to move some of her weight off of him, but his hands kept her on top of him while he looked up at her with pure adoration written on his face. His glasses were slightly askew, eyes red underneath them, and his curls were all out of place. He looked even more relaxed than normal. 

She smiled sweetly at him as she fixed his glasses. He hummed as the tips of her fingers just barely grazed his face. Their sweet moment was interrupted by Adrian’s stomach rumbling and his eyes going wide, a smile painting his features as he helped both of them up the best he could even in his state.

Ever the gentlemen, even when drugged. She thought sweetly. 

Next was the third stage, when Adrian essentially went through her fridge, freezer, and pantry like a tornado. Piling up any food he could find that didn’t require him to heat it up any, he was clearly unable to wait to stuff his face.

“What if we do a Taco Bell run!” He said, louder than normal, with a mouthful of doritos he let out a loud laugh. It almost sounded fake, but it still caused her to laugh, trailing behind him grabbing all the wrappers he was leaving in his wake. 

“I can order it for delivery if you really want, Adrian, but I think we have enough snacks here as it is.” She said with a smile as he reached to the top of her fridge for her emergency stash of candy. 

“Fuck yeah, you have Good and Plentys!” Adrian said completely forgetting about Taco Bell and immediately tossing the box from her kitchen to the living room, she winces as she hears it hitting the floor, hoping the box didn’t open and spill everywhere. 

“Adrian, you bought those, no one eats those but you.” She said with a laugh at his happy look on his face, as he nodded. Clearly impressed with his own forethought.. “What are you doing?” 

“Getting snacks so we can watch a movie duh!” He said it like it was the most obvious thing on the planet. She laughed and smiled at him. Wondering if Adrian would consider getting high again at another time with her because while babysitting was okay, she knew they would have a blast together if they both were just a tad high. 

But one night at a time, she thought as she helped him carry all the snacks to the living room. 

Before diving in, he set them up almost like a buffet, opening every single bag and box and putting it carefully on her coffee table. She laughed as he sat on the floor and harshly hit the spot next to him. She rolled her eyes and sat next to him, grabbing the remote on her way down, grabbing her water bottle off the table and taking a drink. 

“What do you want to watch, Adrian?” She asked softly, leaning against him as he wrestled with his Good and Plenty box. 

“Uhhhhhh, let’s watch Fargo.” She rolled her eyes as he slowly leaned more on her. 

“Let’s pick something a little lighter for your brain right now, okay? How about a Disney movie?” He groaned. 

“I want some action! I won’t freak out, baby! I promise!” He whined, reaching to grab her water bottle from her hands to take a swig for himself, she saw him spill a good portion all over his bare chest, but knew he was doing his best. She couldn’t even imagine how his brain was even functioning between the 60-70 mgs and his strange metabolism.

“Okay, maybe a superhero film. Is that an okay compromise?” He nods and puts even more of his body weight on her while eating his candy. Slowly as the movie went on and on, more of his weight was on, he was slipping lower and lower. 

“Adrian?” She murmured, he didn’t answer, but she could feel his body language shifting, from being relaxed to clearly getting anxious, squeezing her hand and biting his lip before she finally paused the movie and gently suggested they go lay down in her bedroom for a little while. She could tell Adrian wasn’t paying attention to it anymore so she wanted to corral him into the bedroom, at least then he’d be hopefully calmer.

At first Adrian was really against it, he hated leaving movies and shows sitting in the middle, but once she said she was scared he immediately agreed that they could move. He had mumbled out something about protecting her if she was too scared. She fought her smile when she saw relief paint his face. 

On the fourth stage, they finally moved into her bedroom, leaving the mess behind to deal with tomorrow. Adrian was clearly feeling the effects of the gummies he was moving slowly and almost like he was confused. It was sort of cute but she did miss her chatterbox of a boyfriend. 

Once they got into the bedroom, Adrian moved slowly pulling off her pajama pants leaving him in only his boxers. For a second he only looked at the pink pants before holding them out to her. 

