Living in a Daycream

Meant to write daydream. Too funny to change. Caitlyn, 30 year old fan. A writing fan but not writer. Green Shorts for Life. Fan of HS, Men written by Women, The Traitors, Real Housewives, Anything Funny, Crafting, Music, and more.

[goldengirlstyles]

🍉🌻🙃👛🐸🦀🪐🍑🍆🏏

About Me: Love watermelon, Love sunflowers, Have no idea what is going on, I have a pink purse, Harry Frog Face, Sometimes Crabby, Weirdly obsessed with Saturn but know no facts, Like a nice ass, Like a nice dick (unfortunately), and might be into Paddling. Not the boat kind.

[harrywavycurly]

Harry was giving me Bono vibes tonight✨

[anjomecanico]

Start commenting "not all men" in posts saying something positive about men

[creamsiclemelt]

Heated Rivalry | Episode 2 | Olympians

[ghstyles]

Two Beds | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Fluff | One shot | Masterlist | Yours | WC: 4K

Summary: The one where you make a mistake when booking a romantic getaway. Or the “one bed trope” but in reverse hehe

["Baby? You're sure you knew it was two beds?" Harry asks, dropping his bag on the nearest chair and gesturing toward the sleeping arrangement with a smile.

"Of course I knew," she says with an airy wave of her hand, though her eyes don't quite meet his. "I did it on purpose”

Harry's eyebrows shoot up, his lips twitching with barely contained laughter. "On purpose," he repeats slowly. "To book separate beds on our romantic weekend getaway."

Y/N sets the menu down, crossing her arms as she lifts her chin. "Yeah. It's…it's actually better for your back. I read an article about it. Uh…smaller beds provide better…spinal alignment.” ]

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Harry and Y/N had just checked into their hotel room overlooking the Amalfi Coast and the Mediterranean stretching out in an endless blue expanse below. The sunset casts a golden glow across the decorated space which would be absolutely perfect if not for one glaring issue. Harry stands in the doorway, his overnight bag slung over one shoulder as he stares at the two narrow twin beds positioned on opposite sides of the room. His expression shifts from confusion to amusement as he turns to look at Y/N, who's busy suspiciously examining the room service menu.

"Baby? You're sure you knew it was two beds?" Harry asks, dropping his bag on the nearest chair and gesturing toward the sleeping arrangement with a smile.

Y/N looks up from the menu, her expression neutral despite the flush creeping up her neck. She'd insisted on booking this hotel herself, "You always handle everything, Harry, let me take care of it this time" and had spent weeks bragging about the perfect romantic getaway she'd planned.

"Of course I knew," she says with an airy wave of her hand, though her eyes don't quite meet his. "I did it on purpose"

Harry's eyebrows shoot up, his lips twitching with barely contained laughter. "On purpose," he repeats slowly. "To book separate beds on our romantic weekend getaway."

Y/N sets the menu down, crossing her arms as she lifts her chin. "Yeah. It's…it's actually better for your back. I read an article about it. Uh…smaller beds provide better…spinal alignment."

Harry makes a valiant effort to keep a straight face, but a snort of laughter escapes despite his best efforts. "My spinal alignment. That's what you were concerned about when booking our vacation."

"Among other things," Y/N adds quickly, warming to her improvised explanation. "It's also...it's a European thing…very sophisticated. Americans are so obsessed with sharing beds, but Europeans understand the value of personal space during sleep."

Harry can't contain himself any longer, a full laugh escaping as he shakes his head. "Europeans. Mhm. That must be why all those romantic hotels in Paris advertise their twin beds." He walks toward her, amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Come on, love. You can admit you made a mistake, it's not the end of the world."

Y/N's cheeks are burning now, but she's committed to the bit. "It wasn't a mistake," she insists, stepping back as he approaches. "It's also... better for our sex life. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that we'll appreciate each other more if we have to cross the room to get to each other."

Harry stops directly in front of her, his smile widening as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "So let me get this straight," he says, his voice dropping to that lower register that usually makes her knees weak. "You booked us separate beds to improve my spinal alignment, embrace European sophistication, and spice up our sex life." Put that way, even Y/N has to admit it sounds ridiculous. But admitting she simply misread the room description feels equally embarrassing, especially after how insistent she'd been about handling the booking herself.

"Yes," she says with as much dignity as she can muster. "That's exactly right."

Harry stares at her for a beat before bursting into laughter again, his head thrown back and his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You are..." he manages between laughs, "the worst liar I've ever met. You didn't read the room description properly, did you?"

Y/N's shoulders slump in defeat, though a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "Fine. I might have been in a hurry and misread 'two twin beds' as 'two-person bed' or something like that." She groans, covering her face with her hands. "I was so proud of myself for booking everything perfectly, too."

Harry's laughter softens as he gently pulls her hands away from her face, his expression fond despite his amusement. "It's not a big deal, love. We can just push the beds together."

Y/N peeks up at him, her embarrassment fading slightly at his practical solution. "I already asked at the front desk and they said the beds are bolted to the floor for some reason. But they said they can move us to a room with a king bed tomorrow."

"There, see? Problem solved," Harry says, pulling her into a hug. "We can survive one night in separate beds. But," he adds, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur against her ear, "I'm a bit disappointed we won't be testing your theory about crossing the room improving our sex life."

Y/N pulls back to swat at his chest, her mood lightening despite her embarrassment. "We’re totally never brining this up right?"

"Not a chance," Harry confirms cheerfully, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead before moving to retrieve his bag. "This is going right up there with the time you tried to convince me you knew how to drive a stick shift."

Y/N winces at the memory of her disastrous attempt to impress him early in their relationship which  resulted in a stalled car and a very amused Harry having to take over the driving. "That was different," she protests weakly. "I genuinely thought I knew how."

"And I'm sure you genuinely thought you booked a room with one bed," Harry agrees, his tone making it clear he's enjoying her discomfort far too much. "Just like you genuinely thought you could speak conversational Italian last summer."

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, her embarrassment transforming into indignation at his continued teasing. "You know what? I've changed my mind and the separate beds are perfect. In fact," she adds with a decisive nod, "I think we should keep them separate. I could use a night without you snoring directly into my ear anyway."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up at her sudden declaration. "I don't snore," he protests automatically.

"You absolutely do," Y/N counters, seizing the opportunity to turn the tables. "Like a chainsaw with asthma. It's very endearing, of course, but a night of uninterrupted sleep sounds heavenly."

Harry narrows his eyes, recognizing her strategy but unwilling to back down. "Fine," he says with a casual shrug that doesn't quite mask his surprise. "If that's what you want though I was under the impression you had trouble sleeping without me."

It's true that Y/N often complains about her inability to fall asleep properly when Harry's on tour or away for work but her pride is at stake now, and she's not about to admit defeat so easily. "That's just something I say to make you feel important," she lies, waving a dismissive hand. "I actually sleep like a baby when you're gone. Starfish position, the whole bed to myself... it's glorious."

Harry's expression shifts from surprise to challenge, a slow smile spreading across his face as he recognizes the game she's playing. "Is that right?" he drawls, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that usually precedes him proving her wrong in the most delicious ways. "Well, in that case, enjoy your twin bed, baby. I'm sure you'll sleep wonderfully."

Y/N swallows, suddenly less certain about her impulsive declaration but it's too late to back down now. "I will, thank you very much," she says with more confidence than she feels. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to unpack." She turns away from him with as much dignity as she can muster, moving to place her suitcase on the bed furthest from the door. The bed she's now committed to sleeping in alone. Behind her, Harry watches with amusement, already plotting how to make her regret her stubborn declaration.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Hours later, they return to their room. This comes after a dinner at the hotel's seaside restaurant where the spectacular view almost made up for the lingering awkwardness of Y/N's booking error and subsequent pride-fueled declaration. The tension between them has eased somewhat and was replaced by a playful energy as they dance around the subject of their sleeping arrangements. Harry emerges from the bathroom in just his boxer briefs, his usual sleeping attire. Typically, this would be the point where Y/N would appreciate the view of his tattooed torso and strong shoulders before curling up against him in bed. Instead, she finds herself looking away as he stretches, knowing exactly what he's doing.

"You sure about this separate beds thing?" he asks casually, running a hand through his hair in a way that draws attention to the flex of his bicep. "Last chance to change your mind."

Y/N, already settled into her narrow twin bed clutches her book tighter. "Quite sure, thank you," she says, though her eyes betray her by lingering on his chest a moment too long. "I'm looking forward to a full night of uninterrupted sleep."

Harry shrugs, his expression innocent despite the mischief in his eyes. "Suit yourself," he says, turning down the covers of his own bed with deliberate care. Sucks though. I tend to get cold at night without you. You know how much we warm a bed up. Might have to keep myself company"

Y/N nearly chokes on air at the implication, her cheeks flushing as unbidden images fill her mind. "I'm sure you'll manage," she says, her voice slightly higher than normal. "The hotel provides plenty of blankets."

"Mmm, not the same though, is it?" Harry muses, sliding between his sheets with a contented sigh that sounds almost obscene. "Nothing quite like body heat."

Y/N forces herself to focus on her book, though she's been staring at the same paragraph for the past five minutes without absorbing a single word. "Goodnight, Harry," she says firmly, reaching for the lamp on her bedside table. Harry grins at her obvious discomfort, stretching once more before settling into his bed. "Goodnight, love," he replies, his voice a low purr in the dimly lit room. "Sweet dreams."

The room falls into darkness as they both turn off their lamps, leaving only the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the partially opened curtains. Y/N lies rigidly in her bed and acutely aware of Harry's presence just a few feet away. This is ridiculous, she thinks. They've shared a bed nearly every night for almost two years and now she's voluntarily sleeping apart from him because of her stupid pride. Across the room, Harry shifts in his bed, the soft rustle of sheets loud in the quiet room. Y/N finds herself straining to hear his breathing, missing the familiar rhythm that usually lulls her to sleep.

"You asleep yet?" Harry's voice breaks the silence after what feels like an eternity but is probably only fifteen minutes.

"Obviously not," Y/N replies, rolling onto her side to face his direction, though she can only make out his silhouette in the darkness. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," he says innocently. "Just checking. You're usually out like a light by now when we're in bed together."

Y/N huffs, unwilling to admit that she's finding it difficult to relax without his warmth beside her. "I'm just not tired yet," she lies. "Too much coffee at dinner."

"Mmm," Harry hums, clearly not believing her. "Well, don't let me keep you up. I know how much you're enjoying your spacious twin bed."There's enough teasing in his tone to reignite Y/N's stubborn streak. "I am, actually," she insists. "It's very comfortable. And I don't have to worry about you stealing the covers."

"I don't steal the covers," Harry protests automatically.

"You do," Y/N counters, warming to the familiar argument. "You wrap yourself up like a burrito and leave me freezing."

"That's rich coming from the woman who turns into a human furnace at three in the morning and kicks off all the blankets," Harry retorts, and Y/N can hear the smile in his voice despite the darkness.

"I do not—" she begins, then cuts herself off with a sigh. "You know what? Let's not do this. We're supposed to be on vacation. Truce?"

There's a pause, and then Harry's soft chuckle reaches her across the space between their beds. "Truce," he agrees. "But I still think this is ridiculous."

"Noted," Y/N says dryly. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register again. "Sweet dreams."