“Your turn?” He asked softly. She laughed and accepted the pants, making quick work of her clothes to change into pajamas and even though she had no intention originally sleeping in those pants, Adrian’s offer was just too sweet to deny. By the time she was done changing Adrian was already laying on his back under the covers watching her with lazy eyes, his face resting in a smile. 

Once she was ready, she walked over and pulled his glasses off his face, he hummed in acknowledgment as she sat them on her nightstand. It was rare that she got to see Adrian, relaxing and calm. Even when it was late at night, if he was awake he was talking. 

Finally, as if he was sick of her just looking at him, he wrapped his arms around her and smushed her on top of him. She laughed, but adjusted herself to be more comfortable against him. 

She could feel him rubbing his hands up and down her back, writing small patterns on her clothed skin. At one point all he was doing was hearts on the small of her back. 

“How are you doing, lover boy?” She asked softly and he chuckled, squeezing her before his hands returned drawing patterns.

“Lover boy.” He murmured with a lazy smile on his face while they laid underneath the covers, she was hoping he was close to dozing off since it was so late. “Your lover boy.” He corrected gently, squeezing her. 

“Yes, my lover boy. How are you feeling?” She tried again. 

“Good. Really good.” He murmured, leaning up just a smidge to kiss her cheek, he leaned back with a content sigh. 

“Maybe, we should introduce CBD to your nighttime routine, baby. I’ve never seen you so relaxed.” He whined underneath her.

“Noooo, I mean, it’s nice, but like I want to be in control of my body.” He whined, throwing his hands weakly in the air. “Like, when we have a night together, I like when we make out, but I feel like I couldn’t even kiss you if I wanted.” He whispered. 

“Yeah, that’s fair. Maybe after making out you can take one.” He laughed slightly, shaking her up and down slightly. “You also took like 10 times what you should’ve, so maybe we do proper dosages another time, if you’d like to try it for real, baby.” 

“Maybe, this is…nice.” She could tell that he was starting to finally fall asleep, it was still fairly early so knowing him, he’d wake up at the crack of dawn and talk her ear off the moment she showed any signs of life. 

But it would be worth it if it meant a quiet (unexpected) evening with Adrian.

[firent-fae]

i love your writing!! would you be willing to write about Julian and a fem mc who is short tempered and intimidating, not very emotional, but deep down she just wants princess treatment and to be held and loved :,) - tysm in advance

Heyoo!

If it’s okay, I’m going to generalize this a bit and make it for all the M6 😬🙏 BUT there will be a special blurb that’s specific to your ask 🫶

Also, Happy Belated Lunar New Year, everyone! If you celebrate 🐴 🧧

The Arcana Headcanons 「M6 w/ Stoic MC who Just Wants Princess Treatment」

**Extra at bottom

Asra

Ah, Asra knows a guy just like you - 🐺.

Not at all put off by your exterior. He can laugh off nearly anything with ease, and in fact, thinks it’s hilarious when you fly off the handle. If anything, he’s dying to crack into whatever’s hidden beneath all that.

They suspected some type of softie in there. Seems typical of the type. 🐺🐺

Perhaps you’d have a vicious sweet tooth. Maybe a fondness for frills…

… but princess treatment? That was a surprise.

He’s so, so ready for this.

While Asra’s love language is physical touch, that’s only because ‘spoiling you’ wasn’t on the list of choices. Truthfully, you are his love language.

Asra’s not afraid to reach out, but he also knows when it’s appropriate to do so. They respect your space in public, but once you’re alone, the mood shifts.

Propped in the pillows, Asra holds you against his chest, running fingers down your back. He whispers sweet things into your ear - stories from faraway lands, myths about the heavens, sentiments for the beauty that shares his heart. The chills his voice brings to your skin is damn addictive.

This is the type of intimacy Asra craves. Something sacred, something secret, something special.

Julian

Julian read you like a book.

The temper, the scowl, the silence - he saw all of it for what it was - a facet. Humans are complex and multifaceted creatures. Whatever he saw from you publicly would certainly not be all that he saw of you privately.

And I would certainly like to have a moment with you.

The tension, he’ll admit, was strong. You were intimidating, and he was intimidated. But that made your desire for him all the more alluring.

Julian understands that things are hidden for a reason. Whatever reason you may have (or perhaps no reason at all), you decided that he was an exception.