Y/N rolls onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as she listens to Harry's breathing gradually even out. Despite her exhaustion from their day of travel, sleep eludes her. The bed feels too empty, too cold, and she finds herself missing the familiar weight of Harry's arm draped over her waist, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her back.

She tries to rationalize it like the sane person she is. They've spent nights apart before when he's touring or she's visiting family. But there's something especially frustrating about being separated by just a few feet of hotel carpet, all because of her stubborn refusal to admit she'd made a simple booking error. Time crawls by, marked only by the soft ticking of the bedside clock and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore below their window. Y/N shifts restlessly, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape before flopping back down with a frustrated sigh.

Across the room, Harry remains silent, his breathing deep and regular. Of course he can sleep perfectly well without her, Y/N thinks irritably. He’s spent half his life in hotel rooms, while she's become embarrassingly dependent on his presence to fall asleep properly.

Another hour passes, or maybe it's only twenty minutes. Time loses meaning in the quiet darkness as Y/N cycles through increasingly desperate attempts to get comfortable. She tries counting sheep, then counting backward from one thousand, then reciting the lyrics to Harry's songs in her head yet nothing works. Finally, when the bedside clock reads 2:17 AM and she's beginning to contemplate the merits of simply staying awake until morning, Y/N admits defeat. With a resigned sigh, she slips out from under her covers, padding silently across the carpet toward Harry's bed. 

She hesitates beside it, pride warring with her desperate need for sleep and the comfort of his proximity. Harry appears to be sound asleep, his features relaxed and peaceful in the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. His curls are spread across the pillow, one arm flung above his head while the other rests on his stomach.

There's barely enough room for her on the narrow mattress, but Y/N is beyond caring about comfort at this point. As carefully as possible, she lifts the edge of his blanket and slides in beside him, immediately curling into his familiar warmth. The effect is instantaneous and her tense muscles begin to relax. Her racing thoughts quieten as she nestles against his side. She's just beginning to drift off when Harry's arm comes around her and pulls her more securely against him.

"Took you long enough," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep but undeniably smug.

Y/N freezes, mortification washing over her as she realizes he's been awake the whole time. "You were pretending to be asleep?" she accuses, though she makes no move to extract herself from his embrace.

"Mmm," Harry confirms, his eyes still closed but a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Figured you'd need your dignity intact when you inevitably crawled in here."

Y/N should be irritated by his smugness, but she's too comfortable and too tired to summon the energy for indignation. "You're insufferable," she mumbles against his chest.

"And yet here you are," Harry points out, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "In my bed despite your very emphatic declaration about sleeping separately."

"It's cold," Y/N offers weakly.

"It's 75 degrees in here."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Because you missed me," Harry supplies, not bothering to hide his satisfaction.

Y/N sighs in defeat, too exhausted for further pretense. "Fine. Yes. I missed you. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Harry murmurs, his hand moving in soothing circles on her back. "Though this bed is ridiculously small for two people."

"We'll get a proper room tomorrow," Y/N promises, her words slurring slightly as sleep begins to claim her at last. "With one big bed."

"Good," Harry says softly, his own voice growing heavy with returning drowsiness. "Because as much as I enjoy being right, I prefer having enough space to properly appreciate you."

Y/N makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting off in the security of his arms. Her last conscious thought is that she'll probably never hear the end of this, but somehow, wrapped in Harry's warmth and listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, she finds she doesn't mind all that much. Harry feels her breathing even out as she finally succumbs to sleep, and his smile widens in the darkness. 

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The sunlight streams through curtains, casting a warm golden glow across the cramped twin bed where Y/N and Harry are tangled together. Despite the limited space, they've somehow managed to find a comfortable position during the night. Harry was on his back with Y/N half-draped across his chest, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

Y/N wakes first and for a moment, she's disoriented by the unfamiliar room and the narrow bed, before memories of the previous night come flooding back. She shifts carefully, turning in Harry's arms to face him without waking him. The movement is precarious on the small mattress, but she manages it with minimal disturbance, settling on her side to study his sleeping face.

In sleep, Harry looks younger, the lines of stress and fatigue that sometimes mark his features smoothed away. His curls are tousled against the white pillowcase, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks in the morning light. There's a vulnerability to him like this that few people get to see. The world-famous musician reduced to simply a man, beautiful and unguarded in slumber.

Y/N feels a rush of affection so intense it's almost overwhelming. Three years together, and sometimes it still hits her like this. The sheer improbability of them, of this relationship that somehow works despite the chaos of his fame and the ordinary rhythms of her life. He could have anyone, she thinks, not for the first time and yet here he is crammed into a twin bed in an Italian hotel room because she messed up the booking.

She reaches out, unable to resist tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertip, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the uncomfortable sleeping arrangement. Most men she's known would have been irritated by her mistake, would have made her feel small for the error. But Harry had just laughed and teased her gently and then accepted her stubborn declaration with that knowing smile that suggested he understood her better than she understood herself.

"I can hear you thinking, love," Harry mumbles suddenly, his voice rough with sleep though his eyes remain closed.

Y/N startles slightly, her hand freezing against his cheek. "I thought you were asleep," she whispers.

"I was," he murmurs, lips curving into a sleepy smile. "But your thoughts are very loud."

He opens his eyes then, green and warm in the morning light, focusing on her in a way that still makes her heart skip. "What is it?" he asks, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle despite the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him.

Y/N hesitates, suddenly self-conscious. She's not naturally effusive as tends to show her feelings through actions rather than words and relies on sarcasm and teasing as shields against vulnerability. But something about this moment pushes her toward honesty. "I just..." she begins, then pauses, searching for the right words. "I was thinking about how grateful I am. For you."

Harry's eyebrows lift slightly in surprise at her uncharacteristic directness, but he remains quiet, giving her space to continue. "Last night," she says, her eyes dropping to her hand now resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm, "with the whole bed situation, anyone else would have been frustrated with me and would have made me feel stupid for messing up something so basic."

She traces an absent pattern on his skin, following the lines of his tattoos. "But you just laughed. You teased me, sure, but you weren't angry. You were patient and you're always so patient with me, even when I'm being ridiculous."

Harry's hand comes up to cover hers, stilling her nervous movement. "You weren't being ridiculous," he says softly. "Well, maybe a little when you insisted on sleeping separately just to prove a point." His lips quirk in amusement. "But the booking? Baby, that was just a mistake. Everyone makes them."

"Not everyone handles other people's mistakes so gracefully," Y/N points out, meeting his eyes again. "Especially when those mistakes result in being crammed into a bed made for one person."

Harry shifts, adjusting their position so they're more comfortably aligned, his hand sliding to the small of her back to keep her secure on the narrow mattress. "I don't know if you've noticed, my love, but I quite like being crammed into small spaces with you," he says, his tone light but his eyes serious. "And as for handling your mistakes...well, you handle mine too. It's what we do."

Y/N thinks of all the times Harry's schedule has changed at the last minute, tours being extended, vacations curtailed, plans rearranged. All the public scrutiny that comes with dating him, the paparazzi intrusions and social media speculation. All the small and large ways in which loving him requires flexibility and patience of her own.

"I just..." she hesitates again, feeling unexpectedly emotional. "I love you. So much. And sometimes it hits me how lucky I am, that out of all the people in the world, I get to be the one who wakes up with you even if it is in a ridiculously small bed that I accidentally booked."

Harry's expression softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way she loves. "I think you've got that backward, baby," he says, his voice husky with emotion and lingering sleep. "I'm the lucky one. Most people would have stormed off to the front desk demanding a new room, or spent the night complaining. But you? You made up that absolutely absurd story about European sleeping customs and spinal alignment."

He laughs softly at the memory, his chest rumbling beneath her palm. "And then you were too stubborn to admit you wanted to sleep with me until 2 AM. Do you know how hard it was to pretend I was asleep while you stood there debating with yourself? I nearly broke when you sighed for the fifteenth time."

Y/N flushes, burying her face against his chest in embarrassment. "I was hoping you'd forgotten that part."

"Never," Harry promises, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze again. "It's going in the vault of favorite Y/N moments. Oh, and remember the time you tried to convince me you knew how to sail."

"That was a legitimate misunderstanding," she protests weakly. "I said I'd been on a sailboat before, not that I knew how to operate one."

"Mmm, convenient clarification after we'd already drifted halfway to France," Harry teases, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her lower back. "But you know what? I wouldn't change a single one of your 'misunderstandings.' They keep life interesting."

He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips.. "I love you," he murmurs against her mouth. "Booking mistakes and all."

Y/N melts into the kiss, her heart full to bursting with affection for this man who sees her so clearly and loves her not in spite of these things but somehow because of them.

"That seems fair," Y/N concedes, settling more comfortably against him despite the limited space. "But I’d also like to bring up the time you got us lost in Madrid because you were convinced you knew a shortcut."

"We weren't lost," Harry protests automatically. "We were exploring alternative routes."

"For four hours?" Y/N raises an eyebrow skeptically. "In the rain?"

"It was atmospheric," Harry defends, his eyes dancing with mirth. "And it led to that amazing little restaurant we never would have found otherwise."

"After I finally convinced you to ask for directions," Y/N reminds him.

"Details," Harry dismisses with a wave of his hand, then winces as the movement nearly sends Y/N tumbling off the narrow bed. "Speaking of details, what do you say we call down about that room change? As much as I'm enjoying this cozy arrangement, I'd prefer a bed where I can properly appreciate you without risk of falling."

Y/N laughs, making no move to get up despite his suggestion. "In a minute," she says, snuggling closer. "I'm comfortable right where I am."

Harry's arms tighten around her, his expression softening into something tender and private. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Me too."

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Side note: I was looking through pintrest and MY GOD THIS MAN LOOKS SO DAMN GOOD. I swear theres something in the air this era. I just want to bite him 😩 JUST LOOK AT HIM I WANT TO CRY

🏷️: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @myfavfanficsever @spinninc @fruity-harry @maddiemikaelson28 @bibliophile369 @silastylesswift @readingrockstar23 @aileen1237 @cowboylikelivie @angelbunny222 @berrycherry28 @maldaptivescorpio  @run-for-the-hills @sarahs-house @swag313gurl @rach2699 @oifukinloser @caynonmoondreams

[nvpengyou]

“are u okay?” no i need more money

[jarofstyles]

Pour Some Sugar on Me (Sugar Baby!Harry)

I started this mini series ages ago but I needed to give it a proper home! We see lots of sugar daddyrry but what about him getting a little spoiled in return?

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Main masterlist

One Shots-

Sea View*

Blurbs-

Gucci dressing room

The beginning

His Favorite Pastimes

The first shopping trip

Jealous Y/N

Stress Relief *

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[harryworldwide]

harrystyles: Together, Together.

Amsterdam. Nine.

[watchmegetobsessed]

HONEY LEMON

A/N: this one you guys!!! i literally wrote it in 24 hours which is insane but idc, i got into the flow with this one!!! its also for the plus size girlies who think they are not worthy of the love they deserve 🫶

WORD COUNT: 14.7k

PAIRING: college!hockey!harry x plus-size!bestfriend!reader

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: You have always refused to let yourself even think about falling for your best friend, but then suddenly you come to the realization you failed at that horribly. Even though you've been best friends for what feels like forever you're in two very different leagues, so you're eager to get over these inconvenient feeling, though that mission turns out to be harder than you expected it to be.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

The cafeteria is pure chaos between twelve and one o’clock, so you usually try to arrive as early as possible after your Curatorial Studies class on Wednesdays to avoid the endless line and no free table situation, but today you had to discuss a few things with professor Didak about your last essay, so by the time you’re nearing the food hall it’s packed. 

With a defeated sigh you join the line and pull out your phone to kill the time with some empty scrolling, but a notification pops up on your screen right when you open TikTok.

HARRY: where are uuuuu???

Y/N: in line, u?

HARRY: front of the line, come join us!!

Chewing on your bottom lip you take a look at the line ahead of you. Normally you hate those who cut the line and join their friends, but you only have about forty minutes before your next class, so you’re kind of in a rush. Taking a deep breath you step out of the line and start walking ahead. 

As you near the front you immediately spot him. 

Harry has been your best friend since sixth grade when he transferred to your school and he was sat next to you. On his first day you spotted the stack of Pokemon cards in his bag, which you pointed out excitedly. His ears turned bright red and he tried to make you believe it wasn’t his, but then you told him you collected them as well and if he wanted to you could exchange cards. And boom, just like that you became the best of friends. 

Even though in high school it started to become pretty obvious that the two of you would lean into different crowds, Harry started playing hockey on a more serious level, so he became a popular athlete in school while you decided to explore your love for art and everything related. He spent most of his time in practice on the ice and you were a frequent in the art room painting or drawing or in the library reading books about art history. 

But despite the diversion, you still remained friends. Not once did you feel like he felt embarrassed to hang out with someone who wasn’t as popular as he was, he invited you to every party, every outing and always made sure to spend time with you even when you both were busy with your studies. Now you’re college juniors, Harry is an Econ major and captain of the hockey team, a damn good one even despite the doubts whether a junior could take up on the role and you’re a Fine Arts major with the intention of starting your masters in Studio Art soon, but you’re still the best of friends, even though neither of you collects Pokemon cards anymore. 

As you walk up to him and his teammates at the front of the line you get a few dirty stares thrown at you from girls, but you try your best to ignore. It’s been like that since forever, plenty of girls have shown their jealousy over how close you are with Harry, girls who wanted his attention, but ended up not even making an impression on him, though it was never like that between you and him. 

“Hey,” you tap on his shoulder lightly. His head whips around and a goofy smile stretches across his face as he sees you. 

“Honey Lemon!” he beams, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you to his side as he pulls you next to him in line. The nickname will never stop being silly, he is the only one calling you that. He started using it after he found out Big Hero 6 was your favorite animated movie and Honey Lemon was your favorite character in it.

“She is kinda like you, silly and sweet,” he told you and then just started calling Honey Lemon after that. 

“Want to share a cinnamon roll with me?” he asks, eyeing today’s menu.

“Sure,” you nod, smiling. 

You all get your food and then take one of the last open tables. The rowdy hockey players always draw attention when there are more than three of them at the same place and sitting with them often makes you feel like you shouldn’t be sharing a table with them, but they all have been pretty welcoming towards you. 

“Y/N, you still don’t need a naked model for any of your classes?” Niall, one of the left wingers on the team asks, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

“Still no. But if you’re so keen on showing yourself, I’m sure some of the girls would love to have you for a private session,” you chuckle, shaking your head. 

“Stop being a manwhore, Niall,” Harry grunts into his sandwich. 

“I just want to share my beauty with everyone, is that a crime?” he scoffs dramatically. 

“Everything you do is a crime,” Mitch, the goalie says, making everyone laugh at the table. 

“Y’all are just jealous!” Niall waves his hands around grinning. 

Harry just shakes his head at his friend as he finishes his sandwich, pulling the cinnamon roll closer so he can cut it in half. 

“So are you coming on Friday?”

You furrow your eyebrows, taking another bite of your greek salad.

“What’s on Friday?” 

“Told you we are having a party before the season starts. Well, Niall wanted to have a party before all our weekends are occupied by games for a while,” he adds with a huffed laugh. 

“Ah yeah. Right. Do I need to be there though?” you ask with a cautious smile. It’s not that you’re against parties, you go to them, quite often, but sometimes you feel very out of place and your anxiety tends to kick in whenever you notice that Harry is keeping an eye on you, staying by your side instead of doing his own thing. It kinda feels like he needs to babysit you. 

“Of course,” he nods confidently. “I want you there, so you need to be there.”

“Alright,” you sigh in defeat. “Can I bring Samira?” you ask, referring to your roommate. 

“Sure. Do you want me to pick you guys up?”

“We are capable of taking that twenty minute walk on our own,” you chuckle, bumping a shoulder against his. 

While you finish your part of the cinnamon roll you listen to the boys bickering about something that happened at practice in the morning, they always find something to argue about. Leaning back in your seat you just casually run your eyes over the students around when your gaze meets an icy blue pair. 

Wynter Harris has the ability to make you feel like you’re about to drop dead just by her gaze. If you have the chance you would rather avoid her at any cost, especially since she started looking at you like you’re the devil herself. That correlated with Harry hooking up with her about a year ago and then not wanting to date her, which apparently hurt her ego pretty badly. You have an inkling feeling that she thinks you and Harry have something going on and that’s why he dumped her. Which is just absolutely ridiculous to you. 

Well, you can’t deny that Harry is awfully handsome, he is tall and fit and he’s been collecting tattoos for a few years now, giving him a badboyish charm. Additionally to that he is the kindest and funniest person you know, falling for him would be the easiest thing on Earth in your opinion, but you never let that happen to you. If the societal differences weren’t enough, you’re nothing like the girls Harry was associated with throughout the years. Unlike the pretty, cheerleaders and puck bunnies he has hooked up with over the years you carry quite some extra weight, you don’t go around flaunting your thick thighs and soft lower belly, you like to hide your body in baggy, oversized clothes, though your full boobs are definitely considered an asset. As long as you can keep them tamed of course, because once your bra is off, they sag a few levels lower on your abdomen. 

Your body has been one of your biggest insecurities probably since you were a teenager and gained those stubborn extra pounds you haven’t been able to get rid of ever since. And guys Harry, the star athletes simply don’t go after girls like you, so you spared yourself the heartbreak and talked some sense into yourself before a crush could even spark inside you. 

“Want some more?” Harry’s question pulls you out of your thoughts as you tear your gaze away from Wynter. He is offering you the last bite of his part of the cinnamon roll, the middle of it which is the absolute best, but your appetite has disappeared.

“No, I’m good,” you shake your head. “I gotta head to my next class, I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Standing from your seat you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder before taking my tray. Harry assesses you with a curious look, but you brush it off with a quick smile before waving goodbye to him and the boys. 

You will not let Wynter’s death glare send you down a spiral, you tell yourself as you exit the cafeteria and head over to your next class. 

***

“Be honest, do I look like a racoon?”

Samira turns to you from her mirror, referring to her eye makeup, that turned out just a tad bit too smokey. 

“Um, maybe a little bit. Wipe some off on the lid,” you suggest and she nods, turning back to her mirror. 

It’s Friday evening, you’re getting ready for the party Harry said he needed you to go to. Luckily, Samira didn’t need much convincing about attending, she broke up with her boyfriend of two years in the summer and she’s been living her best single life since then, taking any opportunities to mess around at parties. 

“Do you have your eyes on someone for tonight?” you ask, smirking as you step over to your dresser, trying to figure out what to wear. 

“There is this cute guy I have microeconomics together with this semester, would be nice if he was there,” Sami says with a little dance that makes you chuckle. “Are you gonna be glued to your boy’s side again?”

“Hey! I’m not glued to his side and he is not my boy,” you defend yourself, ignoring a funky feeling deep in your gut as you pull out a black top. 

“Girl, keep telling yourself that, but he is your boy and you’re his girl,” she scoffs.

Samira has been convinced since the day you met in freshman year that you and Harry are in love with each other, even though you’ve told her millions of times that you’re just friends, nothing more. She doesn’t believe it. 

“Whatever,” you mutter. “Though I swear if we were anything, Wynter Harris would probably murder me in my dreams,” you huff out a laugh. 

“She’s just jealous,” Sami shrugs, standing from her spot. She turns her face to you with a questioning look, referring to her makeup, to which you give her a nod. “That girl is so obsessed with Styles, it’s kinda scary,” she adds with an eye-roll. “Wear that with those light-washed jeans,” she says, pointing at the top you chose for tonight.

“But those are so tight,” you frown.

“Yeah, and your ass looks great in them. Wear it!”

You’re hesitant, but give in, feeling kind of out of your comfort zone, but also excited about your outfit. It’s definitely not one of your baggy fits, but you don’t let yourself dwell on the way your tummy is showing or how your backrolls make an appearance if the fabric of your shirt sticks to you. 

By the time you’re done getting ready, Samira is already halfway out the door.

“You look hot, by the way,” she says, adjusting her hoop earrings in the mirror.

“I look… normal,” you reply, tugging lightly at the hem of your top for the tenth time.

“Just take the fucking compliment!” she groans, but you know she’s just joking. 

“Fine, thank you! You look hot too.”

“Now let’s get our hot asses going!” She cheers, pulling you towards the hallway. 

The party is exactly as you expected. Loud, crowded, warm and full of alcohol, so just like an average party. 

Samira hooks her arm with yours as you make your way into the kitchen to get yourselves a drink. She is quick to mix up something sweet for the two of you and bumping your cups together you take a long chug. That’s when Harry appears, his eyes landing on you instantly.

“There is my Honey Lemon!” he throws his hands up, like he hasn’t seen you earlier that day when you had coffee together. “Already drinking, very well,” he grins, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you into a bear hug. 

His masculine scent instantly fills your nostrils, mixing a bit of his own smell, which you can’t quite deter, but you could pick out of a million anytime. 

You laugh against his shoulder before he lets go of you, though lets one of his arms around your shoulders. 

“Sami, good to see you,” he nods at your roommate.

“You too, Styles. Ready for the season?” she asks. Samira is actually a big hockey fan, she has two older brothers and they both played hockey growing up. 

“Never been more ready,” he grins confidently, giving your shoulder a squeeze. 

A moment later more of his teammates flood into the kitchen, carrying pizza boxes, so chaos takes over the room as everyone tries to get a slice.

“You hungry?” Harry asks, leaning closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“I’m good,” you shake your head. His arm falls from around your shoulder as he fetches two slices for himself. 

“Hey, I think I just saw Eli,” Samira says to you, craning her neck to peek into the living room. You give her a puzzled look. “The guy from microeconomics. Would you hate me if I left you for a bit?” she asks with doe eyes.

“I’ve got her, don’t worry,” Harry answers for you with his mouth full of food. 

“It’s not like I need babysitting,” you give him a look, before turning back to Sami. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

“Text me if you need me or want to leave,” she says, giving you a quick hug before disappearing. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” Harry asks, holding up the slice in his hand when he catches you eyeing the pizzas on the kitchen island. Truth is you’d love to have some, but you’ve been trying to cut back on fast food. 

“No, I wouldn’t eat a whole slice,” you shake your head and then Harry holds his slice out to you.

“Take a bite, I know you want a taste,” he grins and he looks so goofy with his greasy lips and slightly hazy eyes from the drinks he has probably had, you can’t help but chuckle at him before accepting his offer and taking a bite. 

“Mm, it’s so good,” you moan as the cheese melts on your tongue. 