Julian shows his gratification wholeheartedly. Not just physically, but in every way he can imagine. Love letters slipped into your satchel, rose petals on your pillow, love songs while he brushes your hair…

There are no stops for this man in love.

Julian is also a big spooner. While he enjoys being the little spoon, the big spoon is just as satisfying a position. Julian hugs with his entire being, and them long ol’ limbs are finally coming in handy.

Nadia

Cute.

And relatable.

Nadia understands and asks no questions. She also has no qualms if you decide to never let her into that part of your life.

“Not every secret needs to be shared.”

She was surprised by your decision, and it definitely helped her let her own guard down.

Nadia is a natural spoiler, and given her upbringing, she understands what real princess treatment is like.

Imported chocolates, handcrafted blankets, rare jewels…

However, the gifts were just a start. Nadia isn’t blind to the fact that ‘stuff’ only covers half of it.

Still, she has to admit - the physical aspect was a bit harder to get accustomed to. Sure, she enjoys physicality, but Nadia wouldn’t consider herself touchy-feely. Well… at least that’s what she thought.

It was definitely a high-level character development. A part of her felt like it was forbidden to want this type of softness. With so many prying eyes on her as Countess, it almost felt weak to crave such affection.

Butterfly kisses are her all time favorite. It’s such a simple act, but it makes her feel sooo childishly happy. She’s also a huge fan of stuffed animals, but that’s big secret territory. She often buys them for you, but you know she secretly enjoys them herself.

Muriel

Muriel is less surprised at your little secret than he is by the miracle that you two managed to make it past each other’s stoicism.

Well, somehow we got here.

And now, he just needs to figure out how to deal with it.

He is a little flustered that your temper sometimes lands you on the wrong side of fate. For once, he’s grateful that people think he’s a bully. All he has to do is stand behind you to get them to back down.

Muriel does have a soft side, but is it princess treatment soft? Probably not… or if it is, he’s lost on how to deal with it.

What’s worse is that he’s far too embarrassed to ask. He’s doing his best to calculate this on observation alone.

You liked that statue I made you…

You liked it when I showed you the stars…

And you liked it when I held you at…

Uh oh.

Yeah, once he realizes how much physicality plays into it, he’s stressed. That aspect makes him feel a little too silly, too giddy. Yet, Muriel understands how much trust it took you to get here, so he’s not backing down.

His gestures are much simpler, but nonetheless meaningful. Kisses in your hair while you're cooking, massaging your shoulders by the fire, braiding your hair with flowers…

He did crack the code with one thing though.

Poetry. When he couldn’t find the words himself to express his love, he’ll thought it wouldn’t hurt to find some outside assistance. When he’s too shy to read it aloud, he’ll leave the pages open on the table for you to discover.

In time, Muriel’s gestures grow along with his confidence, and these moments become a comfort for him as well.

Portia

Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing she’s ever seen?

It doesn’t matter the size or shape you come in - Portia will now forever see you as a itty-bitty grumpy kitty.

But it took a while to get there.

She definitely played off how nervous you made her at first. Sure, she’s got spark, but her spice was no match for your fire. She was terrified that you would dismiss her as easily as the others, but with you it would have been about 10x’s more disappointing.

Portia can spoil, almost more than Nadia. She has perfected the art of comfort, and her cottage is her own form of magical domain.

Dinner is never served without a kiss. A bath is never lonely, nor without candlelight. It is never bedtime without warm milk and honey. And you shall slow dance with your lady in her garden under the moon!

“I serve the Countess for a living. Don’t you think I know how to handle my royalty?”

Lucio

Move.

Out of his way.

This is his moment.

Lucio is selfish, not only in his taking, but also in his giving.

He wasn’t at all fazed by your exterior. Lucio ignores social cues with purpose, and for once, it was towards his advantage.

He’s a bit disgruntled that you won’t let him perform publicly, but there is also something indulgent about having this all to himself.

Lucio is a tough cookie, but he’s not ashamed to indulge in being babied himself, so he knows how to dish it out.