Harry lets out a soft laugh at your reaction, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

Once most of the pizza is gone Niall demands a round of shots and you are no exception, though Harry switches glasses with you, since he got one with less vodka in it, then he also pours you some juice in a cup.

“I know you hate the taste of vodka,” he smiles at you.

“Thanks,” you smile back. 

After the round of vodka Niall convinces you to have another one with him and that’s enough to make you feel tipsy. Soon, you all move to the backyard where the beerpong tables are set up and most of the boys decide to join the game. Harry asks if you want to play, but you’d rather just stay on the side and he stays with you. There are quite some people around, making it a bit crowded so you’re kind of pressed against Harry, but somehow you end up standing in front of him, with his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against his hard chest. It’s not the first time he holds you like this, but for some reason, you’re awfully aware of just how much he envelops you with his body. 

Then at one point a girl comes up beside the two of you.

“Harry! Hi! Haven’t seen you in ages!” The blondie taps a hand on his bicep, smiling up at him with flirty eyes. 

“Hi Charlotte,” he nods with a polite smile, but his gaze quickly falls back to the game, though that doesn’t bother Charlotte.

“Remember how you promised to do a round of shots with me at that sorority party?”

She is blinking up at him innocently, pushing her chest out in a pretty obvious way, while she hasn’t even acknowledged your existence. Suddenly, your stomach twists. 

“Uh, yeah, I remember,” Harry chuckles softly. His arms loosen around you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders. 

“Maybe we can do that now,” Charlotte suggests. You turn to face Harry.

“Go on, I’ll just keep watching the game,” you smile up at him.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates for another second before nodding. Charlotte claps happily and as soon as Harry’s hands fall from your shoulder she is holding onto him, tugging him inside. You watch them disappear in the crowd with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. 

Fuck, why do you feel like throwing up suddenly? Maybe you had too much to drink. Not enough to make you feel sick though, so why are you feeling like shit?

You stick around for a little longer, moments go by, Harry doesn’t return and the game starts to bore you, so you decide to have a quick bathroom break. Pushing your way through the people inside you’re heading to the bathroom downstairs, but when you see the line you decide to use Harry’s bathroom upstairs. 

There are noticeably less people as you walk up the stairs, half the hockey team lives in this big renovated townhouse and Harry’s room is the last one in the hallway, so you just keep walking past the doors, but then stop in your tracks when you spot him.

And not just him, Charlotte is with him. 

They are standing in front of Harry’s room, she has her arms around his neck, breasts pressed against his chest as she is seductively saying something leaning close to his ear. Harry stands straight, one hand on her hip, the other one in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like he is very into the situation, but he is definitely not against it. 

Your stomach drops when Charlotte presses a kiss to his neck and you turn around before you could witness her pull him into his room. 

You practically sprint down the stairs, the need to use the bathroom long forgotten. Your chest is burning and it feels like you’re carrying a rock inside it. You don’t stop until you’re outside, rounding the house and plastering your back against the wall in the dark where no one can see you. 

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you reacting like you just saw your worst nightmare? It was just Harry being seduced by a girl, nothing new, it’s not the first time he hooks up with someone at a party, though he doesn’t do it as often as one would expect him to.

And you have never actually seen him do this. 

You know about most of his little adventures by him telling you about them, but you never actually witnessed any of them happening, while you sat in first row now with him and Charlotte and it triggered something inside you. Something you’ve been very adamant to deny. But now it’s crashing down on you all of a sudden.

You feel this way because you actually do have a crush on Harry.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, burying your face in your hands. This is bad. This is so bad on so many levels.

You can’t be into your best friend, because that’s all he should be. Your best friend. It’s what he sees you as for sure, so your end can’t change. He would never look at you more than just a friend, you are nowhere near his league.

Star athletes and popular guys like him are not into girls like you. Girls who blend into the crowd, girls who are not thin like models and girls who lack any confidence. It’s just not how things go, no matter how long you’ve known each other. 

You press your palms harder against your face like you can physically push the thought back in. It doesn’t work though, of course it doesn’t work. 

“No,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no.”

You refuse to sink into this, you’ve been suppressing it all along for a very good reason and you won’t let this wreck you right now. 

You take a deep breath, then another and another one before forcing yourself to move away from the wall and walk back inside. You plan on finding Samira, hoping she might be up to hang out some with you some or maybe head home, but the first person you run into is Harry. 

“Hey,” he says carefully. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You blink at him, suddenly the sight of him feels like a stab into your chest. But at least he is not in his room all over Charlotte right now. 

“I was just getting air,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face, that probably doesn’t look too convincing, because Harry narrows his eyes at you. 

“You alright?”

“Yeah!” you nod. “’m fine,” you reassure him, softer this time. “Just… a bit overwhelmed.”

That’s when you spot Samira across the room, talking to two girls, no boy near.

“I’ll go hang out with Sami for a bit,” you nod towards your roommate. Harry follows your gaze, then looks back at you and the worry is obvious in his eyes, but he doesn’t question you. 

“Okay. See you later?”

“Sure,” you nod with a smile, swallowing the ball in your throat. 

“And if you’re leaving let me know.”

“I will,” you nod again and then walk past him, afraid that if you keep looking at him you might break. 

You join Sami and the two girls she knows from her statistics class from last semester, though you completely zone out of their conversation. Sami notices your behavior, but you just brush it off and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, this time actually. 

Luckily the line has shortened for the one downstairs, so you don’t have to use Harry’s. While you’re in you keep thinking about how you need to get your head straight. You can’t let this get out of hands or you might ruin your friendship with him, which is simply not an option. 

When you step out of the bathroom you’re so deep in thoughts that you run right into someone. A very tall and muscular someone. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back, while the stranger’s hands come to your arms steadying you.

“Are you up by the beerpong table?” his deep voice chuckles and you blink up at him.

“What?”

“Just thought you might be next in the game, that’s why you’re in such a hurry.”

His words finally process in your mind and you shake your head with an airy chuckle.

“No, sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hey, do I know you?” he asks, his hands falling from your arms. At his words you look up at him too and he looks familiar as well, but it doesn’t click at first. Then his eyes light up, but there’s a bit of mischief in them. “Ah, you’re… Y…?” “Y/N,” you help him out and that’s when you realize who he is. 

Mason Thorne was on the hockey team up until the end of last year. The guy was a great player, but even greater trouble, he was doing some pretty hard partying and ended up trashing the entrance of the building where the dean’s office is. It was a huge scandal, not his first either. It happened when their coach finally told Harry that from this fall he’ll be captain since their previous one was a senior, finishing up his studies. Because of his future position Coach Bernard asked Harry’s thoughts on Mason too. He said he was a liability, cares way too much about parties and it affects his performance as well, so Harry advised to kick him out. 

It wasn’t his decision though, but at last that’s what Coach Bernard ended up doing. As far as you know Mason understood the decision and he’s been holding back on the partying lately even though he is not getting back on the team.

“Yes, you’re friends with Harry, right?” he smiles and you have to admit he is charming. 

But not as charming as Harry.

“Yep,” you nod with a tight-lipped smile. Mason’s gaze runs down your body, which has you feeling uncomfortable for a second. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while. Would you want to catch up over a drink maybe?” he asks with a flirty smile and at first you almost turn him down. 

But then you think about it for a moment. This is exactly what you need, someone to take your mind off of this whole Harry thing, some flirting, some ego-boosting and judging from Mason’s look that’s exactly what he is offering you right now.

“Sure,” you nod at last. “Why not?”

***

Usually after parties the boys like to go out for dinner in a chinese place close to campus, so you’re not surprised when Harry invites you and Samira out as well. 

You’ve made a promise to yourself to carry on with everything as normal, so you accept. 

When the two of you arrive the boys are already there, looking tired and hungover, but as rowdy as usual. 

“Hello Honey Lemon,” Harry greets you when you take the seat beside him.”

“Hi,” you smile, ignoring the twist in your stomach. 

The nice old Chinese lady comes and takes your orders and then the conversation around the table carries on as you wait for the food. Harry leans in closer, so only you can hear him. 

“Saw you talking to Mason Thorne last night.”

You’re actually surprised, not just that he noticed you talking to Mason, but that he is now bringing it up. 

“Yeah, we kinda caught up a bit,” you shrug, hoping to sound casual, though your nerves are definitely on edge. Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything. “Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” he says, too fast. Then, after a pause: “Just… be careful around him, yeah?”

You blink with a frown.

“Careful?”

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “He’s just not—” he stops himself, rephrasing. “He’s not exactly the best guy to be around.”

“Because of him being kicked out of the team? He’s been actually cutting back on the partying since then.”

“I know, but he had weird things going on when he was still on the team,” he shrugs, grabbing his water and taking a sip. You are not liking this conversation, defense rises in your gut.

“Since when do you care who I talk to at parties?” you ask, crunching your nose. 

“No need to get all worked up, just thought I might tell you,” he shrugs again. “I know you’re capable of deciding who is worthy of your time,” he adds and that part softens you a little. 

Your heart aches, because it’s him who is actually the most worthy of your time, but knowing that it’s not gonna happen, you need to force yourself to move on and right now Mason is your best chance for that.

“I am,” you nod, but it’s more like an assurance to yourself, rather than him. Talking to Mason was kind of fun last night, he has a sharp tongue and flirted quite a lot with you, even asked for your number at the end of the night and he has already texted you. 

And now as you sit beside Harry you make the decision to do everything you can to forget about your feelings for him. Starting with giving a chance to someone who isn’t him.

***

You and Mason agreed to meet up for a coffee on Tuesday. You’ve been texting since the party and it felt like a logical step to spend some time together in person as well. 

He is already there at the café when you arrive, greets you with a short hug and you can’t not notice how his hand slips lower on your back, towards your butt, but it’s still barely appropriate, so you decide to let it slide. You both order and then sit at one of the tables. 

There’s a confidence in him that feels… easy. Different from Harry’s, but still familiar in a way you don’t fully want to analyze.

“So you’re a Fine Arts major, huh? The next da Vinci?”

You let out a chuckle, though you kind of hate it when people assume that just because you study art you also want to be a painter. While you do enjoy creating art, it’s so much more than just that. 

“We’ll see. But I’m kind of more into the history of art these days and curation.”

“That’s a fancy word,” he smirks, taking a sip of his coffee. 

The conversation flows easily, though you kind of stay on the surface level. It’s pleasant, but not memorable so far. 

Mason is telling you about the internship he is planning to start next summer when the door of the small café opens and an all too familiar figure steps inside. 

Harry walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair slightly messy, like maybe he just rolled out of bed. His eyes scan the room just casually, but then he spots you and Mason. His expression is unreadable as he stops for a moment and then heads over to you, making you curse internally. His appearance is the last thing you needed right now. 

“Hey guys, what a nice surprise,” he nods, stopping by your table. 

“Hey man,” Mason nods back as you drop him a smile too. Harry looks at him and Mason stares back and suddenly the air around you feels different, but you can’t put your finger on it. 

“Are you guys on a date or something?” Harry asks in a weird tone. 

“Just having a chat,” Mason answers. 

“Right,” Harry nods once, slowly. “Didn’t realize you two knew each other that well already.”

Something about the way he says that well makes your brows knit. This whole conversation feels off. 

“Getting there,” Mason smiles at you, which you return, but it’s not genuine. 

Harry shifts his weight slightly, gaze flicking briefly to Mason’s coffee, then back to him, like he has something to say, but keeps to himself. 

“Want to study together later, Honey Lemon?” he then asks you. 

“Uh, sure. I’ll text you.”

Then Harry nods and lingers for another beat before mumbling his goodbye and walking back to the counter to order.

“Honey Lemon?” Mason asks with an amused look. 

“It’s just a silly nickname he gave me a long time ago,” you wave your hand dismissively. 

“So you guys are like… something?”

“We’re friends,” you answer instantly. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but that’s all.”

“Friends who give each other cute nicknames.” Mason nods into his coffee, he doesn’t sound upset, his tone is more teasing, mixed with something you can’t quite read. 

“Just friends,” you repeat and it’s a reminder to you as well, not just an answer for Mason. 

Your gaze flickers up to Harry’s figure by the counter just as he puts the lid on his cup. He looks at you too, your eyes meeting for a heartbeat before you turn away. From the corner of your eyes you see him walk out and something shifts in your chest, but you ignore it and turn your attention back to Mason. 

There is no use of dwelling on your useless feelings for Harry when you have a cute guy right in front of you, right?

Right. 

***

You were hoping Harry would forget about the study session he suggested, but you’re out of luck. About an hour after you part ways with Mason he texts you. 

HARRY: u home yet?

Y/N: yep

The three dots appear immediately after you sent your reply.

HARRY: meet me in the library in 20?

You hesitate for a second, but then agree. 

He is waiting outside the building when you get there, greeting you with a soft smile. The sight of him sends a shiver down your spine and for a second you wonder how you got here just in a few days, that even just looking at him has your body twisting and bending.

“Hi there,” he says as you reach him. It’s a little windy and you forgot to tie your hair back, so a few strands are dancing right in your face. Harry reaches up and tugs them behind your ears with an easy move, but as his fingers brush against the side of your face you almost let out a tortured moan.

Now you regret agreeing to meet him. 

“Hi. Let’s get going,” you suggest and the two of you walk inside. 

You find a nice spot near the windows and settle across from each other, covering the tabletop with your textbooks and notebooks. You have barely started studying ten minutes ago when he drops his pen and looks at you.

“So you and Mason?”

Right into the middle of it.

“What about us?”

“Is it… like, serious?” He leans back, eyeing you with a hard expression. 

“We’re just talking,” you shrug and that’s the truth. Nothing happened between the two of you, though Mason has been definitely hinting that he would love to change that. 

Harry nods shortly and then you both return to your books, but not even two minutes later he looks up again. 

“I just don’t get it.”

“What?” you sigh.

“You,” he simply says. “I mean, why him?”

Your jaw tightens a little. “Why is that even your business?”

“It’s not,” he admits quickly. “You’re right, but… we’re best friends, so it is kind of a bit of my business.”

“Yeah, but you don’t hear me questioning you about your hook ups, so why am I being interrogated?”

Your words come out a little sharper than you intended them and you see how they stun him. For a second you feel bad for biting back at him like that. 

“I just care about you,” he then says. “And I want to make sure you’re good.”

Your whole body relaxes at that, that heavy weight in your chest softens, because that’s exactly the Harry you love so much. The one who always shows up. Always checks in. Always makes space for you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m good. Don’t worry about me,” you tell him this time softer.

“I will always worry about my Honey Lemon,” he says and something grips your heart. 

You’re actually close to crying, so you shake your head with an airy chuckle and turn your attention back to your reading. 

“Study, Styles. Worry about your grades.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, making you laugh as you both go back to your books, though you stare at the same line for what feels like eternity before you finally manage to recover from the conversation you just had. 

Your heart already feels like breaking and that’s exactly what you wanted to avoid. So in the heat of your emotions you grab your phone from the table and text Mason, asking if he wants to meet up again. He is quick to reply.

MASON: always up to see u gorgeous ;)

You like his message and put your phone back, ignoring the way Harry is staring at you from the other side of the table. 

***

At the end of October there is always a Fall Festival on campus that you love so much. The central quad is transformed into something straight out of a movie. String lights are hung between trees, food trucks line the walkways, student organizations set up booths, live music plays from a temporary stage and there are carnival games scattered around. You always get excited to wander around and see everything and that’s exactly what you were planning this year too with Samira, but the moment she enters your shared room that afternoon, just an hour before you were supposed to go and explore the festival you know something is up.

“Spill it out,” you sigh, shoulders sagging.

“Okay, don’t hate me, but… Eli asked me out to go to the festival with him.”

“Oh. Oh…” It takes you a second to realize what that means. 

“But I told him I promised you to go with and I don’t want to bail on you so what would you say if Eli joined us too?” she asks, flashing a wide, hopeful smile at you.

“Sami, I don’t want to be your third wheel,” you moan.

“You won’t! Just think of it as a hangout!”

“But it’s not,” you roll your eyes. “Just… go with him. I’ll ask someone else.”

“What about Mason?” she suggests. 

“He is out of town for the weekend, but I’ll just text Holly and see if she is up to it,” you say with a soft smile, though you already know Holly, who you had Visual Culture class two semesters ago and remained friends with will be going with her own boyfriend, but Sami doesn’t need to know that. Your mood for the festival was killed so you’ll just probably stay home and binge watch another trashy dating reality show. 

“Okay, but if Holly is not available please just come with us. I don’t want you to miss out on the festival, I know how much you love it,” Sami tells you, pointing a stern finger at you.

“I will,” you nod, knowing well you won’t.

Soon Samira leaves to meet up with Eli and you pretend like you’re getting ready to head out too, but as soon as she is out the door you put your sweats back on and crash onto your bed. However your chilling session cuts short when a text pops up on your phone from Harry.

HARRY: where are u?

Y/N: home

HARRY: ?? why??

Y/N: bc I live here?

HARRY: smartass, what about the festival?

Y/N: not in the mood

HARRY: absolutely not, get dressed, I’ll pick u up in 10

You stare at the message for a bit, debating whether it’s worth fighting him, but you soon realize Harry is one stubborn asshole and will literally pound on your door until you go with him, so it’s better if you just gave up. 

You step out of your dorm building right when Harry arrives. He is wearing his hockey jacket over a thick hoodie and dark jeans, looking his usual handsome self that has you sighing silently as you approach him. 

“Aw, did you turn into GoGo today?” he grins at you, referring to the moodier character from Big Hero 6. “What do I need to do to get Honey Lemon back?”

“Maybe not annoy me to death?” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he winks and gives you a quick bear hug before tugging you towards the festival. 

The festival is already packed when you arrive. Students crowd the walkways, laughter and music filling the air. The scent of caramel apples, popcorn and cinnamon hangs in the chilly evening breeze. 

"Okay," Harry announces, rubbing his hands together. "First mission." 

"What mission?" 

"Get Honey Lemon to stop looking like someone ran over her goldfish." 

“I never had a goldfish.”

“I know, but this is exactly how you’d look if you had and someone ran over it.”

“How do you even run over a fish?” you frown. Harry sighs, shaking his head.

“The situation is worse than I thought. Come on, I’ll win you something at the games, that will cheer you up.”

You have no time to protest, he takes your hand and pulls you over to the carnival games. He decides he has the best shot with that ridiculous ring tossing game, saying that his aim is perfect thanks to hockey.

Well, he definitely overestimated his abilities when it comes to rigged carnival games. You watch him spend over twenty bucks before he finally wins the smallest prize, an ugly looking pumpkin plushie. 

“What is this?” you chuckle, holding the little guy up. 

“A pumpkin!” he cheerfully announces.

“It’s hideous,” you shake your head, assessing how one of his eyes is way higher than his other. 

“Hey, don’t insult him!” he gasps dramatically, making you laugh.

“He kinda looks possessed.”

“Possessed by the spirit of fall fun!”

“You’re weird,” you shake your head laughing as you tuck the ugly pumpkin into your bag. 

“Yeah, but you love me,” he grins.

Yes, you think to yourself. You really do.

You wander around the festival, get some cookies you share and play some more games. Soon you totally forget how you didn’t even want to come in the first place. It also helps that hanging out with Harry feels just like before, he is being his goofy, fun self you always loved so much and you somehow leave your torturous thoughts from the past few weeks behind as well, allowing yourself to enjoy the time spent with your best friend. 

Because that’s what he is and that’s what you’re reminded of. No matter what, Harry is truly your best friend. 

Standing in line for some hot chocolate a particularly cold breeze rushes past you, making you regret not bringing a jacket, you really thought a sweater would be enough, but now that the sun has gone down it’s definitely getting chillier. 

“Are you cold?” he asks, noticing how you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. 

“No.”

“Liar,” he hisses, already shrugging his jacket off. 

“Harry, no,” you protest, but he just drapes it over your shoulders.

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Honey Lemon. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to catch a cold?” you narrow your eyes at him. 

“I’m not cold,” he shrugs. “Besides, I’m used to it. Remember? Hockey is played on ice, in a pretty cold place,” he grins at you. God, he is so insufferable. 

“Yes, but you’re moving on the ice, your body’s temperature is a lot higher.”

“I’m gonna get it higher now with a hot chocolate,” he simply nods towards the booth where you’re up next. 

With a sigh you let it go and slip your arms into his jacket. Now you’re wrapped in warmth and his scent.

Of course, the evening can’t end without the two of you going for a ride on the ferris wheel. It’s pretty small, but it definitely has a vibe that just goes perfectly with the festival. 

The line moves quite fast so you take your seat soon and start the ride. 

“Are you feeling better?” Harry asks, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“Yes,” you admit truthfully.

“And want to tell me why you were so mopey?”

Chewing on your bottom lip you just shrug as you stare ahead. What would you even tell him? That recently you realized you have feelings for him and since it’s surely a lost cause you’ve been trying to get over it, but it sucks? Yeah, you’re not sharing that with him. 

“Are we good?” he then asks and his question surprises you.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, but you know there’s more behind it. “I just feel like things between us have been kinda different between us, but I want to make sure we’re good.”

Great, now you feel guilty for making him feel like something is wrong, when the only thing wrong is whatever is going on in your head. It’s not his fault that you’re a mess because of your feelings, he did nothing wrong and you’d hate it if he blamed himself. 

“Of course we’re good,” you smile at him softly. “I’ve just been in a… funk lately, I guess” you chuckle awkwardly. “But it’s all good.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you with that?” he asks and you know he means it. 

Harry would do anything for you, that’s why it all pains you even more. You were so blind, you should have known from the start that falling for such a great guy is inevitable. 

“Just be yourself,” you manage to tell him, swallowing down the ball in your throat, hoping he doesn’t notice the hurt behind your eyes. 

“I’m always myself when I’m with you,” he tips his head slightly with the tiniest smile on his lips. “You’re my favorite person, Honey Lemon. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you nod. “And you’re mine.”

You stare at each other for another beat and for a second something feels different. The way he is looking at you, there’s something in it you haven’t noticed before and it’s quick to put a pin into your heart and pop a thought into your mind.

What if Samira was right? What if… there’s more between the two of you? 

All the touches, the hugs, the laughs, the endless time spent together, what if those mean more to him as well?

By the time you get off the ferris wheel your head is spinning and your heart is pounding in your chest, especially when his hand brushes against yours and he hooks your pinkies together. It’s the tiniest of touch, but it ignites fireworks in your tummy. 