Upset? Tell him all about it while he cradles you on his lap. Hungry? Tell him what you want, and he’ll feed it to you himself. Tired? Tell him where you want him, and he’ll hold you until morning.

If you want to be loved, then you shall be adored.

He’ll, I’ll even buy you a crown if you want.

***

Julian w/FemMC Extra

There was no fireplace in the living area above Julian’s clinic, and the bath’s lingering warmth was quickly dissipating.

Sitting on the bed, you tackle a few more strands of hair before deciding that the remainder of the knots will have to wait until morning. It was too cold to not be under the blanket.

With a huff, scowl, and shiver, you toss the comb.

“Let me do that for you."

The mattress gives as Julian nestles behind you. He drapes a shawl over you before taking up his work.

A hum accompanies the howl of the winter winds. You don’t recognize the tune, but it sounds like something that belongs to his home.

The clinking of glass and the smell of rose fills the air. Julian rakes his fingers across your scalp as he gathers your hair into braids.

Julian’s hands have always been a wonder. While perhaps a tad boney and clumsy, they are truly soft and skilled at whatever work finds them.

Your head lolls harder and heavier into his touch, and a soft laughter interrupts the song.

“Bed time?”

You nod.

“Quiet tonight, aren’t we?”

“I’m always quiet,” you quip, and again he chuckles.

Holding your shoulders, he pulls you back into his chest, legs extending around your sides. Arms encompass your waist as his face buries into your neck.

You run your knuckles over his bare knees.

“How are you not cold?”

“I have you, darling.”

“I’m not that warm.”

“Yes, you are,” he chides, kissing your cheek. “But it’s okay if I’m the only one who knows that.”

[fru1t4fr0gs]

A Totally Normal Crush

Pairing: Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader

Summary: Adrian Chase has a crush. Everyone knows. Well, everyone but you, the object of his affection, who seems completely oblivious to it all. When the rest of the 11th Street Kids finally reach the end of their respective ropes, they decide to step in.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Adrian is kind of a creep, Okay a little more than kind of but we love it, Adrian is head-over-heels obsessed (and so so awkward about it), The team is exhausted with it, Chris is really bad at advice, Mentions of semi-public sex, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this! This dorky killing machine is so fun to write. As always, please let me know what you think!

-

“Holy shit.” Chris says, watching as you dodge one blow and land another with terrifying precision. A butterfly's head is blown clean off in a single shot, and you seamlessly dodge another attack to slam the blade of your knife into the eye of your next attacker.

“Holy shit.” Adrian echoes, but there’s a breathless, dreamy quality to his voice that makes Chris raise his eyebrows.

“Dude, I know she’s hot, but this is turning you on?”

“What? No! I mean, of course not. She’s just…” he trails off as you grab one enemy’s arm, spinning into the man’s chest and firing his gun from his own hand into the forehead of the man across from you. You spin out, and finish off the first guy with a swift kick to the chest.

“Holy shit.” Adrian says again, even more breathless than before, and he’s fucking smiling now.

“Oh God, I think his eyes just turned into cartoon hearts.” Adebayo nearly groans. This time, Adrian doesn’t answer.

And just like that, the entire team watches Adrian Chase fall in love. 

And just like that, it becomes everyone else’s fucking problem.

-

He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.

It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.

You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.

And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.

And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.

-

Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.

“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”

“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.

“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”

Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.

“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”

“Your screensaver is her face.”

“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”

Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.

“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”

“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”

“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything bad!”

“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”

Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.

So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.

-

The briefing the next day is weird.

Very weird.

When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.

He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.

“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.

Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.

That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues. 

“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”

Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”

“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”

“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”

“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.

“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.

He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.

“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”

“You said to neg her!”

“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”

“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.

“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”

Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?

“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”

“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“

“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”

He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”

“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”

And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.

-

You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.

He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.

And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.

Okay, step two.

Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.

You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.

You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.

His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.

And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-

A throat clears.

When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.

“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.

“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.

“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.

-

He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.

And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.

This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.

You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.

Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“

He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.

The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.

And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.

For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.

“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.

“They are covered in blood.”

“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.

“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”

Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.

They thought Adrian’s crush was annoying before. Now that he has you, he is so much worse.