You barely notice where you're walking as Harry guides you through the crowd toward another row of booths. You’ve seen practically everything around the festival, but you definitely don’t want the evening to end just yet. 

“Can we drop by the restrooms?” you ask and Harry nods, instantly changing your direction towards the science building that was left open so the restrooms could be used while the festival is open. 

Walking on the pavement Harry’s pinky lets go of yours and you feel the disappointment right away, but before you could wallow in it he drapes his arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his side. 

“I’ll wait for you here,” he smiles, stopping in front of the building and you rush inside, eager to get back to him as fast as possible. 

You’re washing your hand already when the last stall on the row opens and you spot Wynter walking out. Her gaze catches yours in the mirror instantly and you quickly look back down, hoping she’ll just ignore your existence. 

But you’re out of luck. 

“You know, I have to give you credits for your bravery.”

At first you’re not even sure she is talking to you, because you have no idea what she meant by that, but when you look up you see that she is looking straight at you with her usual icy stare.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re pretty brave for still hanging out with Harry.”

“And why is that?” you ask, knowing well you shouldn’t be interacting with her, but she got you curious. 

“The two of you are just so different, he is popular, liked by everyone, one of the best looking guys around campus, while you’re…”

She doesn’t continue, but the runover she gives you with her eyes speaks for her. 

You’re not popular, nobody really notices you if Harry isn’t around and you don’t have the looks either. You’re the polar opposite of what he is.

You clench your jaw, feeling all your darkest thoughts flooding your mind suddenly. Wynter’s smile turns almost evil.

“I mean if I were you I would take even a morsel of whatever he is willing to give me, so I don’t blame you. But I think you’re brave for sticking around even when you clearly don’t belong in his circle.”

You want to curse her out, tell her she knows nothing about you or Harry, but you feel like if you opened your mouth you’d start crying. And Wynter probably knows that too, because pride is plastered all over her face as she simply walks past you and exits the restroom. 

You stay frozen at the sink, fingers still damp, staring at your reflection like it belongs to someone else. Her words are on repeat in your mind, clawing at your chest more and more every time. 

You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs as you lean onto the sink. Now you feel stupid for letting yourself think even for a minute that there could be more between you and Harry, because Wynter might be a total bitch, but suddenly her words. You really are different and there’s absolutely no way Harry would ever even consider you when it comes to dating when he could have any girl on campus. Cheerleaders, dancers, girls who model in their freetime, that’s the kind of girls he should be with, not you. 

Walking out of the building Harry is still right there, scrolling on his phone, but when he sees you he smiles and slips it back into his pocket. Then he sees your face and worry etches onto his expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling too good.”

“Why? What’s the matter?” he keeps searching for your eyes, but you can’t look into his for longer than just a second. 

“I think that corndog didn’t like the ferris wheel,” you lie, hoping he won’t question you.

“Ow. Okay, let me walk you home.”

You want to protest, but you know that would be suspicious, so you just nod. The walk back to your dorm is quiet, Harry asks a few times if you want to stop for a bit, but you just really want to get back to your room, be alone and probably cry yourself to sleep. 

Somehow you hold it together long enough. In front of the building you slip his jacket off and hand it back.

“Thanks for… everything,” you smile at him faintly.

“You sure I can’t do anything for you? I can stay with you, make sure you’re okay.”

“No need. I just really want to lie down, that’s all.”

he is not pleased by your answer, but he nods and doesn’t protest.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thank you Harry,” you smile, then turn around and walk back inside. 

Tears are rolling down your cheeks by the time you get to your room. Samira is not back, so you can peacefully sob until you’re too tired to carry on. So you take a shower and cocoon yourself in bed, allowing yourself to sink into the sadness for one last night, because now it’s crystal clear for you that you need to get over Harry. 

There is no need lusting for something that will never happen and the sooner you move on the better. 

***

By the end of the weekend after the festival you’re actively trying to get your shit together. It’s tough, but you have no choice and there are two things you start doing. 

One, you start to lean towards Mason more. He returns to campus and the two of you go out for dinner on Monday and when he walks you home from class on Tuesday you even let him kiss you. There are no fireworks, but it’s surely a pleasant kiss, so you tell yourself to just stay open. 

On the other hand, you start to put some distance between you and Harry, knowing that’s what you need to make it easier on you, even if it kills you to avoid your best friend. You know he is worried, he tells you through texts, but you just try to brush it all off, hoping he won’t come after you and call you out on your bullshitting. 

Friday evening the basketball team is throwing a party following their winning match earlier that day and Mason asks you to go with him, like as a date and you agree.

You also know Harry will be there since he is friends with some of the boys on the basketball team, but you’re trying not to worry ahead, you’ll just stick to Mason’s side and everything will be fine. 

Unfortunately, you don’t go too long without running into the hockey boys. 

“Y/N!” Niall grins brightly upon seeing you. “Haven’t seen you in fucking ages!”

“Sorry, I’ve been kinda busy,” you let out a nervous chuckle. Behind Niall you spot Harry who is already staring at you with an unreadable expression, but you can tell he is not happy. 

“Too busy to meet your best friend?” Harry bites out. 

“You know how this stage goes, Styles,” Mason inserts himself into the conversation, draping an arm around your shoulders, though the move feels strange from him. “We’re busy getting to know each other.”

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Harry replies and there’s something dark in his eyes as he stares back at Mason. 

“Okay, why don’t we all take a shot?” you suggest, eager to break the awkward vibes.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Niall cheers and gets to work. 

After the shots Mason asks if you want to go see what’s going on by the pool and you nod, but Harry’s hand on your wrist stops you.

“Hey, can we maybe talk tonight?”

“Uh, sure,” you nod, gently pulling your hand back. Not because he is gripping you tight, but because the warmth of his touch is making you shiver. 

“Meet me upstairs in half an hour?”

“Okay,” you nod and then go after Mason. 

While you hang out by the pool area with Mason and a few other people your thoughts are stuck on Harry. The way he looked at you and his begging eyes when he asked you to talk. It’s not becoming very clear that avoiding him is not only hard for you but for him as well. 

You tell Mason you’re going to pee when you head inside, but instead of finding a bathroom you take the stairs up. You’ve only been here once, so you’re not too familiar with the house, but as soon as you reach the hallway upstairs you spot Harry at the end sitting on a sofa under the window.

“You came,” he says quietly as you sit next to him.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been avoiding me all week, I wasn’t sure…”

Guilt gnaws at your stomach, your first instinct is to apologize, but you hold it back. 

“What did you want to talk about?” you ask. 

“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up. You’ve been actively avoiding me and I wanna know why.”

You stare down at your hands in your lap, fumbling with the fabric of your jeans, you really have no idea what to tell him. 

“I really don’t like where this is going, Y/N,” he sighs.

“What do you mean? I’ve just been busy and–”

“Please don’t bullshit me,” he frowns, holding his hands up to stop you from rambling on. “I need you to answer my next question honestly, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Is Mason telling you to avoid me? Is it because of him?”

You can’t help the puzzled look on your face.

“What? Why would he do that?”

“Because I have a feeling that he is doing all of this to mess with me and get back for getting kicked out of the team.”

It takes a few moments for his words to settle, but when they do, anger starts rising in your gut.

“Oh, so you think Mason is using me to mess with you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He is… not who you think he is.”

“And you know him so well, right?” you scoff.

“No, but I know him enough. I know that he has ulterior motives with you.”

That tips you over. You jump to your feet, taking a step back, needing some distance between the two of you, but this time it’s because you’re close to strangling him. 

“Fuck you,” you spat, surprising him with your sudden outburst. “Really, you think a good-looking guy like Mason couldn’t be interested in me without having some secret motives connected to you? Is that what you think?”

His eyes widen as he realizes that’s how you interpreted his words. He stands up and tries to get closer to you, but as soon as he moves, you take another step back, so he stops, not wanting to drive you away.

“That’s not what I mean, Y/N.”

“But I think that’s kind of actually what you meant, Harry. Maybe not directly, but deep down you actually had the thought.”

“Why would I think that? That’s insane, I just want to protect you from whatever Mason has planned, because I’m sure it won’t end well.”

“I don’t need your protection, okay? I’m more than capable of choosing who I want to spend my time with and right now you’re at the very bottom of that list.”

Turning around you start marching away from him, but he is quick to catch up. He grabs your wrist, tries to pull you back, but you shake his hand off.

“Y/N, wait, let’s talk about this,” he pleads, but you’re seeing red and talking is the last thing you want to do right now.

“No. I mean it. I don’t want to see you right now and if we’re actually friends please respect that.”

If you weren’t this angry you’d actually be pretty proud of standing your ground. Harry senses the determination in you as well, so hesitantly, but he steps back and lets you walk away. 

The music is loud downstairs, but your pulse is actually drumming louder in your ears as you push your way downstairs and then head back outside. You don’t see Mason by the pool so you start looking for him. As you’re just about to go back inside you hear his voice coming from beside the house from the dark. 

Walking closer you still don’t see him, but hear him talking to someone and soon you realize the other voice belongs to Wynter. The blood freezes in your veins as you plaster yourself against the wall and listen to their conversation. 

“How long are you gonna toy with her?” Wynter asks with a giggle. “Don’t drag it too long.”

Mason scoffs. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.” 

“I don’t doubt that, but we don’t want another scandal out of it,” Wynter purrs. 

“I know what I’m doing. I have her wrapped around my fingers.”

Your stomach drops and nausea starts to take over you, but you keep listening. 

“I think Harry is really spiraling over this,” Mason adds with a proud chuckle. “You should have seen his face tonight when he saw her with me.”

“I really don’t understand what he likes so much about her,” Wynter scoffs and now tears are threatening to spill from your eyes. “He could literally have anyone and he is still spending all his time with her.”

“You mean he could have you,” Mason corrects her and they both laugh. “Yeah, he is seething over her spending time with me.”

“But you’re not actually liking her, right?” Wynter asks.

“Fuck no,” Mason laughs. “She is kinda annoying sometimes and definitely not my type. I don’t even know how she could believe that I’m into her.”

That’s the final knife in your chest. With red eyes and wet cheeks you step out from behind the wall and let them know that you heard them. They look actually surprised about getting busted, but neither of them says anything. Instead, they even look smug, as if they are trying to send a message: Yes, we did that, what are you gonna do about it?

“I hope you’ll both have fun in hell together,” you simply say, then turn around and walk away. 

You’re done. Absolutely done with everything and everyone. Tears stream down your cheeks as you push your way through the house with the intention of leaving, but right when you’re about to reach the front door Harry stops you.

“Y/N I’m so sorry for– Hey, are you crying because of what I said?” he asks panicking, following you out the door, because you’re not stopping. 

“Just leave me alone,” you sob, trying to turn away from him, but he jumps in front of you on the front porch and finally stops you, gently grabbing you by your shoulders. 

“Fuck Y/N if it’s because of me I–”

“It’s not, okay?” you snap at him. “But congratulations, you were fucking right!” You let out a bitter laugh before shrugging his hands off and actually running away from him.

You don’t stop until you reach the end of the street and you managed to shock him enough that he doesn’t come after you. With trembling hands you call yourself an Uber and go back to your dorm with the intention of never ever leaving your room again. 

It’s kind of a blur, the ride back, the way the driver asked if you’re alright, but you could only sob as an answer. When you barge into your room Samira is shocked at your current state and tries to ask what happened, but you can’t even talk.

She hugs you close as you lie on your bed and lets you cry it all out until you finally calm down enough to tell her what happened. The fight with Harry, the conversation you overheard between Mason and Wynter and then literally running away.

“I’m so sorry, Girly. Mason is a fucking ass, do you know his email address?”

You give her a puzzled look.

“Yes?”

“Good, I’m gonna sign him up for every annoying ass newsletter and embarrassing website.”

That makes you laugh. Then Sami grabs her secret stash of gummy bears and the two of you decide to watch an awful move to take your mind off of what happened tonight. 

About twenty minutes into the movie Sami gets a text.

“Hey, I know Harry is like Voldemort in this room now, but you might want to check this out.”

She pauses the movie and hands you over her phone, a text thread open with one of her classmates.

MONICA: OMG Sami!!! Harry Styles literally just punched Mason Thorne in the face and threatened him!!

MONICA: Update, Tony said he heard Harry say that he will break more than just Mason’s nose if he as much as looks at Y/N again, this is WILDDD

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes going wide as you reread the messages. 

“That’s like something straight out of a movie,” Sami gasps and right when she is about to ask Monica for more details, there’s a knock on the door. 

“Y/N? Can we please talk?” Harry’s voice is soft and pained and it makes your stomach twist. 

Samira stands from the bed and gives you a questioning look, asking whether she should open the door or let him camp outside. You nod. 

She throws the door open and there he is, in the same clothes you saw him earlier at the party, but his expression is full of worry and pain and so much more. 

“Um, I’m gonna spend the night at Eli’s, you two have a lot to talk about,” Sami smiles awkwardly, quickly throws her necessities into her bag and then scurries out of the room. Harry is still standing at the door.

“Can I come in?” he asks and you can only nod again. Sitting on your bed you watch him walk in, he softly closes the door and then walks closer, stopping a few feet away from you, like he is trying to give you space. 

“Is it true that you punched Mason in the face?” you ask quietly, staring at him with wide eyes. Harry licks his lips and nods, kind of ashamed.

“Not my proudest moment, but when he told me that he used you to piss me off I just… lost my mind.” He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I didn’t want my prediction to be true, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I do, I feel like it was my job to protect you and I did a pretty shitty job at that.”

You stand from the bed and step closer, though leave a bit of space between the two of you. Then your eyes spot the bruise on his knuckles and you gasp, reaching for it.

“Shit, this looks bad,” you say, assessing the dark patches on his hand.

“It’s alright, I’ve had it worse on the ice,” he shrugs, but then hisses when you gently run a finger over his bruised knuckles.

“Sit down, I have some ice.”

He obeys, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you step over to the mini freezer and grab some ice, put it into a towel and then return to Harry. You take his hand into your lap and carefully put the ice over, making him hiss again. 

Silence wraps around you as you just sit there with his hand on your lap, holding the ice against his knuckles, you have so many thoughts racing in your head, but he is the first one to speak up.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Uh-oh, come clean, Styles,” you smile at him faintly, making him chuckle, before seriousness takes over his expression again as he keeps his gaze glued to his hand in your lap. 

“I only wanted to threaten him at first, but then he said that I’m this mad about what he did because I’m in love with you and I’ll never be brave enough to tell you.”

Nausea takes over you again, but you muster up everything in you to keep yourself together. 

“I bet that upset you,” you whisper, avoiding looking at him. Of course that pissed him off, because probably the thought of him being in love with you is so ridiculous to him that he–

“It did, because it’s true.”

You completely freeze. Did you just hear him right? Because it sounded like he just said that he is in love with you. 

Slowly and very carefully you look up at him and the way he is staring at you is something you’ve never seen from him. 

“Well, I mean the part that I’ll never be brave enough to tell you is not true now, because I’m literally telling you now,” he rambles with a nervous chuckle while you’re still in shock. He clears his throat and pulls back his hand before he continues to speak. “Y/N, I was protective over you when it came to Mason because he really is an asshole, but also because I was so fucking jealous, it’s insane,” he admits. “I hated seeing you handing your heart over to someone who I knew was not worthy of it and I wanted to be the one receiving it. And maybe I’m ruining our friendship right now, but I just can’t do this any longer, I can’t pretend like I haven’t been in love with you since… probably I was sixteen.”

You’re convinced you’ve died and this is an alternate universe. It can’t be happening, Harry surely hasn’t just admitted to being in love with you for years. You stare back at him with a complete loss of words.

“I know it’s kind of a lot, but I would love to hear your thoughts, Y/N,” he lets out another nervous chuckle.

“I only dated Mason because I was trying to get over my feelings for you,” you confess suddenly, the words rolling off your tongue surprisingly easily. You watch Harry’s expression change from anxious to stunned before you continue. “I realized that I have feelings for you not long ago, but I think I’ve been just ignoring them for a long time, because I never thought you’d see me as more than just a friend. But… I do love you too, Harry.”

It’s like something in the universe shifted as you said it out loud, you feel lighter, but an excited buzz has started to spring in your chest as well as you stare at each other, stunned, unable to speak as the words hang in the air between the two of you. 

Then slowly, a relieved smile tugs on his lips that you can’t help but mirror and suddenly you feel giddy in the head, like you’re a kid who just admitted to having a crush on a boy, even though it’s a lot more than that. 

Harry reaches out, takes the ice from your hand and puts it to the desk before turning back to you. You swallow hard when his hand cups your cheek first, his thumb gently caressing it before his palm slips to the back of your head and he pulls you closer until there’s only an inch between your lips.

“I’m about to kiss you, Y/N,” he murmurs. “So if you’d rather stay just friends, now is the time to stop me.”

No words come out of your mouth, not that you want to stop him. Instead, you dart your tongue out and lick your lips, the tip of your tongue brushing against his lips and that’s when he snaps. 

He kisses you eagerly at first, opening your mouth for him right away, tongues clashing, but then he turns it down a little, changing it into something exploratory, but the hunger is still right there. Your mind is blank, all you can think of and feel is Harry, his lips moving perfectly in sync with yours, one of his hands on the back of your head, fisting your hair, the other one holding your jaw as he keeps angling you so he could get even more of you. 

You both keep pushing against each other and before you realize you’re straddling his lap, breasts pressing against his hard chest as you don’t even try to hold your moans back once his erection rubs against your core through your pants and his jeans. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes out, his mouth kissing its way down your neck, biting and licking and sucking, most likely leaving marks on your skin. One hand comes to your lower back, slipping under your shirt as he teases your heated skin with his fingers before his palm moves down and gives your ass a firm grab. Your fingers sink into his shoulders, but he is still wearing his hoodie and it’s just too many layers. 

As if he could read your mind, he leans back just enough to tug his hoodie off and throws it aside before his lips return to devouring yours. It’s all heat and lust and need for each other, Harry’s scent fills your nostrils and it’s maddening how skilled he is claiming your mouth. 

But then his hands find the hem of your t-shirt and he starts to peel it up and your mind steps on the break. You pull back, head dizzy from the bruising kisses you’ve been getting, but you can’t ignore how your anxiety just spiked in seconds.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes out, his hands settling on your thighs. You’re both still clothed, but you’ve seen him shirtless. He is all muscles and smooth skin with tattoos, the perfect athlete body, but he hasn’t seen you without a shirt on and suddenly you’re very aware that he is about to see every inch of you.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, trying to get your thoughts straight. “I just…”

“Hey,” he softly says, one hand coming up to cradle your face and you instantly lean into his touch. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m more than okay with just kissing you and falling asleep.”

“But I want to do more, I just… I’m not exactly like the girls you usually hook up with,” you mumble, embarrassment burning your cheeks. 

A very insecure part of you was expecting him to laugh and agree, but Harry stays serious as his eyes scan over your face, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Yeah, but you’re the one I want and have always wanted. I know I haven’t seen you without clothes on, but I have a great imagination,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. “I’ve fantasized about you countless times, Y/N, and I assure you it was fucking amazing every time.”

“But those weren’t real,” you manage to say, though his words definitely sent a shiver down your spine. 

You feel awful for being so hung up on it, he might not have seen you naked, but he surely saw enough of you to know what to expect and judging from his erection that’s still straining against his jeans he must be enjoying your body so far. 

But still.

That evil little voice in the back of your mind just wouldn’t shut up, telling you that you’re going to be a disappointment to him. 

Harry takes a deep breath as he keeps staring at you and you’re kind of expecting him to get irritated by your behavior, but that doesn’t happen.

“Do you have a scarf?” he asks suddenly, completely throwing you off.

“Um, I do. Why?”

“Can you give it to me? I have an idea.”

Still lost, but you climb off him and step over to your dresser, pull out a soft pink scarf and hand it over to him, sitting beside him on the bed this time. 

He rolls up the scarf and then brings it to his face, covering his eyes with it before tying it behind his head. 

“What are you doing?” you ask with an awkward chuckle as Harry is now sitting on your bed, blindfolded. 

“I’m going to give you all the control,” he announces. “I will stay blindfolded for as long as you want me and you get to control where I’m touching you too. You decide how far we go and how much I get from you. Just know that I’m more than eager to have it all, but I’ll be a good boy for you,” he grins cheekily and you stare at him in disbelief.

Your first instinct is to tell him to quit playing, but then you actually consider his idea. He can’t see you, he can’t see your body and all the insecurities you want to hide from him and he said you decide where he can touch you, so you can keep him away from crucial parts of your body. 

This is actually a genius idea. 

“Okay,” you breathe out eventually.

“Okay,” he repeats after you, nodding. 

Your heart is pounding against your chest and your hands are trembling when you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it up and off your body. 

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him and he obeys without hesitation. His shirt comes right off, revealing his chest that’s just begging for your hands to be explored and you decide not to deny anything from yourself. 

Climbing over to him you settle back in his lap and true to his word, Harry keeps his hands off you, so you take them and a little hesitantly but put them on your thighs. He exhales sharply, his fingers digging into you and he moves his hands just a tad bit, rubbing his palms over your thighs, but they don’t go anywhere else. 

Your hands however are having a field trip on his chest, fingers digging into his pecks, nails dragging down them, mapping every inch of his smooth skin. When you press a palm over his chest you feel just how wildly his heart is thumping against his ribs and you can’t help but smile that you’re making him feel this way. 

Leaning in you kiss him again, but it’s slower now, you take your time tasting and exploring him, it’s so much more sensual, you keep moaning into each other’s mouth. You get so lost in it that you start rolling your hips, looking for friction between your legs over his erection that’s still neatly hidden in his jeans. Eager to feel his hand somewhere else too you give him more access by moving his hands to your butt which he quickly celebrates with another firm grab that makes you press up against him even more. 

“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he moans when your lips move down his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear. 

When you need more of him you pull back and stand, just so you can take your pants off, the lack of your closeness pulling a grunt from Harry, but he just sits there obediently, just how he promised. For a second you almost tell him to get rid of his jeans, but then you decide to do it yourself.

Your hands more to his crotch and he hisses shortly when he realizes you’re unbuttoning them. To help you he lifts his hips up so you can easily tug them down and get rid of them, leaving him in only his briefs while you’re in your underwear too. 

Anxiety starts to spike inside you, but you push it down and move back to straddle his lap. Taking his hands he draws in an excited breath, waiting where they might end up and that’s when you decide to just go all out. 

It’s Harry, your best friend and the most wonderful man you’ve ever known. He told you he loved you and he wants you, he wants all of you, so then why are you hiding from him? 

You put his hands back next to him on the mattress and even though you sense his disappointment, you ignore it as you unclasp your bra and throw it behind before taking a deep breath and reaching up to pull the scarf off his eyes. 

And just like that, he is looking at you, completely naked on the top, only wearing your panties as you sit on his lap, breathing rapidly as if you’re doing a workout, it’s almost embarrassing, but the way Harry’s eyes scan over your body makes you forget everything. Pure hunger and lust coats his vision and you can tell he is fighting himself to keep his word. 

“You can touch me,” you tell him. “Anywhere.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes searching yours and you nod. 

Then his hands move to your thighs first, this time his palms meeting your naked skin, then they slip up your waist and just as you’re about to worry that he can feel the rolls and all the extra softness the most obscene moan slips out of his mouth once his hands palm your breasts. 

“Fuck, look at you, Honey Lemon. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

If you weren’t so damn turned on maybe you would have cried at his words, but right now you just want to feel him everywhere.

“Want to hear a confession?” he grins against your lips, pecking them a few times. 

“Sure,” you nod, raking your fingers through his hair that earns you a satisfied groan.

“Remember that short yellow dress you used to wear in the summer around sophomore year in high school?”

“I think so,” you nod, not sure where he is going with all this when you’re almost entirely naked on his lap.

“You in that dress was my go-to fantasy for a long time, well, it was me taking it off you, to be precise.”

Now that surprises you, for a second you look at him with a stunned expression. You specifically remember how self-conscious you were when you had that dress on, because it was showing your arms and legs. Well it seems like that’s exactly what gave your best friend some pretty dirty thoughts. 

“I think I still have that dress,” you suddenly say and the widest grin stretches across his face.

“Let me know when you find it.”

That makes you chuckle before you go back to kissing him. His confession was great at easing the rest of your nerves, because when Harry wraps an arm around you and pushes you onto the mattress, rolling on top of you the tiny evil voice is gone from your mind, it’s all pleasure and want for Harry and you’re ready to enjoy this to the fullest. 

Your kisses grow needier and a bit sloppier as one of his hands start to venture down your body, palming your breasts, playing with your nipples before dipping lower, it sweeps over your tummy before moving to your clothed sex. Your panties are drenched at this point and he sighs contently when he runs two of his fingers over the damp fabric while you shudder under him. 

He keeps kissing you as his hand dips under the elastic and this time his two fingers slide right between your wet folds, pulling a moan from you. Harry grins, kissing your lips once more before his lips move down until his face is at your chest. 

He starts circling your clit right when he sucks your right nipple into his mouth and you almost see stars. 

“Harry,” you cry out, tugging on his hair as he keeps sucking and biting the sensitive bud while his fingers work at a perfect pace on your clit. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” he hums and moves over to your other nipple. You can’t answer, but the way your hips buckle against him is enough to let him know he is doing amazing. 

Then he slips two fingers inside and curls them, making you gasp as you claw at his shoulders. Lifting his head he flashes you a cheeky smirk before he starts pumping his fingers in and out, his lips returning to your breasts, licking and biting, leaving marks on you. 

He gets you to the verge of an orgasm quite fast, but then pulls his hands out of your panties, a dissatisfied groan slipping out between your lips. Harry chuckles softly as he sits back on his heels and pulls your panties down your legs, finally getting you entirely naked in front of him. 

For a split second you feel self-conscious about your body, but as soon as you see the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess, your confidence spikes as you open your knees wide so he can see all of you. 

“What do you want, baby?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the elastic of his briefs, but not tugging them down just yet. 

“You.”

“Only me?”

“Only you.”

With a sharp exhale he gets on his knees and quickly gets rid of his last clothing item, his erection finally completely naked in front of your hungry eyes. He climbs up your body, his hips coming between your legs and as soon as you can reach you wrap your hands around his length. 

“Fuck,” he trembles under your touch and when you run your thumb over the tip, smearing some of the precum his head falls against your collarbone with a growl. “I could come just by you holding my dick.”

At that you can’t help but laugh. You love the effect you have on him and love how vocal he is about it. 

“Condom is in the nightstand drawer,” you murmur into his ear, giving him a few lazy pumps. He is quick to reach to the side and grab a packet that he tears open with his teeth and then you take the condom, rolling it onto his length.

He pulls back a little, just enough so he can grab the base of his cock and then line up at your entrance, the head already slipping inside. He looks deep into your eyes as he slides in to the hilt, both of you letting out a long, airy moan. 

“You okay?” he softly asks, planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Yes,” you nod eagerly, but then a wandering though crosses your mind, it’s quick, but Harry knows you too well, he catches it right away.

“What is it?” he asks, not moving. 

“Just… It’s not weird, right?”

“What are we talking about exactly?” he exhales shakily with a soft chuckle. 

“That we’ve known each other for so long and now we are having sex.”

He takes a few breaths, thinking about your words before answering and for a second you feel thankful that even when he is literally inside you he takes the time to talk you through your mini freak-out, because that’s probably what’s happening with you.

“It’s not weird,” he shakes his head, eyes meeting yours again. “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers and I love you now.”

He said he loved you right before he kissed you, but hearing it again just completely melts you. You take his face between your hands and pulls him down for a long, loving kiss.

“I love you too.”

He smiles and then finally starts moving. In and out, at first slowly, but he picks up his pace quite fast and it’s absolute heaven. Sex has never felt like this before, but you haven’t had it with someone you loved as much as you love Harry either. 

He falls into a steady rhythm, but often tries to change the angle his hips snap against yours or drawing his thrusts longer, then going faster, but anything he does just pushes you closer to the edge. And all along, Harry keeps praising you.

“You feel so fucking good, baby.”

“This is all I’ve ever wanted, fuck.”

“Taking my cock so well, I fucking love you, Y/N.”

It doesn’t take long for you to finally reach your high. Clawing at his back you gasp and arch against him as pleasure washes over you in waves and Harry follows you right behind. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning and grunting as his thrusts get sharper and out of rhythm until he stops. 

You have no idea how much time passes with just Harry lying on top of you, still inside you, it might be an eternity or just five minutes, but you’re so gone nothing exists outside of Harry’s sweaty body pressing into yours and the delicious ache that’s already forming in your thighs. 

Then Harry finally gathers himself and stands from the bed. You watch him get rid of the condom and then he kneels beside you on the floor, eyes sparkling from happiness, but you have a guess you’re sporting the same look. 

“Let’s have a quick shower and then get some sleep. We have a lot to sleep off.”

“Mm, can’t move,” you moan dramatically. Harry chuckles and smacks a kiss to your lips before simply picking you up from the bed in bridal style and then head over to your tiny bathroom. He carries you so easily, like you’re just something lightweight. 

When your feet are back on the floor in the bathroom you turn to him, arms around his neck, that’s when you notice something in his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” you softly ask, smoothing out the line between his eyebrows with your thumb. 

“I know we just had these confessions and some mind-blowing sex, but I want to make it clear, that I want you. Like, I want you as my girlfriend, no sharing, no testing the waters, just you and me.”

You can’t help but smile, because after all your insecurities, now you see a bit of it in him, even though he has no reason to doubt what you are. 

“Just you and me. We’re official,” you tell him and he lets out a relieved breath, his hands dancing up and down your sides. 

“My Honey Lemon is finally mine,” he smirks down at you, lips inching closer until they meet yours, sealing it all with a kiss. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[cherryskies-harry]

was just sitting around today feeling very nostalgic and thinking about how some of the most beautiful lines I've ever read- the kind that make you put your phone down and stare at the ceiling- were in fanfictions i've read over the years (back when I didn't even have tumblr and was reading them straight from my browser)

literal works of art that made me lowkey jealous of their talent but also incredibly grateful that they chose to put them out into the world, for free.

so many of those writers aren't here anymore or have stopped writing because life happened. But every time I reread their work now as an adult, I find new perspectives that my teenage brain simply couldn't comprehend back then. Some lines were so breathtaking that I kept notes of them, afraid I might lose them one day.

i guess, this is just a small love letter to the writers who unknowingly shaped the way I read, write, and feel about stories.

@for-fucks-sake-h @permanentcross @andwhenshesays @aqua-harry @all-things-fic @bopbopstyles @watchmegetobsessed @songbirdstyles @weavingshaw @theasstour @meetmymouth @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy @harrieheaux @stylesunchained @sunflowerstache (and so many others who i can't recall at the moment or have probably deleted their page)

wherever you are now, thankyou and I hope life is treating you well. Your words stayed with me far longer than you probably ever imagined.

[depsidase]

[indelicateink]

painfully true

[fruityyamenrunner]

[anonymouscomrade]

Imagine saying "where sweets are baked, not bought" about the decade that invented blue raspberry

[william-ontheinternet]

This is so funny. The 90s had the most absolutely heinous hyper processed candies. Unchallenged champion of checkout counter bullshit.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

We were obsessed with making every sweet a powder, a goo, novelty shaped, or unbearably sour. Often some combination of the above. 90s sweets were utterly ridiculous and it was fantastic.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Future generations will never know the joy of E-numbers and a blue tongue.

[pencil-n-pen]

—i’m always on my own

fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader

“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.” -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan

summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.

wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)

tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat

a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)

acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me

masterlist

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And you’re not alone anymore. 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

take what you want

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11.5k✦

✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦

The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.

You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.

Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.

You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.

“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.

But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.

You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.

Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.

“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“

He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”

You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”

“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“

 “Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”

You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.

Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.

“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Dean-“

“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.

“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”

“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.

He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.

Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.

“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”

You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.

“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”

You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.

“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”

“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“

“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”

He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.

“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”

He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.

“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“

“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.

“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”

“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“

“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“

“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”

He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.

You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.

“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Swear on your life.”

You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.  

He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.

He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”

“I- I am-“

“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”

“I don’t want to crush you-“

“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”

You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.

“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.

You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.

“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.

And oh.

Oh god.

You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.

Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.

Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“

He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.

You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.

He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.

One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.

The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.

He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.

Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.

Permission.

You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.

He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.

“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”

You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.

“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”

You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.

“Already too fucked out to talk?”

You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.

“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“

You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.

Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.

“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“

“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”

“Are you-“

You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts. 

“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”

Yes.

You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.

Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.

He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.

“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.

“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.

Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.

You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.

“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“

Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.

He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.

But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.

You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.

“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“

You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.

“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“

His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.

You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.

You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.

Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.

“Your girl.” You whisper.

You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.

And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.

✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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[loontattoo]

see unfortunately I have this condition where if I am not explicitly told that I am a part of the ingroup then I will assume I must be part of the outgroup

[godmadeaterribleerror]

give me fever

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 11.1k✦

✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦

It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.

But he’s everywhere. 

There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.

Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.

That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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Pencil Me In | Masterlist

Rule number one: do not fall in love with your boss.

Rule number two: do not forget rule number one.

Rule number three: when he looks at you like that, pretend it doesn't mean anything.

Summary: When you land a job as the personal assistant to Harry Styles, the calm, charismatic CEO of Fine Line Enterprises, you quickly learn the role is much more than managing a calendar. From early morning calls to last minute flights and being the gatekeeper to one of the busiest men in the industry, your lite becomes completely intertwined with his.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven