dean knows that tomorrow night during the reception you’ll look beautiful and glow in the company of your friends. he’d regret it forever if he passed up the opportunity to show you off to the gathered, if he failed to make you feel special. he knows your friends love you so deeply, and it makes him a certain kind of sad that they live so far away. he wants them to see that you’re well taken care of in their absence. he wants them to know he loves you, too. 9.3k
f!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, fake-dating au, normal lives au, mutual pining, idiots in love, friends to lovers. cross-posted to ao3. i wanted a dean fake dating fic so i made one. totally soft for dean, always.
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Your stomach flips every few minutes as you sit waiting for Dean to find you at the back of his favourite diner. It feels like equal parts hangover and emotional turmoil. While you were out last night with all of your closest friends, when you were very deep into a very drunken night, you told a lie that you think is going to ruin you.
It must have been delusional fantasy or extreme wishful thinking that guided your mouth to say what it did. For some inscrutable reason you told your closest friends, who all know him, that Dean Winchester was your boyfriend.
He very much is not.
Your friend Margo is getting married and all of your hometown friends are in the city for the big event. You’ve known her for what feels like forever and she’s the coolest girl you know. It was a point of pride for her that she was the first female mechanic in the small town where you grew up. She’d always been a fighter, picking her friends carefully and loving them fiercely. She didn’t cry when you moved several hours downstate, but she moved you into your new place herself, made you promise to let her visit you whenever she wanted, and made sure to find you the number of the very best mechanic in your new city. For the shitty beater car you won’t give up, she said. Dean Winchester was that mechanic, and the three of you have become fast friends in the couple of years since. She met her fiancee Cas through Dean, actually, and the rest is kind of history.
Dean is your friend. Just your friend. Even if he flirts with you and holds you sometimes and tells you things you don’t think anyone else knows. But Dean flirts with everyone and that’s just what friends do, they get cozy on the couch and they tell each other things. You remind yourself, constantly, that all of this means nothing. You know what Dean is like, and you know how people react to him. He’s handsome and he’s charming and you’ve seen him in action, speaking low words into a girl's ear at the bar, curling his arms around hers at a pool table, holding her hips from behind and ordering her another drink. You think anyone would be blind not to see it, and you figured your crush was a mere fantasy that’d blow over. It’s been a year.
You spent all of this morning face down in your pillow, your head spinning from a hangover and from trying to figure out what to do. You’ve decided you’d rather die than admit to your friends that you lied, and that Dean didn’t actually see you as anything more than a friend, that you were as lovesick as a schoolgirl, so much so that you had to pretend Dean was yours in order to soothe your aching heart last night. So you called the only person who could help you now.
You offered to treat Dean to lunch at his favourite spot hoping that maybe it might be enough to help convince him to go along with your lie.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetheart?” Dean slides into the seat across from you with an easy smile.
“I just wanted to see you.” You lilt.
That much is true, you’ve been running around like crazy this past month helping with wedding prep.
“You have fun last night?” Dean asks, taking note of your slow blinks and the bags under your eyes.
“So much fun that I don’t honestly remember most of it.”
“Atta girl.” Dean smiles. “I’m almost sad I’ll never get to have a bachelorette party, they seem legendary.”
“You’ll get to have a bachelor’s though, isn’t that pretty much the same thing?”
“Nah. Nobody gets you a tiara when you’re a bachelor.”
You laugh and for a second you forget the impending humiliation of what you’re about to do. Remembering it sobers you, and makes your stomach flip once more.
“All your friends have fun?”
“Yes. Yeah–” Your response is stilted as you struggle to find a subtle segue. “Um, I have something to ask you though, actually.”
“I’m all ears.” Dean leans back in his chair.
“I think I fucked up last night.”
“You didn’t get yourself arrested, did you?”
Worse. You think. So much worse.
“I kind of maybe accidentally told everyone I had a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” His brow furrows. “You don’t do you?”
“I don’t.”
His face relaxes.
“Well that’s not so bad. Why’d you do that?”
“It’s just that–” You sigh. “Literally every one of my friends is dating someone now, and they were all taking turns gushing so when they turned to me I got really embarrassed, and I kind of freaked out, and I said I had a boyfriend.”
You’re talking fast. Dean chuckles.
“Well can’t you take it back? Or say you broke up or something?”
“Um, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Why?” Dean tilts his head that way he does when he’s trying to understand the way your brain thinks.
“I sort of told them that it was someone they know.” You look down at your lap and squeeze your palms together, building up to your big reveal.
“You’re right, that does complicate things. So, who’s the lucky guy?”
You take a deep breath and meet his eyes with a guilty smile.
The amusement on Dean’s face falls away when he understands.
“Hear me out all the way before you say anything, please.” You rush to fill the silence. “Look, I’m really sorry, I would never want to make you uncomfortable and you know I would never ask you this if I had any other option but I kind of dug a really deep hole for myself that I don’t think I can un-dig until after the wedding so could you please, please, please, just go along with it?”
You feel hot and Dean is quiet, eyes stuck on yours as he processes what he’s just heard. You tack on an extra please when the silence starts to stretch.
“Me?” He says pointing to himself, incredulous.
“I just freaked out, okay? I said the first name I could think of!” The only name you could think of, really.
Slowly, an absolutely insidious grin snakes across his face and he looks at you like you’ve just told him how to get away with murder.
“Wow, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”
You knew Dean’s mean streak would make an appearance but this is even more difficult than you thought. It’s embarrassing enough to have as big a crush as you do on him, and you’re starting to think that this is just digging deeper down the hole you’re already in. Dean starts to laugh and you cover your face, leaning forward on the table. This only serves to make him laugh harder. You hope the ground opens and swallows you both whole.
“Don’t make this harder than it is, Dean. I’m not above begging.” You say through your fingers.
“Hey, hey,” he placates, gently taking your wrists to lower your hands. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”
You look at him apprehensively, unsure he really means it.
“But you’ll owe me big time. This sure is some favour.”
You nod sheepishly, far too humbled in the moment to push back. You’re saved momentarily by a waitress interrupting to take your orders. She pours you each a cup of coffee and you cling to yours like a lifeline.
“So tell me about my boyfriend duties.”
“I think– Well, we just need to be seen together. Officially, you only really need to come with me to the barbeque next week, and then the rehearsal dinner and the wedding day. Just three days. It won’t be so bad really.” You say that last part to yourself more than to him.
“That’s it, huh? Well you won’t believe how much romance I can fit into three days.”
Despite that promise, Dean steals all the best bites from your plate and continues to tease you for the rest of lunch.
X
You see Dean later that week, letting yourself into his small apartment. Tonight you’re doing dinner and a movie, a commonplace event between the two of you. By dinner you mean takeout, which you think is basically the opposite of a romantic home cooked meal. That’s what you tell yourself anyways, trying not to read into the way Dean does things like remembering your pickiest orders and ordering milder curries for you to share when you know he prefers an obscene amount of spice.
His place is neater than usual. You notice the lack of used glasses and dirty socks on the floor in his living room. You wonder if he’s had a date over recently, if he tidied because she had been here. You think back, trying to remember the last girl he told you about. It’s been a long time since he’s seen someone seriously, and now that you think about it, it’s been a while since he’s told you about a girl he met. You wonder if your fake boyfriend request came at a bad time. Maybe Dean was planning on putting himself out there again, or maybe he even had a date already planned. You feel nervous slipping off your shoes, overly aware of what an imposition you are now.
Dean calls your name from the kitchen and you try to clear your head before rounding the corner. He’s plating noodles for you in the bowl you like and your heart goes a little soft despite your nerves. You’re not feeling exactly yourself, worried about silly things like whether or not you should hug him and how much distance you should keep between you now that you’ve introduced a new dynamic in your relationship. He doesn’t seem different at all though, holding one arm open for you as the other fusses with a takeout container. You slip yourself against his side, accepting his hug and relaxing slightly. If he notices that you’re being weird, he doesn’t mention it, nudging two bowls into your hands and following you to his couch with your drinks and cutlery.
The tension in your shoulders begins to fall away as he tells you about his day between, and sometimes through, mouthfuls. You try to remind yourself that this is your Dean, your kind-hearted messy eater. Nothing has changed since this weekend.
After your bowls have been emptied and your drinks refilled, you let Dean pick something to watch. He wants to watch an action flick you swear he just made you watch with him and he ignores you as you make fun of him for it. He sits back, remote tossed to the side so you can’t grab it, and his arm comes down around your shoulders to stop you from going after it. You laugh and he shakes you gently, an empty threat.
You wonder, for the millionth time, if dating Dean would even feel that different. Spending time with him is as easy as breathing, smiling is as automatic as blinking. All it’d take for your current position to be made explicitly romantic is for you to put your legs in his lap or rest your hand on his chest or any other infinitesimally small shift in body language. That’s why it was so easy to lie about dating him, you think. In your head it is real sometimes.
“We should practice.” Dean says, talking over the movie and bringing you out of your head.
He shifts to look at you, tucked under his arm.
“I mean if we’re going to make this believable, we have to at least take it for a spin once or twice before our first official sighting.”
“It?”
“Yeah, us.” He says this like you’re the one being ridiculous.
“And what exactly do you mean by practice?”
“You know, like go out together. That way I can learn all the boyfriend basics and you can get used to me holding your hand and stuff.”
You push down the flutter in your stomach.
“Boyfriend basics?”
“The stuff you like.” His voice is gruff. “Your favourite flowers, what chocolate you like, where you like to go for dates, all that.”
“Oh.” You feel your cheeks beginning to warm. “You probably know half of that stuff already.”
“Well yeah, but I want to be perfect.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest feel funny. “That way we can give the most believable performance possible and you can impress your friends by having a perfectly devoted lover.”
“That’s not the point.” You roll your eyes at his choice of words. You know he doesn’t get it.
“I thought you wanted to win the boyfriend competition.”
“The point isn’t for you to be better than the other boyfriends, the point is that I just wanted a boyfriend.”
“You do?” The question catches you off guard although it shouldn’t.
“I– Yes? I mean, it would be nice but it’s not like I’m really dating or anything. I don’t know, I was drunk and lonely so I said something stupid.”
You cringe a little at yourself. Dean is quiet for a moment as you play with your fingers in your lap.
“It’s not stupid. To want that.”
You’re not sure what to say.
“Let me take you out. For practice.” He says.
When you look back up at him his eyes are trained on your mouth. They jump back up quickly when you speak.
“Okay,” you say softly. “For practice.”
He searches your face, looking for something. You don’t know if he finds it, but the moment passes and he tucks you a little closer into his side.
X
Dean Winchester is enjoying this far more than is probably appropriate. You're standing partially wedged between him and the bar, looking up at him to relay your drink of choice. He takes great pleasure in gesturing to the bartender and ordering for both of you, putting cash down before you can even think to reach towards your bag. He’s done this countless times before but never with you. Never in a way that made him feel proud like this.
Dean is good at girls and drinks and bars. He’s made out in more dirty bathrooms than most people ever see in a lifetime. You don’t carry yourself with the same casual ease he does in this space, and in a weird way he’s glad you didn’t have the same adolescence he did.
He thinks about it sometimes. He thinks he would’ve had a shot with you if you’d both met younger, if you had met as strangers in the same bar. He doesn’t think you understand just how gorgeous you are. It’s utterly arresting sometimes, the way you look at him when you’re feeling playful, or sleepy, or any time at all, really.
In that other universe, he thinks he would’ve tried to bring you home and he just might have succeeded. But he wouldn’t have gotten to know you the way he has in this universe. Dean loves being your friend, you’re kind and caring and funny and you get him. You listen to him in a way that makes him forget he’s talking. You ask him question after question after question, about his work or his brother or his life. He doesn’t think anyone has ever known him this well. Not his exes, not his friends, certainly not his father. And you do it so quietly that he looked up one day to find you seamlessly woven into almost every aspect of his life. Everything makes a little more sense when you’re around.
His hang up in relationships has always been his inability to be vulnerable. He’s reached a point with all of his exes where the time comes to drop his bravado and he never can. He knows how to be Dean Winchester, the fantasy. What he doesn’t know is how to be just Dean, the man. The latter will never live up to the former so it’s easier to just let a girl go than disappoint her. You didn’t meet the fantasy, you met the man, and that was fine when you were just his friend. But now? Now he’s fucked because he thinks he might love you and there’s no way to walk back all the times he’s ever tried to be brave by telling you something that scared him about himself. You still like him, sure, but Dean thinks he’s firmly disqualified himself from being boyfriend-worthy. Despite himself, he doesn’t quite believe that a sweet thing like you belongs with someone as rough around the edges as him.
Tonight though, you’re dolled up beside him, for him, letting him order you a drink while you wait for his brother and his girlfriend to arrive. It’s rare he sees you all the way done up, unless he catches you right after work or there’s an event to attend. You look good all the time, you really do, but Dean’s eyes keep catching on the shimmer spread across your cheeks and eyelids and his chest puffs up a little more every time he remembers that being with him is the event you wanted to look pretty for.
You’ve met Sam and Jess before, and they make just as cute a couple as Margo and Cas. When Dean asked if you wanted to go out for drinks with them early this week it was an easy yes. You had paused before hanging up, wanting to be sure of what to expect.
“Like, as a date?”
“Yeah as a date.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” As if you were the one being outlandish. “I’ll pick you up at 8.”
You’d held your phone to your chest for ten minutes after, spiraling. You think he may have been trying to make things feel more casual by pitching a double date, but you know how much he loves his brother so if that was his intention he failed, badly. But game on, you decided. If this was your bed you were going to lie in it, and you may as well give it your all because this could be your only chance at ever having something like this. So here you are, pretty and perfumed, ready to play the part.
You think Dean gets off on this, the performance of it all. Having a pretty thing tucked under his arm walking into a room or standing between his thighs as he sits on a bar stool. You’ve seen it a million times before. It’s just that you’ve never been on the receiving end of that attention. You’ve spent most of tonight laughing more than usual, flustered by his relentless desire to have his hands on you. You keep taking small steps backwards when you get close to being overwhelmed, but he follows every time. You tell Dean he doesn’t need to hover and he scoffs.
“This is just what boyfriends do, sweetheart.” He argues, crowding you against the bar as you wait for your drinks. He hands you yours when they’re ready so you don’t have to turn away from him for even a second.
“You can touch me too, you know. In fact, you probably should.”
You know he’s right, that you’ll have to give as good as you get in the presence of your friends. It’s almost daunting to be given permission. A hesitant hand reaches out to hold his bicep. You’ve always loved the way his arms look and it feels almost surreal to be given permission to focus on them openly.
“Is this how other girls usually do it?” You try to joke, even going so far as to bat your lashes a little.
“Doesn’t matter what they do.” He says this like it’s definitive. The hand not busy holding his beer finds the hem of your shirt, pulling it down gently where it started to come away from the waistband of your skirt. “You can do anything you want, and I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong when it comes to this.”
Dean’s charm is dialed like you’ve never seen it. His fingers brush against your bare skin, accidentally at first and then purposefully. You can’t suppress the small shiver caused by his touch.
The spell breaks when you hear Sam calling your names as he arrives with Jess. You take another half step back and push down your fluster, smiling to greet them. As you hug Jess, you hear Sam address his brother behind you.
“Jess owes me a twenty. She thought you wouldn’t break for a few more months.”
Dean gives him a sharp kind of glare and you know you’re missing something. You want to ask Sam what he means but then he’s turning to greet you and it’s forgotten. A booth opens nearby and you all slide in quickly. Dean takes the seat beside you, across from Sam, and he’s not shy about letting his leg spread into your space, pressing his knee to yours. Once you’re settled and your seats are claimed, Sam and Jess make a run to the bar. Jess asks what you’re drinking and decides she wants one too.
You watch them as they go, your eyes falling to Sam’s hand against Jess’s lower back. It makes your stomach flutter to think of Dean doing something like that. He’s always touched you in a way that straddles the line between platonic and romantic, today being the exception. You know the weight of his arm around your shoulders, what his palm feels like against yours, the size of his hands against your back when you hug. That’s different, though, you think, keeping your eyes on Sam’s hand until you can’t.
“They’re good together.” Dean says.
You turn to find him already watching you, smiling knowingly.
“He bought a ring today.”
“Today?” You gasp. “That’s huge, when is he going to propose?”
“He’s thinking when they go out to see her family at Thanksgiving.”
“That’s so long to wait, will he be able to keep it a secret?”
“I think so. He’s so anal he’ll need the weather to be perfect on the day of before he’ll even consider getting down on one knee.”
“Dean, be nice to your brother.”
“I’m not being mean, he just loves her. He’s like that.” He shrugs, taking a drink of his beer. “Their wedding will be a way bigger deal than it has to be.”
“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”
Dean hums.
“Think you’d be able to repay your favour?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll need a date for it.”
You laugh.
“You don’t even know when it’s going to be. Anything could happen between now and then, maybe you’ll meet someone.”
Dean looks at you funny.
“Yeah but they know you. They like me with you.”
“They…” You pause before repeating him. “They like you with me?”
He nods and you look at him, not quite getting what he means. You get how they could have an opinion on someone Dean is seeing, but you? How do you factor into that?
Sam and Jess are sliding back into their seats before you can work it out and Dean drops it, slipping easily into conversation with his brother. You find that Sam and Jess are infinitely charming people, and you spend the rest of the evening listening more than talking.
When it’s time to leave, Dean offers you his hand as you slide out of the booth and then nudges you to walk slightly ahead of him. You misstep and barely save a stumble when you feel Dean’s hand find your lower back. You feel disoriented twofold. It presses against you more firmly as you right yourself and you pointedly avoid Dean’s eyes over your shoulder even after you’ve made it out the door. Maybe he’s teasing you for watching Sam earlier. Maybe he just likes watching you squirm. No matter the reason, his hand stays there, radiating heat up your spine until you get to his car. Even then, it stays fixed as he opens the passenger door for you to climb in. You know you’re still visibly flustered when you finally look at him in the driver’s seat. Something in his eyes looks too pleased as he starts the car.
Dean has to hold onto the steering wheel tight with both hands to stop himself from reaching for your thigh, soft and bare beside him.
X
Dean had asked you if you wanted to do something before the gathering at Cas’s place. To talk game plan, he said. This was the first of your three official sightings, the friends and family barbeque. Talking game plan was secondary to his true desire. He just wanted to steal a few more hours being yours. There wasn’t really a game plan to be had, and you told him as much, but that didn’t matter. Dean was going to pick you up early and buy you a late lunch, maybe even ice cream after if he’d be so lucky. He’d already decided all of this before he asked and was prepared to justify himself as much as was necessary for you to agree.
You said no to lunch only because you’d be eating at Cas’s, which Dean tried to argue didn’t matter, but you agreed to ice cream. It’ll be like dessert before dinner, you said over the phone. Your light laughter nearly killed him.
The afternoon of the barbeque is sunny and clear. Dean picks you up with flowers in hand and you’re painfully endeared by the little bouquet of wildflowers he chose. You tell him he’s laying it on a bit thick but he just tells you to roll with it. You’re wearing a sundress he’s never seen before and he tries very hard not to stare. He attempts to get his fill of you while you’re picking out what flavour you want. He knows he’s beyond help because it’s the curve of your shoulders and the uppermost expanse of your chest that he’s hungry for. Your skin looks downy soft in the afternoon light and he reminds himself over and over not to be greedy. In the end you go with your favourite and Dean picks something chocolatey. You get shy when he asks you to feed him a taste of your ice cream and he resists the temptation to lick at your fingers.
You’re hungry by the time you get to Cas’s family home. It’s a beautiful place on a corner lot with a backyard big enough to host the small wedding. Dean parks at the curb and tells you to stay put so he can open your door. You roll your eyes half-heartedly but let him.
“You should have told me to get a double scoop.”
Dean takes your hand, helping you out of his car.
“You should have let me get you a pint.” He counters.
“It would have melted, Dean.”
“Then you should have let me take you for lunch. I told you you’d be hungry.”
Dean thinks you’ll take the bait but you don’t. You haven’t made it more than a few steps from his car and he can see you’re getting in your head.
“Hey, look at me.” He takes both of your arms in his hands. “Today is going to be great. You’re going to be the prettiest girl in the room and I’m going to be the most believable boyfriend anyone has ever seen.”
“Second prettiest.” A small smile starts to lift the corners of your mouth.
“Not to me. Let’s go.” Dean taps your chin up lightly and firmly retakes your hand firmly in his as you round the side of the house to the backyard.
Stepping through the gate you’re impressed by the space. Low wicker couches, a garden of bright flowers, stepping stones and old trees standing at the far end of the yard. Cas must come from more money than you thought.
Margo squeals when she spots you, waving you over to where your friends have gathered on the couches. A flurry of hugs and hellos take place before Dean takes your hand again to greet Cas and some of their friends you haven’t met before by the patio table. He keeps you at his hip, his hand light on your waist or lower back through the introductions. You handle it much better now than when he first did it. Cas tells you to have a drink and serve yourselves in that stilted but earnest way of his.
“What do you think, honey?” Dean asks you. “Still hungry?”
You nod and you’re whisked away to the grill which Cas’s dad is dutifully attending to.
“Winchester.” He nods, sticking his hand out for a firm shake. “This the missus?”
He gives your name and the man lights up.
“So this is the girl we’ve heard so much about.”
Dean shifts a little on his feet, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck, but he doesn’t deny it. The man, whose name you learn is Chuck, serves you both up a plate before patting Dean on the shoulder and telling him he’s done well for himself.
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waves him off, leading you a little ways away. He sits you both at the far end of the patio table and you take a minute to process all the new names and faces.
Your eyes sweep the yard and Chuck’s words are delayed in hitting you.
“You talk about me?”
“Of course I talk about you, we’re a package deal. And I, uh, may have told Cas we were dating when he asked.” His ears look a little red, like you’ve caught him in something.
“Right.” You consider this for a moment. “I guess Margo would have told him either way. Looks like you’re a step ahead of me.”
“I told you I was going to get it perfect.”
“Yeah, I guess you did.”
There’s something about Dean’s proximity and the heat of the afternoon that starts to soften you around the edges. He’s still waiting, you notice. Not eating before you’re settled. A package deal, he said. Your shoulders keep brushing and you try to remind yourself of the separation between your fantasy and reality. A kiss on the cheek wouldn’t hurt though, you think. For the believability of your performance, of course.
You move before you can lose your nerve, pressing a too soft kiss by the corner of his mouth. You think you linger for too long but it wasn’t something you could help. You avoid his eyes after, focusing on your plate instead. You’re still starving.
Dean has to remind himself to breathe in the moment after your kiss. It was a thank you, he thinks. That’s all it was. But still, it was enough to make him forget where he was. He wants, so badly, to pull you into his lap or kiss you back but he behaves. He eats with you and listens to you tell him a little more about the girls you haven’t seen in a long time. You steal sips from his can of soda, a soda you said you didn’t want, and he can’t do anything but let it happen, nudging it closer to you in a way that looks unintentional.
“What do you think, should we go sit with Margo or Cas first?”
“You don’t have to stick by me the whole time, Dean. I don’t want to monopolize you.”
He scoffs.
“You’re not monopolizing me, sweetheart. I’m monopolizing you.”
You pick Margo first, obviously, and Dean sticks to your side. It’s like having a very tall shadow. Your friends eye you knowingly when his hand comes up to rest on the back of the couch behind you, his fingers tracing soft lines into your arm. He’s eventually summoned over by Cas and he presses a quick hot kiss to your cheek before he goes.
“You must be deep in the honeymoon phase.” Margo says, smiling teasingly. Your head turns quickly back towards her, away from Dean’s retreating figure. “You blush every time he touches you.”
You roll your eyes, deflecting.
“I– He just makes me nervous, you know?”
“Don’t be, he’s already yours.”
You think you smile weird but it must read as butterflies because the conversation moves on.
You spot Dean across the way, sitting with Cas and the other boyfriends, and something already lit up gets brighter in your chest. You catch his eye and he gives you a smile that feels like it’s just for you before turning to laugh at something someone said.
One drink becomes two, becomes three, and before you know it, you’re singing Katy Perry very loudly and very badly with your friends as the sky darkens. Margo slides up to you at some point, taking your hands and whispering to you like she’s telling you a secret.
“I was hoping for this.” She says. “I can’t believe you’re together.”
“What do you mean?” You whisper back, feeling fizzy.
“He’s always been soft for you. Dean, I mean. I just know he’ll be so good to you, he already is.”
“He– what?”
“How could anyone know you and not love you?” She sweeps you into a tight hug and makes a big show of kissing your forehead.
You’re warmed by her affection and let her smother you all she wants. Dean is soft for you, you know this. But love? You don’t know about love.
One more cooler is one too many and you feel yourself trip over your friend’s feet as several of you try to dance together. You don’t feel the fall so much as find yourself on the ground, looking up at the night sky. Your head is dizzy and the cool grass against your back feels amazing. You’re laughing with the girls on the ground beside you and you’re seized by a sudden longing for Dean. You want him to smooth your hair and hold you against him and tell you something sweet. You want this happiness to be his too.
And then his face appears, blocking out some of the stars above you. You don’t feel yourself doing it but you hear someone saying Dean! in a voice far too wistful to be your own. He grins down at you before helping you up.
You’re so lucky, you think. One second you’re thinking about Dean and then the next he’s there, arm around your waist, holding you up. One of his hands cradles your face, maybe checking you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell. His hand is warm and you sigh contentedly. He says something about going somewhere and you agree with him even though you’re not exactly sure what he said. You walk with unsteady steps to his car and you fall asleep in your seat before he starts driving.
X
The next morning you wake to Dean’s hand rubbing up and down your arm. You struggle to open your eyes and you would swat his hand away but his touch is just so soothing to your exhausted body.
“Did somebody go too hard last night?” He asks from his spot perched on the edge of the bed.
You mumble something you hope sounds aggressive before rolling over to let sleep find you again. Dean’s hand finds your other shoulder to shake gently.
“Come on party girl, it’s noon. You have to meet your friends at three.”
Between blinks you surmise that the sun is indeed spilling mercilessly through the window, and Dean is already dressed in jeans and one of those black shirts you love. It occurs that you’re in his bed and you don’t find that thought particularly alarming.
“Get up, I’ll get you some food.”
Dean’s instructions reach you through your sleep-haze and you drag yourself out from under his duvet as his steps recede.
By the time you step out of the shower and into a lazy tshirt and pair of shorts you keep forgetting are here, you can hear Dean watching TV in the living room. Picking your bag up from where Dean put it on the nightstand, you search roughly for the ibuprofen you usually keep on hand. You frown when you can’t find it and bring it clutched in your hand as you leave his room.
“Dean, do you have any–”
Before you can finish, he holds his arm up, bottle of ibuprofen in hand.
“Way ahead of you, sweetheart.”
You drop down onto his overly soft couch beside him and he places two into your waiting palm. After taking them and finishing a glass of water, you’re able to take inventory of the spread on the coffee table. It’s obvious Dean went overkill, pilfering his kitchen to bring you everything he thought you might eat. Fruit and coffee and sweet things sparkle before you and you don’t think twice about starting with caffeine. You don’t notice Dean watching you pick over the bowl of fruit he washed, the way his soft eyes track your fingertips travelling to and from your mouth. The way he nods to himself, satisfied, when you leave the bowl empty.
After you’ve eaten something you feel much more like a real person. You start to wiggle further into the couch and Dean pulls your legs over his lap.
“Where did you sleep?” The question comes to you belatedly.
Dean’s hands sweep steady lines up your skin. Up your shin, down your thigh and back over them. If you were less tired you might have fawned a little at the action, something so caring and intentional.
“Beside you.” He’s sheepish. “I uh, wanted to be there in case you needed something.”
Margo’s words come back to you then. He’s soft for you. He wants to be good to you. You think that if you look for it, there’s a good chance you’ll start to see it in all he does.
“Oh,” you murmur. “I didn’t kick you, did I?”
“No.” He says, softly. “You snore like a tractor though.”
You throw the pillow behind you at him.
“I do not! I am a lady, thank you very much.”
“That you are.” He agrees, raising the pillow he just caught as a shield. “A lady that snores like a tractor.”
The next few minutes are spent trading jabs and laughter, and the next two hours pass like a dream.
Dean is the one to remind you that you have somewhere to be. He apologizes for not having any other clothes for you, privately wishing he had something pretty for you to wear. You’re not fussed, it’s nice to have something casual to wear during what has felt like a very dressed up week. He asks if you want a ride down to where your friends are meeting and you accept. Dean pats your leg and nudges you to get up.
You begin the ritual of gathering your bag and getting ready to head out. Dean waits for you at the door, having grabbed a bottle of water for you from his fridge. It’s cold where he presses it into your hand and you look up at him, eyes still tired and soft and thankful.
“Ready?” He asks.
You nod but neither of you move. It feels, for a second, like you’re forgetting something. Like something’s missing. You pat your pockets, but you have all your belongings. You frown up at Dean, intending to ask him… something. What you were going to ask doesn’t really matter because you feel more solid when his hands find the sides of your face, his thumbs smoothing over your cheeks. You feel yourself leaning into the tender touch and your frown melts a little. He wants to be good for you.
He looks at you, eyebrows gently raised to ask if you’re okay without speaking. Your mouth opens before you can think better of it.
“Margo said something last night.”
“Did she?”
“She said you…” You don’t know how to finish that sentence without showing your entire hand. You don’t know if Dean loves you, and you’d feel stupid for saying it if he didn’t.
Dean hums, hearing what you’re not saying. He keeps his eyes on yours, and leans down towards you halfway. He gives you the choice but you don’t move away. His gaze falls heavier and heavier until he presses his mouth to yours, firmly and just once. Something in you dissolves with a shimmer and you can barely feel the ground underneath you as he guides you out the door.
X
You haven’t spoken about the kiss, and another one hasn’t happened. You’ve seen him once since, twice if you count tonight, and all through dinner he kept doing this thing where he just looked at you, like that’s all he was allowed to do. There’s a voice in the back of your head telling you he regrets the kiss, that he’s going to let you down easy after the wedding, if not tonight. Maybe you were making a bigger deal out of things than you should have. He’s soft because he cares but that doesn’t mean he wants you. It doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. Things aren’t awkward but they feel a little strained around the edges.
Dean feels spellbound, tracing the soft lines of your bare arms with his eyes. He feels spoiled, getting to see you in so many nice dresses recently. The rehearsal dinner was a more stressful affair than he’d expected. Cas’s dad hadn’t stopped fussing with the set up of tables and audio equipment. Margo’s parents wouldn’t stop hovering over everything she tried to do. Being your own wedding planner looks fun, he thinks, until there’s no buffer between you and your overbearing parents.
He wonders if you’d want to plan your own wedding– if you’d want it to be an intimate affair like this or if you’d want to celebrate with absolutely everyone you know. He’d like something like this, he thinks. He thinks of how his uncle Bobby would insist on trying to build a pergola in the yard and how Sam would stress enough for the both of them, and for you. Whenever he thinks about any of this, it’s always you slipping into the hypothetical. The imaginary faceless love of his life had been replaced by the image of you a while ago.
Twangy music fills the air between the tables set up for the evening, many chairs now empty as people mingle and couples dance in front of the ceremonial arch set up for tomorrow. Dean’s beer sweats into his hand, the chill giving him a sensation to focus on. He’d much rather be touching you, in any way you’d let him, but he’s worried about pushing too far. You’ve been tentative with him since the other day and Dean hasn’t been sure if that means you want him to back off. You catch him looking at you and your shoulders relax the littlest bit, allowing yourself to rest under his gaze. He feels greedy, like he’s taking up far more of your attention than he deserves. His head turns to look at the dancing couples on the grass once more and decides to try something.
“Don’t laugh.” He starts.
Immediately your mouth twists to fight a smile.
“I knew you were going to do this, forget it.” He huffs in his own way that lets you know he’s more amused than annoyed.
“No, Dean, please,” You placate, a smile breaking through. “I’m listening, I promise.”
He pauses, eyeing you before confessing.
“I don’t know how to dance.”
“What?” Your eyebrows shoot high. “There’s no way, didn’t you go to prom? Or like any school dance?”
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever danced at one.”
“So, what, you spent the whole time brooding in the corner?”
The picture of teenage Dean standing to the wayside in a darkened gymnasium amuses you.
“I do not brood.”
You give him a look.
“Okay maybe I brood sometimes, but that’s not the point. The point is, I need to know if my current skills are salvageable.”
“It’s a bit late to be asking, don’t you think?”
“Well maybe it didn’t occur to me until just now,” he says, gesturing to the couples dancing on the lawn. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Alright, Winchester.” You acquiesce. “Let’s see if we can fix you.”
You stand from your chair and offer him your hand. He puts his beer down and wipes both palms down his pants before taking it, letting you lead him to the edge of the yard. The sky is more navy than orange now, the sun nearly fully set. The lights strung across the fence and around the yard are warm, kissing your skin with gold tones. It still smells like barbeque smoke and grass, but Dean can’t help but search for the notes of your perfume in the air around you. Pink peppercorn and something syrupy, you mentioned what it was once but he can’t remember. You look up at him eager and amused, and his chest loosens.
If you didn’t know Dean so well, you’d have missed the embarrassment that shows itself in the set of his jaw. He doesn’t like being bad at things, and he’s never been good at lingering in moments that make him feel liquid inside. But he’d embarrass himself a million times over if it meant you might teach him, if it meant you might hold his hand and look at him like this.
He needed to learn this. With you, for you. He knows that tomorrow night during the reception you’ll look beautiful and glow in the company of your friends. He’d regret it forever if he passed up the opportunity to show you off to the gathered, if he failed to make you feel special. He knows your friends love you so deeply, and it makes him a certain kind of sad that they live so far away. He wants them to see that you’re well taken care of in their absence. He wants them to know he loves you, too.
You place gentle arms around his neck and his hands find the bottom of your ribcage, stiff and unsure.
“Is that how you always hold women?”
“It is when I’m dancing with them.”
You laugh. It’s strange to feel like he’s the one being picked on, but he might like it.
“Be less formal. You’re my boyfriend, remember?”
Dean’s chest could cave in. You place your hands over top of his, guiding them down to the soft place on your body just under the small of your waist, at the curve of your hips.
“Now,” your tone is conspiratorial as you wrap your arms back around his neck. “I’ll tell you the secret to being a good dancing partner.”
Dean has to keep very still in order to not squeeze the soft of your middle or sweep you against him as your face tips up to tell him.
“You don’t actually have to lift your feet.”
“Really?” This genuinely surprises him.
“Not at all. Steps are for waltzing and stuff, all you have to do is sway with me.”
You start gently, shifting your weight slightly from foot to foot.
Dean is hesitant, fighting against some rigid part of himself unused to moving with another person like this. He knows he’s being awkward and you’re poorly concealing your amusement. If it were anyone else, he would have long exited this situation. Dean Winchester is not a gentle creature. He knows how to lift and to pull, how to torque and to pry. He’s entirely unfamiliar with touching just to feel, holding just to be close. But his annoyance melts into something far more sugary when you pull yourself against him, teaching through touch.
He gets there eventually, shoulders relaxing, hands slipping lower than they maybe should. After a while he’s able to look at you instead of the ground, and it gets easier for him to relax into a sway when he can watch the way your eyes sparkle in the low light. The breeze begins to chill and he doesn’t think you notice the way you press against him that little bit more. A few songs fade into each other, minutes together passing wordlessly.
“What do you think?” He asks, finally. His voice is warm and low between you. “Is there any hope for me?”
“No.” You nearly whisper. “No, you’re absolutely hopeless.”
X
The wedding was beautiful.
Cas and Margo made an absolute picture in the summer sun and there wasn’t a dry eye to be found by the end of the ceremony. Dean is elated to be able to celebrate his friends, but he can’t help his heart’s focus from being on you.
It’s been quite a week. A week of bending boundaries and blurring lines. Dean’s been leading up until now, touching with gentle hands and moving slowly. You don’t know what your permission has done to him, your enabling of his desire to push past the line of plausible deniability. It’s made him more hungry and more reverent in equal measure. He’s indulged in you, and you let him even though you got shy sometimes. You let him hold you, you let him kiss you.
He was worried when you shied away afterwards. But then you’d danced with him last night when he asked and looked at him like you could see it too. Like you could see how easy it would be to let him love you.
Today, it’s you reaching for him. Your hand finds his in the car, your ankle hooks with his during the ceremony, your voice speaks soft words into his ear, like everything you have to say is something for only the two of you to share. He almost has you, he knows he almost has you. He’ll take you in any way you’ll let him have you, you just have to tell him how. He won’t push. He’s rushed into things before, eager to make things into something they’re not. But this isn’t like that. This is you, coming to him and letting him show you what he wants to be for you.
Dean is a picture perfect boyfriend all cocktail hour, glued to your side, speaking lowly into your ear and filling your plate with everything that looks good. He suffered question after question from your friends with a grin and never once did he look like he’d rather be anywhere else.
There is eating and there is laughter and there is music and there is a first dance. It really is a beautiful day.
You surprise Dean by asking him to dance before he can ask you. The way you look at him is playful and he rises to the occasion, twirling and dipping you with verve as you laugh. He loves this. He loves being silly with you. He’s going to be gutted if it has to end.
Dean lasts three songs before saying he needs a drink. He sits you with your friends and crosses the lawn to the makeshift bar. He watches you for a moment, hands empty, before he knows he needs a minute to think.
The front yard is quiet. Quiet enough anyway, with music and voices spilling out from behind the house. Dean wants you. He wants this, with you, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to get it.
Dean knows it’s your footsteps he hears on the grass, coming around the house. You find him standing near the edge of the lawn, arms crossed as the sun starts to dip. You stand next to him, mirroring his pose and take a minute to breathe the evening air.
It’s Dean who breaks the silence first.
“How, uh– How has this been for you?”
“The wedding? It’s been magical, I don’t think anything could have gone better.”
“I meant,” He keeps his eyes on his shoes. “The boyfriend thing.”
You want to be careful. If Dean is going to let you down now, after everything, you’d rather not play all your cards.
“It was great. You could probably start a business in this.” Your voice sounds strange to you. That was meant to be a joke but it feels far too dismissive of the situation, of how meaningful this was for you. “Was it okay for you? Was I okay?”
“You were perfect.”
You turn to look at him thinking he might be poking fun, but his voice is too low. A moment stretches between you.
“Did you– Have you ever thought about us?”
It’s not like him to be so stiff with you.
“Yeah.” You say softly, but it’s all you offer.
“I do. I think of us.”
“And?” You shift on your feet, turning more fully towards him. “What do you think?”
“Sweetheart.” He says it like there’s something you’re not getting. You wait for an answer.
“I’m not a morning person. But when I woke up beside you the other day, I couldn’t fall back asleep. I thought about what a boyfriend would do for you when you were hungover but– I wanted to stay awake, so that I could be there when you woke up.”
“You always take care of me.” You hold your breath, unsure if he means what you want him to mean.
“Yeah, that’s the point.” He says gently. “It wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done anyways.”
“You… Dean...” You say his name a little helplessly.
He says your name in response, trying not to give up on what is a difficult conversation for him to work through.
“It’s been you and me in my head for a long time now.” There’s a pause. “I don’t know what I’d be like without you but I don’t think it’d be pretty. I hope you get that. And I’m bad at this. I’m bad at the whole being open thing, but I’m also bad at pretending. Everything this week, with you, has been real for me. And so if… If you still want a boyfriend like you said, I’d like to be him.”
Dean has shoved his hands deep in his pockets, forcing himself to keep still through his confession. “You don’t have to say anything now–”
“Yes.”
“What?” He blinks.
“Yes.” You repeat yourself, barely waiting before moving. You crush yourself against him and he reciprocates, pulling you in without hesitation. You speak into his collar, the fabric of his jacket folding awkwardly between you. “Please be him. Please be mine.”
Dean doesn’t let go of you first, and his grip barely lets up as you lean back to look at him. Your eyes are doing that thing again, enchanting him beyond hope. He kisses you. He doesn’t know if you were going to say more but he can’t help himself. His hands are hot where they press against your back. His mouth is searching, his body bending yours under the weight of his kiss. Your noses squish together and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Dean smiles to match, your teeth clicking before he pulls away.
“You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. There’s a reason I told everyone it was you.”
You’ve never seen happiness like that on Dean’s face.
A month later, when Cas and Margo finally share the photos from their wedding day, you find one of yourselves caught in another kiss amidst other couples dancing in the grass, looking blissfully unaware of everything but each other.
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 4: Bigger Moons
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Three✦
✦summary: dean changes✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: he's a loverboy folks✦
He stopped sleeping around.
And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning.
You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night.
It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week.
Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean-
He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed.
And he never does that. You know he never will.
But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change.
One night, the movie finishes, and you talk.
And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”
“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”
You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze.
“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”
You stare at him for a second. “Me?”
“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”
“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”
“On a favorite color?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”
Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”
You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“
“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”
“I owe you-“
“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”
You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know.
“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.
“I hate cats.”
“What?” You sit up. “Why?”
He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”
You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”
He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”
“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”
He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm.
“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”
“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.
“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“
“Make a better one.”
He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles.
“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.
“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”
“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”
You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush.
He has no idea.
“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask, trying to earn some distance.
Dean shrugs. “Ducks.”
You giggle, and he just watches you with vague amusement.
“You like ducks?”
“Like that little waddle line shit they do. ‘S cute.”
“Awww-“
“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” You mime crossing your heart, a massive grin on your face. “Except Charlie- Dean-“
He starts to tickle your foot, and you shriek. You manage to wiggle away, but he’s faster, and suddenly you’re pinned to the ground.
Below him. His body pressed all over yours, his breathing ragged and eyes blown out.
It must just be the drink and the adrenaline.
For him.
For you, there that ache between your thighs that’s only going to build.
“No ducklings.” He mutters, eyes inches over yours.
You smile. “Ducklings?”
He sighs, dropping his face into your chest. Near your tits.
The drink. The drink.
His lips graze the swell of your breasts. You don’t know how you bite down your moan.
“There the ones that go in a line.” He grumbles, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Okay. No ducklings.”
You shake on it. Dean climbs off of you, and you wish he’d come back the moment he’s gone.
That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence.
“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.
“Reading and eating?”
He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”
“A… Book?”
That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”
“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”
Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”
Again. He’s not joking.
So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation.
You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.
“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”
You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying.
A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode.
Right next to him on the couch. Just like movie night.
And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch.
Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares.
You didn’t know he had nightmares.
“It’s nothing special.” He mutters, staring up at the ceiling like it’s all stars. “Just mines, my friends going AWOL, getting locked up. Been getting a new one, where-“ He cuts himself off, scowling at the air. “Never mind.”
“Dean.” You say softly. “That’s not nothing.”
“Nothing worse than my buddies get.”
“That’s- Most people don’t get any nightmares like that.”
“Well, comes with the territory.”
“The territory?”
He’s silent for a long moment, and you’re ready to let this go. Dean doesn’t tell you things until he’s ready, and you know him better than to try and pry it out of him. That just makes him close up tighter. So you wait, humming to yourself softly as he makes his choice, and-
Dean moves suddenly. Pulling something from around his neck before shoving it into your hands. You blink at him, then the cool, thin chain.
Dog tags.
“What-“
“My Mom’s family.” He mutters, and you go completely still. “They were all kinds of crazy. Doomsday preppers, conspiracy theorists. Grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was five, and Dad wasn’t much better.” He laughed, humorless and tired. “Used to talk about me needing to be man enough. And Mom- I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she loved Dad. And when I floated joining the Marine’s like he had- Christ, it was the only time the old man looked proud of me. He thought it was a good idea. Mom liked that we were getting along. Ended up serving four years before I got a discharge. Honorable.” He says quickly, as if that’s what you’d be worried about. “Had an accident. Put me in a coma for a week. They thought I was a goner, but I got lucky. Got out, too.” He chuckles. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Dean…” You sit up, looking down at him with an open, gentle expression. He snorts, turning his face away.
“Don’t do that. I don’t need pity-“
“It’s not pity-“
“Looks like it from here.” He snaps, and you swallow.
You grab his fist, tight on his chest, and slowly uncurl his fingers. He stares back at you, silent and ridged. And when you twine your fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.
This isn’t something you should be doing, but it’s too late to pull away. And when he squeezes your hand, you don’t think you’d ever want to again.
“You never told me that.” You murmur, and he sighs, sitting up.
He’s silent for a moment, staring at your tangled hands. His thumb swipes over the back of yours, jaw working as before he speaks.
“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”
You swallow, watching him closely. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid.
Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized.
If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.
How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep.
But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid.
You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”
He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction.
The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life.
“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back.
You mean it. Almost.
There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know.
But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t.
So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world.
✦Chapter Five✦
✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean is strictly off limits, for so, so many reasons. It's a shame neither of you seem to care.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!Dean, angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, feral smut (blowjobs, teasing, dean's dirty talk, brat taming, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, face-fucking, Dean being a panty thief, finger sucking, jerking off, pussy slapping, lap sex, edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.3k✦
✦author's note: request from @circletreeme ! dean dbf for the girlies <3✦
Neither of you lasted as long as you should have.
It was something that never should’ve happened at all. He should know better, and you shouldn’t have pushed to see if he did. But Dean told you it was never going to happen, and then ten minutes later had you pinned against the wall with his knee pushed between your legs.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters in your ear, littering kisses up and down your throat. “Gonna cum on my thigh, aren’t you. That fuckin’ easy?”
You whimper, and pull at his hair. There’s a pressure, building in your lower stomach and demanding and impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter, and you press your cheek in the side of Dean’s head. His beard is tickling and scraping over sensitive skin, his lips hot and wet. You’re barely more than a puddle in his arms.
“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.
“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“
A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.
You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.
Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.
He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?
Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“
He moves, right before the door opens.
Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”
“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.
He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.
And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.
Sleep with older men.
Sleep with anyone.
You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.
It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.
But that’s how Dean got you.
Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.
He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.
“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.
You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.
It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.
But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.
Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.
Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.
Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.
It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.
“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”
“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”
“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”
“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”
“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”
Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.
It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.
You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.
Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.
You can’t tell your dad that part.
“You told me.” You say lamely.
You can almost hear Dean’s groan.
“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”
It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.
And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.
“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.
You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”
He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.
“You’re trying to get me killed.”
“No, I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”
“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“
Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.
It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.
You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.
But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.
You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.
He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”
“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”
You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.
But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.
He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.
And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.
“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”
“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.
“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”
You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”
Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”
“Okay?”
There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.
You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”
“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.
“Yeah. Alright.”
“I do. I’m very well trained.”
He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.
“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.
“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”
“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”
And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-
Shit. Right. Your father.
“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”
Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.
“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.
Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“
“No.”
“But-“
“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.
“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”
“Aw, you love me?”
You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.
He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.
“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.
“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”
“But you make it so hard-“
“I know.”
That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.
You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.
Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.
Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.
“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”
You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.
“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”
You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”
“Sure. Only if you behave.”
And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.
You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.
God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.
He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.
But after that, all bets are off.
Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.
You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.
But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.
He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.
Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.
So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.
Which is what he’d told your dad.
Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.
Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.
Which he’d told your dad.
Because he’s an idiot.
“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.
On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.
“I- I- Uh-“
“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”
You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.
His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.
“She, uh- She’s real busy-“
“I got time.”
“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.
It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.
“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“
“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.
Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”
“Place?”
“Bookshop.”
“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”
You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”
Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.
Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.
He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.
Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.
But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.
“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.
“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”
You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.
Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.
“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”
He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.
Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.
You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.
So he’s a little mad at you.
You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.
Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.
It’s not going to be that difficult to do.
“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.
“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”
“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”
Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”
You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.
He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.
“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.
“Who?”
“Gordon.”
“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”
“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“
“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.
You know where this is going.
“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“
“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.
He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“
“Yes, you are.”
“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“
“Dad-“
“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.
He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.
Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“
“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”
“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.
You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.
“We just- It was never like that-“
“Didn’t he take you to prom?”
“As friends-“
“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“
Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.
Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.
Oh, God.
You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.
“You alright, buddy?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”
Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.
“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”
“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”
And you have to agree with that.
Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.
Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.
You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.
And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.
You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.
You want Dean.
And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.
“I’m not going to call Gordon.”
Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.
“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.
“Dean-“
“What?”
He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.
“I love you.”
The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.
“I love you too, princess-“
“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”
Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“
“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”
No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.
Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.
You won’t. You need him to understand.
“Sweetheart, you can’t-“
“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.
Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.
“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”
You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”
Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.
He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.
“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“
“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.
Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.
“What’re you-“
“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”
You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.
You’ll be sure to show him after.
Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.
You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.
“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.
“Please.”
A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod.
“Is that-“
“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”
You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.
You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.
Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.
“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“
You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.
“Baby- Fuck-“
You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.
“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“
He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.
“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”
You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
You’re not having any of that.
Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.
“Son of a bitch- You-“
You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.
“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“
He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.
You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.
He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.
Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“
You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.
Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.
You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.
Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“
He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.
“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“
You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.
It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.
“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“
You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.
Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.
He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.
You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.
“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”
“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”
You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.
His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.
“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.
He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.
“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”
You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.
Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.
Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.
Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.
He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.
You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.
And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.
His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.
Kid.
He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.
“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.
Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.
Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.
“You alright, Dean?”
“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.
His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.
You’re in trouble.
Good.
Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.
You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.
It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.
“Dad, uh- You’re-“
“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”
You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.
“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“
“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”
“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“
“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”
You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.
“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”
Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“
“Suspicions-“
“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”
Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”
Oh. Oh no.
Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.
A lot of sexting.
Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-
“You- You didn’t-“
“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”
You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.
“I’m so sorry-“
“He treat you well?”
You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.
“Of- Of course he does.”
“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”
“Dad-“
“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”
You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“
“I was ranked higher.”
“Dean was a marine-“
“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.
“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”
You nod, then go still.
Have fun.
That’s… Approval.
Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.
So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.
But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.
Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.
“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“
You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.
“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“
He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.
“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”
You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.
“You- You kissed me first.”
Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“
“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”
He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.
“Shit- Dean-“
“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.
“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”
His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”
You scowl. “I do not-“
“You do-“
“No, I-“
Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.
He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.
“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”
You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.
“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.
“You surprised me-“
“You almost killed me-“
“Oh, you’re fine-“
“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.
Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.
“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“
“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.
Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.
“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.
He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.
“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e
He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.
You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.
“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”
He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“
He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.
“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e
You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”
“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”
You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.
You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.
But that’s not what this is.
You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.
“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“
You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.
“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”
“Was- Was not a little bit-“
“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”
You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.
“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”
“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“
“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”
“It was-“
Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.
“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”
You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.
“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”
“De- Deeaan-“
“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”
The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.
And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.
Then the asshole stops.
He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.
You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.
“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”
“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.
“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”
You swallow. “I- I can be-“
“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire.
Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans.
“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.
He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.
“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“
Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.
He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”
You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.
He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”
God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.
“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”
That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.
“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”
You blink at him. “Huh.”
“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”
“But- You’re- You’re still-“
“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”
You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.
And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.
Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.
So maybe you should try it.
“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”
You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”
“Hell yeah, I can.”
Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.
It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.
It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.
But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.
Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.
“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”
“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“
You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.
“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”
“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“
He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.
“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“
He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.
You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.
You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.
“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“
“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”
Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.
“Big, huh?”
“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”
He thrusts up, and you whimper.
“Dean-“
“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”
“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“
He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.
But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.
On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.
“What- What’re you-“
“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”
He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.
“Fuck- Dean-“
“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”
And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.
“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.
Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.
He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.
You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.
For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.
“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.
You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.
“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“
Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.
“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.
“So good- Please-“
Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.
His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.
You won.
“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“
He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.
Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.
He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.
You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.
He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.
You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.
“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“
That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.
Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.
Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.
You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.
“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”
You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.
“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”
You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.
And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.
Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.
“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.
He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”
“I’m your favorite?”
“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”
You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-
Oh.
“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.
“What, what’s wrong-“
“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”
Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.
“My- My dad- He, um-“
“Sweetheart-“
“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“
“I what-“
“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“
“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.
“The one about- About tying me up.”
Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.
“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“
“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”
Dean blinks. “He is?”
You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”
“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.
“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”
Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”
“A- Give what-“
Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.
“A few months-“
“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.
And you smile.
Because you do to.
“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.
“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”
You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.
You hope—you pray—that it does.
✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
In which the slytherin boys (Mattheo, Lorenzo, Theodore, Draco and Blaise_ and their famous girls (Y/N, Daphne, Astoria and Pansy) aren't just the deadliest friend group...but also a friend group that fucks each other on the down low.
(Please note it begins as suggestive mentions of smut and more group dynamic, but it WILL be going into smut soon and I will write beside it if it includes actual full-fledged written smut. Reader will have more of a liking to theodore (like fully confesses love type liking)
PART1- INITATION NIGHT - Where Y/N sits with the friend group at a party and begins her initiation with Theodore (who knew it would be so easy?) (SUGGESTIVE)
PART2- WORDS BEHIND WALS- It's been two months since Y/N joined the group, let's see just how she's doing...and just how easy miscommunication is when she thinks the boys are talking about her behind her back! (HURT/COMFORT)
PART3- NO NUT NOVEMBER- The boys partake in no nut November, the girls are determined to break them. (SMUT- THEODORE)
PART4 - SUPER RICH KIDS - In which Y/N finds it hard to keep up with the rich hobbies of her group. (SUBTLE HURT/COMFORT)
PART5- SWEET AND SOUR - When the sweetest boy of the group gets stressed and doesn’t want to bother, you make sure to relieve him (SMUT- LORENZO)
PART5- THE YULE BALL AND THEODORE NOTT'S BROKEN HEART- Every year for the Yule Ball, the girls go with the boys. Even before they turned into what they are now, as good friends they’d all go. Now that you’re here, you think Theodore might ask you, but the girls tell you he’s never asked anyone. So, you end up going with Cormac, but this won't end like you expect it to, nor does anyone else.
PART6 (CONTINUATION TO PART 5)- NEVER FUCK WITH US OR OUR GIRLS - When you get back together with Cormac, and Adrian Pucey and Astoria fall in love, the group deals with their betrayal, and Theodore and Draco realize they have lost their girls. However, a certain trio thinks something is off...
PART 7- SUPER SOAKER- When Lorenzo makes you squirt for the first time, the other guys decide to step up their game. (SMUT- ENZO AND MATTHEO)
PART 8- BEST OF BOTH WORLDS- Once again, you and Lorenzo are studying for your exams, just your in a state of not giving a shit and cuddling with Theodore while Lorenzo suffers in his dorm. That's when Theo decides you'll BOTH relieve Lorenzo... (SMUT- THEO AND ENZO)
PART9- JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY- You get asked out to a party by none other than Draco's enemy, Harry Potter, and after discussion, you decide to secretly go, but you weren't as secretive as you thought you were. (SMUT- DRACO)
PART 10- WHO WOULD THINK OF SNAPE?!- When the group first started, the boys told you the safe word was Snape- because if your mind EVER went to Snape during sex that's clearly saying how bad it was. You've gone almost a year strong without using the safe word, but everyone reaches their limit.
PART 11- BIRTHDAYS SUCK ANYWAY- The group seemingly forgets your birthday
PART 12- SHARING IS CARING- Mattheo and Theodore are best friends, they share everything, and often, that means you and Daphne. (SMUT)
PART 13- PURITY (TABOO)- When the boys find out your a muggleborn, you begin to think it's over- what would they want to do with a dirty mudblood like you? But to them, the only difference is you just don't have enough pureblood cum in you, and lucky for you, your boys are all purebloods.
PART 14- OWNED- The boys tease Enzo for always being so desperate for you, so Y/N shows them that she could realistically ruin any of them by ruining the dominant of the group- Mattheo.
PART 15- MOVIE NIGHT! - You all have a movie night in the common room, but with Blaise and Theodore at either side of you, this won't be a normal night under the blankets.
PART 16- GAME NIGHT- It's the end of the week, all the stress from tests and homework and stupid essays leaving your bodies as you all spend time in the common room. Then Blaise suggests a game of UNO that turns the night around VERY fast. (special because it's an orgy. NO DAPHNE)
PART 17- SPECIAL CHAPTER- The girls and you must go an entire school day with vibrators attached to your pussies that the boys control.
PART 18- Brat taming with Draco and Blaise
PART 19- Theodore and you wonder who fucks Lorenzo the best? And when he can't choose, you both spend a whole week ruining him.
PART 20- How each of the slytherin boys do aftercare
PART 21- How Slytherins party, (or more how freaky the boys get with you and the girls by taking shots off you all)
PART 22- You get jealous seeing a girl flirt with Theodore all night long, and instead of thinking about sex (for the first time ever) you begin to wonder about your relationship with Theodore, especially once you both graduate (FLUFFF, some hurt/comfort)
PART 23- Christmas at Hogwarts but everyone chooses to go home- except Mattheo, given Potter killed his dad during the second war just a year ago, and you, since your parents don't give a shit about you. Wonder how that's gonna go (ANGSTT, hurt/comfort, realized reader and mattheo don't have a lot of normal scenes)
Summary: The secret of your Mangkwan blood was never meant to leave the shadows between you and Neteyam. But a single slip of Neteyam’s tongue brought the truth crashing down, turning you into a public enemy and sealing your exile in the cold western cliffs.
Warnings: 3,5k words, aged up! neteyam, rivals to friends to (kinda) lovers maybe, no smut, angst tho, you two are still being idiots, heartbreak(?) hehe.
Chapters: friendly fire, friendlier fire, friendliest fire, frozen fire
The High Camp was buzzing with the frantic energy of an impending move. Huts were being dismantled, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and stressed ikran. You kept your head down, your hands busy tightening the cinch on a supply pack. You had perfected the art of being a ghost.
You hadn't spoken a word to Neteyam since the grove. Not a real word.
Every time you passed him, you felt the phantom itch of the tsaheylu at the base of your skull. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and questioning, but you never looked up. The air between you was always charged, like the sky right before a lightning strike.
You avoided him because the tsaheylu hadn't just shared sensations. Whatever that happened that night has stripped you of your armor.
You used to be a girl with no home, no ties, and no weaknesses. But in that night, you had felt his soul recognize yours, and even worse, you had felt yourself recognize him. You were terrified of the "we" he had whispered.
Every time you saw the silver scar on his chest, you remembered the taste of his skin and the way his heart had thudded against your palm. It made you feel weak. It made you feel Omatikaya. And you knew that the moment you looked into his gold eyes, everything you’d used as a shield of your feelings would crumble into dust.
So, you treated him like a stranger. You stayed in the shadows, focusing on the cold weight of your daggers and the salt-sting of your memories, convinced that if you ignored the bond long enough, it would eventually stop screaming.
But the bond didn't stop screaming, it just learned how to howl in the silence.
You weren't just avoiding him. You were avoiding the version of yourself you had become in his arms. That girl was soft. That girl was loud. That girl belonged to a family, a clan, and a future.
The silence between you was a thin sheet of ice, and today, Neteyam was wearing heavy boots.
"The supply lines are moving East," he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the din of the deconstructing camp. He was standing in the center of the walkway, forcing you to acknowledge him. "My father wants the medics on the first flight."
"I heard the briefing, Sully," you muttered, still refusing to look up from your pack. "I don't need a personal herald."
"Apparently you do," he snapped, his patience finally fraying after two weeks of being treated like a ghost. He stepped into your personal space, forcing you to drop the rope. "Because every time I try to give you an order, you disappear. You’re avoiding your responsibilities."
"I’m avoiding you," you hissed, finally snapping your head up. Your eyes clashed with his, and the air between you ignited. "There’s a difference. I do my job. I just don't do it for you."
"Why? Because you can't look at me without remembering what we did?" Neteyam's voice rose, attracting the attention of a few nearby hunters. "Because you're scared that I actually know what's behind that cold, arrogant mask of yours?"
"There is nothing behind it!" you yelled, shoving his chest. It was like hitting a stone wall.
"No! I'm tired of the lies!" he roared, his voice carrying across the entire ridge, stopping the dismantlement of the huts. He stepped closer, his finger pointing accusingly at your chest. "You act like you don't belong here, like you're some ghost. Why are you so ashamed of who you are?"
"Stop it," you breathed, panic rising in your chest as you saw Jake and Neytiri approaching from the command tent.
"Why?" Neteyam yelled, his voice cracking with the weight of the angst he’d been carrying. "Because you're Mangkwan? Because you think being a sea-blood killer means you don't get to have a heart?"
The busy sounds of the camp died instantly. Hunters froze. Children stopped playing. In an Omatikaya camp, the presence of a Mangkwan was a shock. You felt every eye in the camp land on you, seeing through your disguise for the first time.
You looked at Neteyam, your heart shattering not from the secret being out, but from the fact that he was the one who threw it away.
"You're a fool," you whispered, the betrayal stinging worse than any wound.
The shift was immediate and brutal. When you walked toward the communal cooking fire, the chatter died down as if you’d brought a cold draft with you.
Mothers would reach out, their fingers hooking into their children's shoulders to pull them back into the shadows of their tents as you passed. You saw the way they looked at you, not with hatred, but with a deep superstitious fear. To them, a Mangkwan was a creature of blood and shifting tides, a bad omen that didn't belong in the steady heart of the forest.
The gossip was the worst part.
"She never goes to the Tree to pray," you heard a woman murmur as you scrubbed your daggers by the stream. "I heard they don't have hearts. No faith."
"Did you see her eyes during the hunt?" another replied. "Cold. No wonder Neteyam was acting so strange."
You kept your back straight and your expression like flint, but every whisper felt like a needle under your skin. You were used to being alone, but this was a different kind of isolation. The kind where you were surrounded by people and yet remained completely invisible, except for the parts of you they feared.
You stopped going to the communal meals. It was easier to eat dried fruit alone in the dark than to watch the Omatikaya shift their mats away from you. Even the other medics, people you had bled beside in the medical wing, now found excuses to be elsewhere when you arrived for your shift.
The final blow came from the commander.
Two days after the move, you were summoned to the command center. You expected a briefing, a target, or even a lecture. Instead, you found Jake Sully standing over a map, his face tight with a weary sort of frustration. He didn't look at you as you approached.
"You’re being removed from the main mission roster and for any kind of missions. I can’t have you on the front lines if the hunters and warriors won't trust you at their back. It's a safety risk, for them, and for you."
"I saved your son’s life," you said, your voice a low rasp. "I’ve bled for this clan for almost two years. And you're benching me because of camp gossip?"
"I’m protecting my people," Jake countered, though there was a flicker of something like regret in his eyes. "All of them. Including you. You’re being moved to the outpost in the western cliffs. You’ll stay there, away from the main camp, until things settle down. You'll hunt for your own food. You’ll keep your distance."
"What? Why–"
"The people are uneasy," Jake interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes weren't unkind, but they were firm, settled in a way that left no room for argument. "They’re calling you a bad omen. The hunters won't fly with you, and the families don't want you near the main camp's supply lines. They think your presence brings the wrong kind of attention from the Great Mother."
It was a soft exile. A way to scrub the Mangkwan stain from the Omatikaya’s sight without actually killing you.
"And my work in the medical wing?" you asked, your voice a brittle thread of its former self.
"Neytiri thinks it's best if you stay away from the wounded," Jake said, and there it was, the real sting. "She says the spirits of the ancestors won't heal those who are tended by a hand that doesn't pray."
You didn't wait for a dismissal. You turned on your heel and walked out, your heart a cold dead weight in your chest.
Within the hour, you had packed your few belongings. You didn't say goodbye to the other medics. You didn't look for Neteyam. You moved your gear to a small and damp hollow on the far edge of the cliffs, miles away from the warmth of the communal fires and the humming songs of the village.
From your new home, the High Camp looked like a distant and glowing star. You were close enough to see the life you had briefly shared, but far enough away to know you would never be part of it again. You sat in the dark, the salt-sting of the Mangkwan coast feeling more like home than the forest ever had.
The isolation that was supposed to break you turned out only to sharpen the edges you’d spent months trying to blunt. If they wanted a Mangkwan demon, you would give them one.
Living away from the villages meant you were the first to see the valley wake up, and you were the only one who didn't have to wait for a leader's permission to move. While the Omatikaya were still waking up and singing their morning prayers to Eywa, you were already deep in the brush, moving like a ghost through the shadows.
A few days into your exile, you spotted a prime yerik, a massive one that usually required a party of four hunters to take down. You tracked it for almost an hours in total silence and finally brought it down with a single strike to the neck.
The trek back to the fringes took you right past the main gathering trail, exactly when the mid-day hunting parties were returning.
You didn't hide. You shouldered the massive weight of the beast, your muscles slick with sweat and its dark blood staining your shoulders, and walked right through the center of the path.
You saw them before they saw you. A group of young Omatikaya hunters were laughing, carrying a couple of scrawny yerik, barely enough to feed a single family.
As you approached, the laughter died. You didn't slow down. You kept your pace steady, your eyes fixed forward, a solitary, blood-drenched shadow. You moved right past them, the sheer size of your kill making their measly catch look like a joke.
"How did she take that down alone? Without a party?" You heard one of them said, his voice dripping with a mix of awe and resentment.
"She probably used poison. There is no honor in a kill like that," another spat, though he didn't dare say it loud enough for you to turn around.
You let out a short, cold huff of a laugh, loud enough for them to hear. You didn't need their honor. You had the meat, and you had the satisfaction of watching their pride shrivel in your wake.
You reached your isolated hollow and dropped the beast with a heavy thud that echoed against the cliffside. You sat down, pulling out your primary dagger to begin the skinning, the bitterness in your chest feeling almost like a victory. They could pray all they wanted, but they were still going home with empty stomachs while the omen ate like a queen.
You were halfway through the work when you felt it. That familiar prickle at the base of your skull. You didn't look up. You just kept the blade moving, the silver edge slicing through the hide with a wet sound.
"That's a lot of meat for one person," a voice said from the shadows of the trees.
Neteyam was standing there, leaning against a trunk.
Neteyam stayed back for a second, his weight shifting uncomfortably. He looked at the massive yerik and then back at you, sitting there in the dirt, covered in blood and looking more dangerous than he’d ever seen you.
"Don't worry," you said, your voice dripping with a cold, sharp sarcasm. You didn't even look up from your work, the blade of your dagger slicing through the hide with effortless precision. "I'm greedy. I plan on eating every single bit of it myself."
Neteyam shifted awkwardly, his fingers twitching over a small woven satchel hanging at his hip. You caught the scent of it, a sweet and ripe darsel fruit. He had clearly come here thinking you were starving in exile, playing the hero to the abandoned girl. But as he stepped fully into your camp, his eyes widened, and his ears flattened in sheer embarrassment.
Your hollow wasn't a place of suffering. It was a damn fortress of plenty. Racks were full of smoked fish, baskets were overflowing with forest fruits you’d scavenged better than any Omatikaya, and the massive yerik at your feet was enough to feed a dozen hunters.
You paused then, looking at the tiny bag of fruit in his hand and then back up at his face. A mocking smirk spread across your lips. "What’s that, Sully? Are you bringing me a snack?"
Neteyam looked down at the fruit, his blue skin flushing a darker shade. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He let out a long breath and walked closer, dropping the satchel onto a flat stone with a muted thud.
"I... I didn't know," he muttered, his usual confidence completely stripped away. "I thought you were... I came to say I'm sorry."
Neteyam moved closer, his footsteps soft on the damp earth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. "I’ve been trying to talk to my father," he began, his voice low and cracked. "About the exile. About what happened at the camp. I’m... I’m sorry. I shouldn't have yelled it. I shouldn't have put you in that position. It was my pride, and I—"
"Are you joking?" you interrupted, finally looking up. You let out a short laugh that had no warmth in it. You wiped a smear of blood off your cheek with the back of your hand, leaving a dark streak. "This is the best time of my life, Neteyam."
He froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"
"No orders, no prayers, and most importantly... there's no annoying prince breathing down my neck. No you annoying me every ten minutes, no sulking about your duty. I finally have some peace," you said, a cruel but beautiful smile spreading across your lips.
Neteyam flinched as if you’d struck him, his golden eyes searching yours for a lie. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" you countered. "I’ve never been happier. So you can take your sorrys and your snacks back to the village. I’m doing just fine in the dark."
Neteyam went quiet, his gaze dropping to the massive yerik you’d single-handedly conquered. The silence stretched, thick with the tension of the last two weeks, until he let out a long, weary breath. He looked up at you, his golden eyes searching yours, softened by a vulnerability he usually kept locked behind his warrior’s mask.
"Fair enough," he murmured, a faint, lopsided ghost of a smile touching his lips. He gestured to the carcass, then back to himself. "But if you’re truly as greedy as you say... do you think you could find it in your heart to share some of that meat with a hungry prince? I’ve had a long walk, and the communal's meal is starting to taste like disappointment."
You stared at him for a beat, your thumb tracing the edge of your blade. You wanted to stay bitter. But seeing him looking so genuinely humbled made the ice in your chest crack just a tiny bit.
"Alright," you muttered, turning back to the carcass. "But you’re cleaning the ribs. I’m not playing servant just because you’ve got a royal title."
"Deal," he said quickly, almost too fast, as if he was afraid you’d change your mind.
He moved in beside you, picking up a smaller blade from your kit. For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the fire you’d started and the rhythmic work of preparing the meat.
As the meat started to sizzle over the flames, the scent filled the small hollow, cutting through the damp smell of the caves. Neteyam didn't even wait for an invitation this time before he reached over and snagged a piece directly from the heated stone, huffing a breath to cool it before popping it into his mouth.
His eyes widened, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in his throat. It was tender, perfectly seared, and carried the smoky richness of the wood you’d chosen.
"Wow," he exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I forgot you actually know how to cook. I thought you just lived on spite and sea salt."
"I do," you muttered, though you couldn't hide the slight twitch of your lips. "The cooking is just a side effect of having taste buds."
Neteyam smiled and looked at you. In the village, he was the leader, the son, the responsibility. But here, in the dirt of your exile, he looked relaxed. He loved being with you because you were the only person who didn't look at him and see a throne. You just saw a guy who was bad at lying and liked your food.
"You're staring, Sully," you said, though there was no real bite in your voice anymore. You nudged a larger portion of meat toward him with your blade. "Eat. Before I change my mind and make you pay for it in fruit."
"I'd pay a lot more than that to stay here for a while," he admitted.
"The mighty warrior, hiding in an exile hollow because he can't handle a few meetings," you teased, though your heart did a slow roll in your chest. "Your father is going to come looking for you, Neteyam. I’m already the camp’s bad omen. I don’t need kidnapping the prince added to my list of crimes."
"If kidnapping the prince is a crime, then I am a willing victim," Neteyam murmured, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic hum that vibrated in the small space between you.
He didn't wait for your next snarky retort. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You started to open your mouth to tell him to go home, to tell him that this was dangerous, but the words died in your throat as he leaned in.
The kiss wasn't like the desperate collision in the grove. It was slow, heavy with the weight of the two weeks you’d spent ignoring each other. You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his broad shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you.
You didn't remember how long the kiss lasted, or when exactly the fire burned down to glowing embers. You ended up tangled in his arms, your head pillowed on his chest and your legs intertwined with his. Neteyam held you, his chin resting atop your head as his heartbeat drummed a steady rhythm against your ear.
For the first time in weeks, you felt home.
The sanctuary of the hollow became a world of its own. Over the next month, the western cliffs were no longer a place of exile, but a stage for a dangerous yet beautiful routine.
Neteyam visited nearly every night. Sometimes he’d arrive with medical supplies he’d swiped from the stores. Other times, he’d just bring himself, looking haggard and wind-beaten, seeking the only place where he didn't have to lead. You’d skin the day’s kill together, bickering over Mangkwan versus Omatikaya techniques, before collapsing into the small, warm space of your shelter.
"Your father is going to kill you," you joked one evening as he landed his ikran in the shadows. You were leaning against a tree, tossing a small dagger into the air and catching it by the hilt. "The Olo'eyktan's son, missing every sunset. Wonder what he's doing."
Usually, Neteyam would fire back with a snarky remark about your hospitality. But tonight, he didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He walked past you into the hollow, his movements heavy, his ears pinned low against his head.
"Neteyam?" you asked, the playful edge vanishing from your voice. You caught your dagger and tucked it away, following him inside. "What happened? Did the RDA move? Is it the camp?"
He stood by the dying fire, his back to you. The tension in his shoulders was so thick it felt like it might snap the bones. When he finally turned around, his golden eyes were shadowed with a look of pure defeat.
"My father held a council today," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "With the lead warriors. Specifically, with Eytukan’s bloodline allies."
A cold pit started to form in your stomach. "And?"
"He has arranged it," Neteyam finally looked at you, and the sheer agony in his expression made your breath catch. "I’m to be engaged. To the daughter of one of the lead warriors. Someone worthy of the future Olo'eyktan."
The words felt like a physical blow to the chest, harder than any strike you’d ever taken in training. The "we" you had finally started to believe in shattered into a thousand pieces.
summary: After promising to spend a day with Neteyam, he finds his patience tested when other males from his clan interrupt your time together to flirt with you. Worst part is, he can't really do anything about it. Not when he has to make peace with everybody as the future Olo'eyktan, and definitely not when they think you're his "sister".
tags/warnings: jealousy, slight angry neteyam if you squint, kissing, making out, lil descriptions of sex, mentions of sexual activity, sexual implications, tension, neteyam being horny (be warned), neteyam yearning, reader isn't specified as na'vi so feel free to picture a human instead
Neteyam had always considered himself very patient. Even at this moment, even as he stood below a tree while Eykan so frequently rubbed himself on you in excuse of showing off his hunting “skills”. The young man lightly brushed his fingers along your elbow as he let go of your arm, acting as if he hadn’t noticed his future Olo’eyktan wasn't standing right there watching the interaction unfold with pure discomfort. The boy was either blind or stupid.
“The trick is to release early,” Eykan said, arms coming up behind you to guide your own. He placed a hand on yours and the other around your waist, making sure to be respectfully gentle about it. Neteyam scoffed. His hand placements were clearly unnecessary.
Neteyam could hear the sharp intake of your breath, right before you released the string, and quick as lightning, the arrow struck right through a fish in the water, and as if you’d never caught a fish before, you gave a gleeful grin to Eykan at the catch, to which he mirrored before helping you set it aside. Neteyam had taught you to use a bow, of course, but that never stopped other males from eagerly wanting to teach a trick of their own to get up close with you.
“Alright, I think she’s had enough,” Neteyam interrupted, placing himself between you and Eykan.
“What about the fish?”
“Keep it.” Neteyam gave a tight, polite smile to the warrior before leaving with you in tow.
You were going to say something, maybe mention how disappointed Eykan looked when he pulled you away, but the tense set of Neteyam’s jaw and the hard look in his eyes kept your mouth shut. It was safe to say Neteyam looked absolutely pissed as he dragged you through the forest.
You were supposed to be training with him today, but instead, the whole male population of the clan had apparently decided they’d like to do the same. And Neteyam, ever the patient Olo’eyktan’s son he was, had allowed them to indulge themselves with the pleasure of your attention, until there was no more room for him. He was left to stand to the side as young warriors of the clan attempted to impress you. They thought nothing of the Olo’eyktan’s son, not because they didn’t respect him—you knew the respect the Omatikaya held for him, but because you’d grown up closely alongside his family. So really, there was no reason for the males of his clan to think of you as anything less than a sisterly-figure to him.
But the more Neteyam grew, the more he grew tired of the constant attention you got from the young males of his clan as you came of age.
It didn’t always come, but today seemed to be one of those days where they couldn’t help but shower you in stares and unspoken intentions.
“It’s almost eclipse. You should head home, we can train another day,” Neteyam suggested halfway through the forest like the gentleman he was and you frowned. Something in his face told you he didn’t really want to take you home.
“But we haven’t spent any time together and I know you’re upset.”
He sighed. “It’s alright. We have plenty of other days.”
“I have to help Kiri and your grandmother tomorrow, and you have a hunt the next day.”
“Alright, we have some other days,” he corrected.
Sparing yourselves some pity, you wordlessly grabbed his hand and tugged him towards you. He stumbled at first, legs moving on their own accord, then Neteyam followed without much resistance as you led him in a different direction through the thick trees.
“Where are we going?” He asked, tail swaying hesitantly in curiosity.
“Not home. We haven’t gotten to spend much time together and that’s what friends do, is it not?”
Neteyam shook his head, laughing as he jumped over some vines he almost tripped on. “I suppose it is.”
The clearing you’d found yourselves into was secluded, far from the path towards home. And it also happened to be your favorite place, one that Neteyam hadn’t been to in years. The trees were just as he remembered it, large trunks enclosing the area from any outside predators. It glowed where moss and vines clung to it, and the carvings on them were still intact after years. On one bark was his name under yours, along with a bunch of scratches trying to remove it. It was like a memory unlocked for him, one he hadn’t thought about for a long while. He almost forgot about Eykan. Almost.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not.” He huffed, looking anywhere but at you. “Maybe I am.”
He reached out to toy with a strand of flowers hanging from a branch, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes practically glued to his strong fingers as they ran through the soft petals. His hand ran down the vine, all the way to the fruit at the tip before plucking it from its stem.
“I hope it’s still sweet,” he said, plopping the small fruit into his mouth.
“You’re deflecting. Stop doing that.” You swatted his hand and the flowers fell, petals adorning the ground beneath him. His ears pulled back and he almost looked offended.
“I’m not deflecting,” he sighed. “Why don’t you show me around?”
“You’re doing it again!” you protested. “And you know your way around. You don’t need me to show you. Now will you tell me what I did wrong?”
“You did nothing wrong.” He paused, eyes cast to a distant branch.
“You don’t always have to spare my feelings, you know. You never tell anyone what’s bothering you, but I thought we were past that. You can tell me, Neteyam.”
He considered you for a moment, tail hanging low as it swayed to his contemplation at your truthful words. His brows furrowed, which you could only guess was from the unpleasant thoughts in his head, and then he finally released a long, drawn-out exhale.
“Look, I know I don’t have a say in your life,” he started, taking a slow breath. “Who you chose to spend your time with is not my concern, nor should it ever be, but if I have to watch another male rub himself on you while I just stand there, I’m going to-” he cut himself off with a frustrated hiss, turning away.
Oh.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” you apologized half-heartedly yet earnestly all at the same time. You weren’t daft, but you weren’t sure either. He could be uncomfortable, but why would he get so upset if he were anything but… jealous? You didn’t want to assume.
“That’s not… It’s not that. It is, but that is not what I meant.” Neteyam laughed pitifully at himself.
“Then what is it?”
He was fully turned to you now, picking at his own arm. “You’re smarter than that.”
The air was thick with something you couldn’t quite place, and a new emotion welled up inside you. Neteyam had always known how to be soft and gentle all over despite the rough toll his training had taken on him. He was calloused hands with gentle touches, a perfect mix of a warrior that would make any woman swoon. Yet here he was, worked up about you spending more time with males that were not him.
“Are you… jealous?” you asked in a whisper, almost inaudibly. His ears lifted at the word, cringing slightly. Neteyam finally looked at you, catching your eyes with his as he took a step forward.
“Is that so hard to believe?” he questioned, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The unexpected touch made you shiver, a gasp threatening to spill from your lips. Neteyam’s gaze fell to his fingers hovering over the skin of your collarbone, then to your neck, lingering on your lips, then back to your face, and you subconsciously backed away as if his very stare burned you.
“...Yes,” you answered after almost having forgotten to. He smiled.
“I’m sure I can help you think otherwise.” He traced the shape of your jaw with his fingers, gently tilting your face upwards so he could look into your eyes again. “Pretty.”
If you weren’t blushing before you certainly were now. Neteyam’s attention was all over you. Eyes roaming the features of your face, fingers playing with your jaw, tail occasionally brushing your thigh, and you were hyper-aware of all the things he was making you feel. You didn’t know whether to look away or step closer.
“I mean it, yawntutsyìp. You’re very pretty,” he repeated. “There’s a reason why males trip over themselves when you look at them.”
Now you were really overwhelmed to the brink of malfunction. Fortunately for you, Neteyam took notice of your lack of words and continued to speak.
“I might be one of them,” he admitted softly. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
You hadn’t. Maybe you had, but you’d always brushed it off, the line between friendship and something else entirely blurred. Every time he’d stare at you for too long, every little smile he gave, and all the subtle touches he’d given you, you’d brushed it off as something that Neteyam just did. But, oh you were so wrong. You realized that now. You realized as Neteyam eyed you nervously, tail flicking anxiously close to the ground.
“I didn’t mean to make you jealous,” you said honestly, holding the side of his jaw with your hand. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like he’d been deprived of it.
“I know.” By the time he opened his eyes, your faces were mere inches apart. And for the first time today, it was his breath that hitched.
“We’ll still be friends, right?” you whispered and Neteyam’s chuckle was short-lived as you pressed your lips to his. His arm immediately winded around your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you with equal softness and want.
You felt your stomach flutter as you tugged him closer, kissing him deeper as your teeth grazed his lips. Neteyam almost groaned when your tongue melted against his, his fingers curling on your waist. He had to contain the images running through his head, most of them involving you and things his family would definitely not approve of. He could just take your right here, in the middle of the forest where no one would see. Or better yet, right here where young warriors making their way back could possibly stumble upon. He’d make it known that you were his, that they needed to lay off when you were spending time with him.
He wanted you, very badly. Especially when you made those little noises, the soft moans you let out as his tongue stroked your own. He could barely keep his head straight with the way your little hands tugged at him, trying to pull him closer. He’d been wanting you for a long time.
But he also treasured you. You meant many things to him and he cared too much of a great deal about you to let his desires cloud his actions. So instead, Neteyam slowly pulled away, breath ragged as he gave you room to breathe.
Your chest heaved, dazed in the aftershocks of the kiss as your mind whirled around it. Never in a million years would you have thought that you’d ever get to kiss him. Neteyam had always been a good friend, as his whole family was. To cross a line like that was reckless, too reckless. Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. No. After getting a taste of him, you wanted more, and that was probably the most dangerous part.
synopsis: you hadn’t seen stiles since middle school. but when your friend lydia invites you to a party, and you see stiles again for the first time. and he’s not the annoying kid who used to have a crush on you. now he’s hot.
warnings: underage drinking (in the usa), swearing, some suggestive language. some of them are probably ooc cause it’s been ages since i’ve written anything teen wolf oops.
notes: i’m very slowly making my return to tumblr. i’ve been listening to man’s best friend on repeat and got a little inspired.
you leaned in closer to the mirror in your bedroom, rubbing your lips together and dabbing away the excess lip gloss from the corners of your mouth with your fingertip.
“hurry up already!” lydia huffed from where she was sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning back with her arms outstretched to hold herself up. “if we don’t leave in the next 5 minutes we’ll be past fashionably late.”
“oh, whatever.” you rolled your eyes and turned around to face her, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “how do i look?”
“hot.” lydia replied and stood up. “now, come on! if we’re gonna get you a man, we need to hurry before all the good ones are gone.”
while you shook your head, you couldn’t help the amused smile that grew on your face as she pulled you out of your bedroom.
it had been months since you had even talked to a guy - with romantic (or sexual) intent, that was - and lydia had decided to make it a mission for herself to find you a boyfriend before the school year ended.
“you know, i bet if you went to my school instead of your silly private school, all the boys there would be falling over themselves to talk to you.” lydia sighed as you both headed down the stairs to the front door of your empty house. “so unfair.”
“please, i know the boys you go to school with.” you spoke with amusement. “i doubt any of them are any better than they were in middle school.”
“oh, you’d be surprised.” lydia said, flashing you her signature smile as you opened the passenger side door to her car. “some of them have really changed.”
“yeah, i’ll believe it when i see it.”
the soft voice of sabrina carpenter played through lydia’s speakers the moment she started the car, and the short drive consisted of failed harmonization attempts and mispronounced lyrics.
when lydia’s car pulled to a stop a short distance down the road, you checked your makeup in her car mirror one last time before the two of you headed down the sidewalk towards the bustling party at the house of someone you didn’t even know.
upon entering the house and hearing the loud music and equally loud chatter from the party guests, you needed a drink.
lydia immediately beelined for the kitchen, pulling you through the sea of half-drunk high school seniors by the wrist, and the two of you were examining the labels on bottles soon after.
“whose party is this, anyway, lyds?” you asked as lydia searched a nearby cupboard for shot glasses, gripping a bottle of some flavored vodka in her left hand.
“allison’s.” lydia responded with a hum as she set two small glasses on the counter in front of her. “you remember allison, right? you met her like a month ago.”
“brown hair, dating scott with the asthma from sixth grade?” you asked and lydia giggled.
“yeah.” she replied and handed you one of the glasses, clinking them together in a ‘cheers’ motion. “here’s to finding you a new man.”
“sure.” you laughed and downed the shot, immediately wincing at the taste after swallowing the drink. “ugh, i swear that tastes worse every time.”
“lydia!” a new voice cut in and you turned to see allison argent, the host herself, hurrying towards the two of you. scott mccall was close behind, one finger linked with hers as he followed his girlfriend around like a puppy. “and y/n, right?”
“yep.” you offered a friendly smile as she and lydia hugged, then she turned and hugged you next, which you weren’t expecting.
“this is my boyfriend, scott.” allison introduced, locking her arm around scott’s as he gave you an awkward smile.
“we’ve actually met already.” scott spoke up and allison turned to face him. “we used to go to school together.”
“oh, right. duh.” allison nodded as lydia handed you a cup of whatever alcoholic concoction she had been making while you spoke with her friends. “sorry, i’m already a bit tipsy, but help yourselves to any of the drinks.”
lydia gestured to her cup with a smile. “sweetie, we already have.”
an hour in and you had already spoken to multiple people you hadn’t seen since you were all twelve, now you were eighteen and in just a couple months you’d be graduating.
“anyone caught your eye?” lydia’s voice asked in your ear and you spun with a gasp, holding one hand to your chest at her sudden appearance.
“jesus christ! give a girl a warning, next time.” you exclaimed with a sigh of relief and lydia’s lips turned into a smirk.
“i take that as a no.” lydia said and you stayed quiet, lifting what was now your fourth drink to your lips for a sip. “you know what? come with me.”
“where?” you asked.
“just trust me. he’s your type.”
lydia grabbed onto your hand and began pulling you along again before you could protest.
you didn’t know where she was leading you, but you looked ahead to see allison and scott talking to another boy, who had his back facing the two of you.
“hey, guys.” lydia said and the boy turned, but you couldn’t see his face from your place behind lydia.
as you took another sip of your drink, lydia pushed you a few steps forward so your eyes could finally settle on the boy’s face.
“y/n, don’t you know stiles?” she introduced smoothly and your heart stopped as you took a double take - then a triple take.
you did know stiles… six years ago.
back then he was obsessed with you. twelve-year-old stiles stilinski had the biggest crush on you and he made it extremely obvious.
you, on the other hand, didn’t like stiles at all. you found him annoying, much like all the other pre-pubescent boys in your classes, and you didn’t like that he liked you because you thought he was ugly and a bit of a loser.
but now?
oh, boy.
your eyes traveled up and down stiles’s frame. maybe it was because he lost the buzzcut and finally grew out his hair, or maybe it was how much taller than you he was now.
it could’ve been the way his brown eyes hadn’t moved from your face since lydia said your name, or the way his shoulders filled out the flannel shirt he was wearing very nicely. maybe it was just his face.
whatever it was, you knew stiles stilinski was now, undeniably, hot.
“huh.” was all you managed out after you looked stiles up and down again.
“uh, hey, y/n.” stiles stammered slightly, looking over to scott in a panic like he was going to melt any second.
you could’ve sworn stiles was pretty unattractive as a kid, you were so sure of it. but how on earth could an ugly kid make such an attractive man?
“hi, stiles.” his name fell off your tongue so nicely, so naturally. you smiled.
“thank me later.” lydia whispered in your ear before she and allison disappeared. scott pat stiles on the shoulder before he followed.
“it’s been a while.” you noted and stiles laughed awkwardly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“yeah. yeah, it- it has.” he nodded, swallowing and hoping it would fix how dry his mouth was looking at you.
if he had a crush on you when you were twelve, then, fuck, he was in love with you now. he couldn’t help the way his eyes slowly drifted away from your face and down your neck, down to your chest, before snapping back up to your eyes.
“how have you been?” you asked casually, your tone sweet, and stiles struggled to reply.
he seriously thought he was over this crush. it had been several years since he had seen you last, but it came back with a vengeance the moment he laid his eyes on you.
“i’m good.” stiles strangled the words out as he nodded.
“you look good.” you nodded in agreement and stiles went red immediately. “do you work out?”
stiles seemed to short circuit at the question, or maybe it was the way your hand brushed ran down the side of his bicep.
“no. no, i don’t.” he shook his head, lifting one arm to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and you noticed the way his arm flexed as he did so.
“hmm.” you ran your hand up his other arm again and stiles froze in place.
he managed to collect himself again, picking up his drink and lifting it to his mouth to take a long sip.
“so what have you been up to, stiles?” you asked him before taking a sip of your own drink. a smirk tugged on your lips at his reactions, threatening to show on your face.
“me?”
“is there another stiles here?” you teased and he scratched the back of his neck again.
you couldn’t believe yourself. if you from sixth grade - hell, if you from yesterday knew you were flirting with and thinking about hooking up with stiles stilinski, you knew past you wouldn’t approve.
but current you certainly did. and that was enough.
“i, um… i’m on the lacrosse team.” stiles managed the words out.
“yeah? you any good?”
“no.” he replied honestly. “i spend most the games on the bench.”
you hummed and reached up to brush away the hairs that fell over his forehead.
“i bet you look really hot in the uniform, though.” you said. “when did you get hot, by the way? because i like it.”
“you think i’m..?” stiles’s words were lost in his throat as he chuckled breathily with raised eyebrows. “wow. i mean, you’re… shit.”
you finished your drink and put the empty cup down on the table beside you before brushing your hand against stiles’s free one.
“i’m… shit?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, and stiles ran a hand over his face.
“fuck, sorry, no, i mean… you’re -” he let out a sigh and a bit of a chuckle. “you’re so… and you think i’m…”
he gestured between the two of you and you connected your hand with his.
“mm?” you gave him a look that told him to go on.
“god, you’re beautiful.” he said and lifted his own hand. it ghosted against your hip like he was scared to touch you. you pushed his hand against your hip with your own and he gripped onto you easily, his eyes flickering all over your face and body. “can i get your number?”
you laughed and stiles’s stomach dropped. he freaked out, did you not actually like him? were you messing with him this whole time?
“stiles, baby, you can have that and more.” you told him and dug through your purse to pull out a pen.
you grabbed onto his hand and stiles watched in awe, his heart beating out of his chest as the ballpoint tip met with the skin of the back of his hand.
a moment later blue ink read out a sequence of numbers - your phone number - on the back of his hand.
you popped the lid back onto the pen and it disappeared into your bag again.
stiles was in disbelief. the girl he had the biggest crush on in middle school just gave him her phone number.
the girl he had seen again once at the mall, who had then become the star of his wildest fantasies, thought he was hot.
you were right in front of him, he could feel your fingernails graze against his arm and he swore his jeans were starting to feel too tight.
you giggled at the bewildered expression on his face and leaned forward, onto your tiptoes, to kiss him on his cheek.
“i’ll see you around, stiles, yeah?” you said and stiles blinked, snapping out of his thoughts.
“what? you’re leaving?” he questioned, his heart sinking and a pouty frown appearing on his face.
you gave him a shrug. “text me.”
you started to walk away and stiles watched, his eyes drifting down your back, until you swiveled around.
“unless… you wanna walk me home?” you suggested, the smallest flirty smirk on your lips.
stiles didn’t hesitate to jump forwards, letting you grab onto his hand and lead him away from the party.
and maybe him walking you home would lead to you inviting him inside… of course, only to give him the house tour.
a/n: or whatever idk how i feel about this so i hope you like it
summary: falling for your gorgeous, 6'4, fire chief slash superhero roommate is bad enough- falling for the guy everyone else wants is its own kind of torture. you try to move on, but it's useless; clark kent has fought enough fires to know when one's about to ignite.
firefighter ! clark kent x roommate ! reader
themes: ...guys... hear me out. clark's still superman, but he's also a firefighter. mutual pining. omfg, he's a gentleman. you're a journalist at the planet, jimmy's your bff. so super proud of this one, enjoy!!
You never believed in the cliché of falling in love with your roommate. Ever. You used to read books, gossip columns, agony aunt submissions with an eye roll and a scoff; wondering how on earth people could be silly enough to fall in love with somebody they could never have.
But then, it happened to you.
At exactly 1:03am on a Saturday morning, after crashing through the front door; holding your too-high heels by the straps, rummaging around the fridge for something quick and delicious to eat. You’d tried to be quiet, you swear, but the drink had gone to your head and before you knew it, Clark appeared; leaning on the doorframe leading into his room.
Tousled dark hair, white shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms that always hung slightly too low. Grinning. Looking so incredibly attractive, so incredibly Clark, that you dropped the package of something microwavable you’d been holding.
It hit the floor with a dull thud as he walked towards you, picking it back up.
“Good night?” he’d smirked slightly, placing the packet back in the fridge. You frowned.
“I was gonna eat that.”
“You hate those things,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly, reaching into a cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pan, “Go on, sit down. Pancakes okay?”
“You don’t have to do that,” you told him, but you were already hoisting yourself up onto one of the stools.
“I know.” Clark had said back, quietly, back turned to you as he gathered everything he needed. “I want to.”
You didn’t question him. He asked you about your night, laughing at all the right points, remembering all the right things. Did your friend get that job she really wanted? Did the other one finally leave her cheating boyfriend? How did they all get home, are they safe? You know you could have called him instead of getting the subway, right? He has a car and it could do with a spin around.
At precisely 1:44am that very same night, you slotted into bed with a pounding heart, racing thoughts and the sickly, sweet realisation that you had officially fallen for the wholesome farm-boy propaganda that was, Clark Kent.
It all made sense to you then. You were going out more, drinking more, trying not to be around him more for a reason- and the reason was that.
Clark was having to stir up a fresh batch of pancake batter every weekend now, and sometimes he even had it ready for you when you stumbled through those doors; heels off, barefoot, humming the last tune you heard before hastily leaving the club.
He’d asked you about it once, why you had a sudden interest in all the partying. Your friend group hadn’t changed. Your job at The Daily Planet was going exceedingly well- promotions left, right and centre. Clark sat you down with a furrowed brow, tending to a cut on your knee that you’d earnt stumbling over someone’s bag at the bar, and asked, “You sure everything's okay?”
And you’d nodded, forcing a smile. Told him he was being silly; you were just making up for lost time, that was all; for all those nights spent bored and brain-dead cooped up inside, an unread book cracked at the spine on your lap.
Of course, you knew you couldn’t tell him the real reason you were out so much. The truth as to why whenever he’d get home from the station, still in his heavy work gear and dirtied tank top, you weren’t there to greet him anymore.
You had- agonisingly- become the very cliché you once despised. Only it was so much worse for you, because not only was Clark your roommate; he was also your best friend. Your superhuman, super kind and super sexy best friend, that was so noble and good that he had made saving people his entire life's work.
When he wasn’t thousands of feet in the sky, scanning for danger, he was on call at the Metropolis Fire Department; half his bunker gear hanging at his waist. When he wasn’t pushing collapsing buildings upright, he was wading through them in full uniform; voice assertive, tone steady, leading his crew with such confidence you often wondered how nobody had put two and two together yet.
So, yeah. You’d become one of those. A victim of Clark's, of Superman's; a stereotypical case study for the exact trope you used to find ridiculous.
You watched him now from the comfort of your couch, TV remote on your lap. He'd given it to you well over thirty minutes ago, but this was the first morning you'd spent together all week; regardless of how painful it was, you didn't want to waste it absent-mindedly flicking through channels you couldn't give less of a crap about. You owed him this, at least; your full, undivided attention.
"So," Clark started, pushing his glasses up with a soapy knuckle. You didn't know why he still wore them around you; it wasn't like they worked on you anymore. "How's work going?"
"You already asked me that,"
"Am I not allowed to ask you again?" he said rhetorically. You could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Humour me, please. I like hearing you talk."
For a second, your heart threatened to do that thing again; that weird, excruciating throb, a reaction to Clark doing or saying literally anything.
You shoved it to the back of your mind, fast.
"There's nothing more to say," your shrug was light, "I... had a bagel for lunch,"
"Riveting."
"Broke the printer, but fixed it again..."
"Proud of you."
"...And Lois helped me rewrite a article,"
"That your emotional friend?"
"No," you frowned, "That's Jimmy."
"Ah." Clark nodded, drying his hands on the lemon-printed tea towel beside him. He shifted to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with an easy curiosity. “And what article was Lois helping you with?”
Heat crept up your neck, and you ducked your gaze, suddenly fascinated with anything that wasn’t Clark’s eyes.
Because what began as a straightforward, neutral piece on the city’s social and political landscape had… evolved. First, into a decidedly not biased profile of Metropolis’s greatest protector- Clark’s caped counterpart, Superman.
And then, somehow, without your consent or control, it spiralled further. The boring filler article mutated into a full-blown, fifteen-thousand-word love letter to Superman’s legacy; the fit of his suit, the meaning of the symbol on his chest and- embarrassingly- whatever miracle hair product kept his curls in place.
Lois helped you with every unnecessary amendment; eyebrow permanently raised, pen cap chewed to pulp between her teeth. Someone's got a crush, she'd muttered, tapping the backspace button with a force that made you wince every time.
"Uh... it's just... a human interest piece," you lied, giving him an unconvincing smile. Thankfully, Clark didn't seem to notice.
"Well, when it gets front page, and your name's in the 'byline'," he smiled, fingers mimicking quotation marks at his correct use of journalist jargon, "I expect to be the very first person to read it. Before all of Metropolis. Deal?"
Your shoulders relaxed. A light laugh escaped your lips. He came over, holding out a massive pinky finger, waiting for yours to hook around it.
You did so, trying to ignore the red-hot temperature of your face that felt anything but appropriate.
"Deal."
Clark left not long after, flashing you a charming smile and making you promise- again- to call if you needed anything. Not that you ever would; he was always so busy at the station that you’d feel guilty letting the phone ring for more than a second.
You'd visited him before. Once. Three years ago, when you first moved in and saw that Clark had left his phone at home. You were about to leave, but the screen flashed with fifteen missed calls from a Ma and the guilt tugged at you hard enough that you detoured to the station on your way to brunch to hand it over.
You'd been wearing something tight and black with boots to match, the outfit a direct correlation to the boozy afternoon you were determined to have. At this point, Clark was nothing more than your new roommate; not even a friend yet, though he greeted you with freshly baked cookies and a lovely welcome card on your first official moving-in day.
And yet, he insisted on taking you to brunch. During work hours- his work hours. In the fire engine.
"Uh, Chief," one of the burly men- Jason, had said, scratching the nape of his neck as Clark opened the door for you and insisted you get in. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
"I'll be back in twenty, bud," Clark had said dismissively, though his voice still held that kind, steady tone. "Just down to the bar and back, okay? Don't want the lady walking alone."
It was 1pm. Daylight. On a very busy Saturday, mind you.
Yet you kept your mouth shut, legs dangling over the oversized seat of the engine, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves under all that buzz.
You both spent the ride talking, getting to know each other, as if you hadn't just moved the last of your things in the night before. You learnt that Clark was a Fire Chief, a life-long dream of his, and grew up in Kansas; he learnt that you were a reporter at The Daily Planet, fresh-faced and new, one day hoping to score an exclusive interview with someone exciting- someone like Superman.
He'd bitten his lip to keep from smiling. Months later, when he finally told you about his secret, you'd tried to swallow the embarrassment of swooning over him, to him, countless times before. He'd laughed, shook his head, nudged your shoulder and told you not to be silly. It was fine.
But it didn't feel fine. It felt intimate; knowing something like this about Clark. Flashes of him fighting whatever threat decided to grace the city that day made your heart do things it never had before, and the worst part was that he had no idea.
On the bright side, now you didn't worry so much when he ran into burning buildings. You knew he could take it, his biggest problem being restraint. It was the relentless space demons that invaded the earth every two weeks that got you.
"You should tell him," Jimmy said nonchalantly over the phone, and you envisioned him still in his bed; hair a mess, legs dangling off the side, no plans to move anytime soon to get his day off started.
You were all like that on your days away from the Planet. Overly-punctual and typically-structured Lois was probably still asleep, and it was almost lunchtime.
"I am not doing that,"
"You know that thing where you call me, ask me for advice, and don't take it?" he asked, "Yeah, maybe let's not do that anymore,"
You groaned, leaning your head back against the sofa. You hadn't moved since Clark left; you couldn't bring yourself to. "I'm sorry, I know, I need to shut up. I'm just..."
"In love. It's gross, I hate seeing you this way,"
"Wow. Thanks."
"I just think maybe you need a distraction. I keep telling you, I have this friend-"
You sighed, "Jimmy, I am not letting you set me up with an actor. They're the worst!"
"But Jack's nice-"
"Jimmy."
"You're no fun. When was the last time you even went on a date?"
"...Uh..."
"When was the last time Clark went on a date?"
"What?" you glared at nothing, "Why would you ask me that?"
"Answer the question."
You tried to remember. It was difficult; your days with Clark were all starting to merge into one and you couldn't really pinpoint when he'd last been out with a woman other than you- or if he even had since you moved in.
It definitely wasn't because of the lack of interest; everybody wanted Clark Kent. You weren’t clueless. He was a catch, and literally every citizen in Metropolis was well aware. The man was unfairly attractive, an actual gentleman, and spent his days protecting the city in more ways than one.
If Clark wasn’t being lured to fake emergencies so he could be eye candy at some bachelorette party, Superman was being thirst-tweeted under the hashtag #SuperDick. You couldn't win.
You thought, maybe he was just being considerate, refusing to bring a date home when he knew you'd be there just in case it made them- or even you- feel weird. Maybe he went to their places instead. Maybe, you cringed, not wanting to think about it but having no choice- he took them to the fire engine.
You gagged. Jimmy startled.
"What the-"
"Jimmy. I need to get over him."
"Atta girl," he yawned, the phone rustling to indicate movement on the other line, "Let's do this. Are you free tonight?"
You fiddled with the sleeves of your hoodie- Clark's, actually, he'd claimed it was too small for him now and looked better on you- and swallowed.
"Y-Yeah. I'm free."
"Great. So is Jack," you could hear his smug smirk over the phone, "you're gonna love him."
Nothing looked right. Your clothes felt foreign, and every lip combination you used to swear by now washed you out like you’d lined your mouth with grey pencil.
You were in the middle of re-applying your fifth different shade of lip gloss when you heard the front door open and close.
"Honey," Clark joked, the call-out his usual greeting whenever he could smell your perfume lingering in the hallway and knew you were home. "I'm ho-"
He stopped just short of your doorway, voice and walk clipped.
You made eye contact with him through the mirror you were leaning into, smile small as his eyebrows did a slight raise.
He looked good.
Really good.
You felt like slamming your head into the glass.
"Hey, you." you managed.
"You..." Clark blinked. For a second, he looked breathless, eyes scanning the way your dress clung to every curve of your body- just right. Paired with your most expensive pair of heels, an early birthday present to yourself that you'd bought just last month.
Clark knew; he loved the way they looked on you. He loved this combination specifically on you.
You'd made sure. If this date was a pre-cursor to any more, you wanted to market yourself just right. With hopes of it maybe- maybe- finally getting you over your heart-wrenching crush on your hunky roommate, who was currently looking at you in a way you didn't have time to decipher right now.
"...You look beautiful."
"As do you," you replied coolly, gesturing to the way the day's dirt clung onto the white tank top he always wore under his uniform. Somehow, some way, he made it work. He made it look sexy.
"No," Clark shook his head, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "Don't do that. Don't shrug it off,"
"I'm not doing anything," you pressed your lips together, the pigment filling every line. It wasn't perfect by any means- but it would have to do.
"Better not be. Because you look gorgeous," he said softly, allowing his eyes to hover over you once more before dropping them. You watched as he pushed himself off of the frame, turning back to make his way to the living room. "You girls heading out somewhere fancy? Someone's birthday?"
"Actually," you went to bite your lip, the nerves suddenly bubbling up now, but decided against it; your $35 gloss would never forgive you. "I've got a date."
You hadn't been looking where you were going. As soon as the words left your mouth, your body crashed into something strong; unmoving, something that had halted movement entirely.
You went colliding into the back of Clark. A gasp left your mouth and you wobbled slightly, using the wall to steady yourself.
"Clark!"
"You've got a date?"
He shot out a hand to steady you, but the glare on your face stayed. If he'd stopped any quicker, there would have been $2 worth of a lip print right on his tank.
"Yes. I do,"
"With who?"
Your shoulders lifted in a shrug, "This guy that Jimmy knows,"
"Name?"
"Jack?"
"Surname,"
"...Uh..."
"You don't even know his full name?"
"I-I'll ask him!"
"So what I'm hearing is, you don't know this man,"
"It's literally a first date."
"That could turn into a second, a third."
"People do it all the time, Clark," you said in exasperation, sliding past him to grab your bag and double check that you had everything. "It's a very normal thing for people to do. Blind dates,"
He ignored your comment, "What does he look like?" you stayed silent, and his eyes widened. "You don't even know what he looks like?"
"It's a blind date!" your voice went up a pitch. Clark's lips opened like he wanted to say something else, but pursed shut again.
He couldn't believe you. You could tell, his expression not subtle in the slightest.
What you couldn't quite grasp was why he cared so much. It was your day off, you were heading out for the night, your typical weekend routine- what did it matter if it wasn't with your friends, but with a date instead?
You let yourself believe it meant something deeper than what it was. Just for a second. Just while Clark was looking at you like this, like you'd hung the stars and exploded the moon all in the same breath.
"You'll be careful?" his gaze bore into you, softened now under the tension. You nodded quickly. "And you'll call me if anything happens? Anything. Even if you're just bored and don't know how to get out of it,"
You let out a nervous chuckle, but Clark wasn't laughing. You cleared your throat, "Yes, Clark. I'll call you if he's anything other than the perfect gentleman."
He held up a hand. Your heart melted at the sight of his pinky, "Promise me."
You hooked your own through out, a tiny little ring adorning your own. It looked tiny compared to his. "I promise you."
That's when the doorbell rang, and you found yourself frozen in place.
Clark had had the worst day of his entire life.
Six false alarms. Three of them, on complete opposite ends of the city; the others quite obvious jobs for the police. Guy kept blowing up his phone, accusing him of ignoring them, of not caring- when all he'd needed was Superman's vote on whether The Justice Gang was the official name or whether League would be a better fit like Terrific insisted.
And to top it all off? You. Getting all dolled up, his favourite shade of gloss adorning your lips, those heels that always made him linger too long on your legs filling his mind and corrupting his vision.
And none of it was even for him.
"Jack," your date had grinned, blue eyes identical to Clark's but lacking the shine when he looked at you. "Jack Castello, nice to meet you. I'll be sure to have her back before 10." he joked.
Clark shook his hand, squeezed a bit too hard- naturally. He watched as the other man winced but ultimately said nothing, and you left; without so much as a second glance back at him.
He leant against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. He'd been like that for a good hour now; just stood there, unmoving, gaze burning metaphorical holes in the floor. He was waiting, though he didn't know what for.
For you to come back? To realise that it was a mistake? To burst through the door, heels in your hand again, ready for another infamous round of pancakes, because you'd ditched the date and took a detour to find your friends' instead.
He swallowed. Wishful thinking.
Truthfully, Clark had no idea why he was so surprised- better yet, why he didn't see this coming.
You were barely ever home anymore. You rarely ever called him when you needed something, not like you used to, even though you knew he'd drop everything to get to you. You stopped putting your legs in his lap when you sat on the sofa together, and it didn't seem like you cared all that much whenever he was late to your move nights. Before, you'd huff, and he'd have to make it up to you with a bunch of your favourite snacks and the promise of doing better next time.
Sometimes, Clark would even be late on purpose. It gave him a reason to provide for you without all the confusion as to why.
He knew it wasn't sustainable. That lines were blurring between you both, black and white areas merging into grey, and that his true feelings could never come to light. You probably didn't feel the same. And he knew for a fact that he wouldn't survive that confession.
But for that period, for those months where it felt like you were both something; a unit that had everything but a label and locked lips, well... it had been the best time of his life.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking the glasses he'd put on, just for Jack, off. There was a knot in his shoulders he couldn't shake, and the apartment felt emptier somehow; weightless without you in it.
He wondered how it was going. You'd been out for a while now, definitely long enough to pass judgment on your date. Why hadn't you called him? Why hadn't you let him know how you were doing? You'd pinky-promised, for god's sake.
Clark's stomach lurched at the other possibility. What if you were actually having a great time- an amazing time? What if Jack had taken you to your favourite restaurant without knowing, and you'd lit up at the thought of that one pasta dish you loved because it had been a while since Clark picked it up for you- and what if right now, in this very instance, you were leaning forward, lips puckered, cleavage exposed, and what if he was looking at them? Clark would kill him, kill him dead, because how dare he, the nerve of that man.
Most importantly, what if right now, in this very moment in time, you'd already made up your mind- and Clark had unknowingly lost privileges he'd been so comfortable basking in up until this point?
He blinked the thought away, in turn allowing the red in his eyes to fade. The last thing he needed tonight was a hole in the kitchen counter.
After what felt like forever, Clark willed himself to move. He had a shower, ate something, drank enough coffee to wake him up. He didn't want to risk missing you when you came home; he wanted to know everything.
An hour passed. Then two. Then- not that Clark was counting- three and a half.
It was nearing four hours when he could finally feel your heartbeat coming up the stairs, could smell the sweet vanilla perfume you loved to wear before going out. He perked up on the sofa like a dog who'd just heard all of his favourite words in the same sentence.
Regardless, he kept his head down; book open on his lap, the words jumping off of the page. He tried to still his own heartbeat, tried not to imagine you stumbling in through the door with Jack holding your waist, kissing your neck, as you tugged him breathlessly towards your room-
"Hey," your voice snapped him out of his daydream, and his head shot up, eyes squinting in the light. He braced himself, ready for an uncontrolled gush on how well your date went and how you'd already set up another one.
Only, when he looked up, you were hovering in the hallway; smile small, eyes tired. The gloss on your lips untouched.
Sad.
Immediately, Clark was on his feet. He had no time to feel relief before he walked over, embracing you in such a crushing hug that for a split second, you struggled to breathe. He held you there for a bit, broad shoulders engulfing your entire body. You relaxed against him, arms snaking around his much bigger frame.
You were still in your heels; indicating that wherever Jack had taken you thankfully didn't involve a lot of standing.
Clark breathed you in. After a while, he murmured into your hair. "You okay?"
You didn't answer him right away. You just let your head fall onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking him in.
"Mhm."
"Did you..." he swallowed, thumb rubbing smoothly against your skin. "Did you have a good time?"
You paused. He felt the hesitation, silently urging you not to lie to him.
"Yes." you finally replied. And although your expression said otherwise, he knew you were telling the truth.
Clark tried to ignore the way his heart cracked, just a little.
Because at the end of the day, he didn't own you. He had no claim over you other than being your roommate, one of your closest friends; someone temporary to come home to until you found someone better to fill the space.
And that alone broke him.
Because this- you, him, in the apartment you both shared, your weekend breakfast traditions and nights spent watching something he never paid attention to, just to be close to each other- well, this was it for him.
It was enough.
He'd like it to be more, of course he did. A perfect world would be coming home to you, unable to wait until he was settled before loving you in the way he'd thought about all day. He wouldn't let you go. He'd kiss you on the sofa, on the counter, against the window- and he'd do more, too. In those places exactly.
But if it was between sitting in silence and getting to keep what you both had for a little longer, versus the latter of losing you to someone else completely; Clark knew which one he'd rather.
"Then why are you so upset?" he mumbled lowly, voice a grumble against you. You swallowed again, and he could practically see the cogs in your head turning.
"I'm not upset."
"Could have fooled me."
"It was just... different."
"Never thought you'd be sad over 'different'."
Your head didn’t lift from his chest, not right away.
But he felt it- your pulse hitching, your breath growing shallow. He could track every shift inside you, feel the weight of each one cleaving straight through him.
Clark forced a smile, even though you couldn't see it. "Was he... nice?" he asked softly, hoping the calm in his voice hid the edge in it.
You stiffened against him. Just barely, but he caught it.
"Yeah," you murmured. "He was. He was very nice."
Clark’s jaw flexed. Nice. Jack was very nice. Nice enough to take you out. Nice enough to make you laugh. Nice enough to give you that small, tired smile you walked in with.
Nice enough to not be him.
"A gentleman?"
You let out a light, almost non existant laugh. "I guess,"
"Hm."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your arms. The silence felt unbearable now; aching to be filled with talk, about your night and his.
"You don't look too sure,"
The confusion on your face stretched slowly, "W-What?"
You could sense the questions forming in him before he spoke, like they pushed at the air around you. His jaw clenched once, subtle but sharp, as if he were choosing his words carefully.
Or rather, choosing the ones he didn’t want to ask.
"Are you oka-"
“Did he pull your chair out?” Clark asked evenly then, knowing once he started, he'd barely be able to stop. “Open doors for you?”
You blinked, his tone change catching you off guard. “Clark-”
His words came out structured and steady, as if he'd rehearsed them thousands of times in his head before. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't bring himself to.
“Did he order for you?” his voice dipped even lower. “Did he pour your wine? The one you like?"
Your lips parted. “Why are you-?”
“Did he make you feel good?” the words were quiet, almost painfully so. And he hated himself for how much he needed the answer, because you were currently looking at him like he'd said something insane. "When you were there with him today- wherever you went. Did he make you feel like he should?" your breath stuttered in your chest.
He felt that, too.
You looked away, suddenly flustered. Clark's fingers flexed at his sides, a break from the harsh clench.
"Are you... are you seeing him again?"
“I don’t know yet,” you muttered, cheeks warming, brain a fog. “Maybe. Maybe I will, or- I don't know, Clark. Why does it even matter to you?”
That landed like a punch.
Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. He was drawn in, pulled in; helpless against the gravity that was only ever you.
You backed up a little, not out of fear but out of knowing exactly what would happen if he got too close: you'd suddenly forget how to breathe.
He followed through with it anyway.
Your heartbeat kicked up- sharp, loud, panicked. He wondered if it was the thoughts of Jack, or residual guilt for not calling him while you were out.
But for you, it was everything. Desire tangled in irritation, tangled in something you didn’t dare name after a full evening trying to get rid of it.
He swallowed, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second too long.
"Your heart," Clark murmured, the words brushing against your cheek like a touch. "I can hear it."
You froze.
"Is that…" his voice thickened. "Is that what it sounded like for him?"
Your eyes flashed.
"Clark," your voice broke, but your tone bordered on a warning. "Stop listening to my heart."
He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
"It’s all I listen to." he said then, pained.
A thick stillness wrapped around you both, thick with nerves, sick with heat.
Your lashes fluttered, breath hitching again. When Clark's hand brushed your wrist, barely there, he saw the slight twitch in your neck as you swallowed.
And God, he thought about it. About leaning in that last inch. About finally tasting the thing he’d been starving for since the day you moved in. About claiming something he’d spent years thinking about, dreaming of, chasing.
For a heartbeat, he swore you leaned in, too.
Your eyes flicked to his mouth, and that was almost enough. His forehead dipped closer to yours, a singular curl flopping forward, the world narrowing down to only the tiny space between you.
He didn’t step far, but he did move back. Just far enough that he couldn’t feel your breath anymore. His voice, when it finally came, was rough at the edges.
"You… you should call him," Clark whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "If you want another date."
You didn’t move. You just stared at him, breath caught, his words echoing in the space where his closeness had been a second ago. The air still felt warm from him, your pulse still thundering from how near he’d gotten- near enough to kiss you, near enough to ruin the very foundation you'd spent the past four hours trying to tear down.
Clark stepped back like the ground beneath him had given out, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, shoulders tense, disappearing into the dim apartment like he was running from something. His bedroom door shut quietly, but it might as well have slammed.
He pressed his back to the wood once it closed, breath shaking out of him, hands braced against his knees as the reality of it hit him all at once.
What the hell did he just do?
heyyyyyy...... did u like it :-) wrote half of this on tumblr and the other on word so that "" “” switch up is diabolical im so SORRY
it’s simple, really, if frat boys didn’t stare at girl’s chests while they’re trying to say something serious, they wouldn’t get punched. you’re standing on the porch at this frat party, you’re not even sure what house you’re at anymore. it’s been a long night and you’re too sober.
your friend is talking to some guy, his name starts with an s? maybe? she’s drunk and when she’s drunk she insists that people understand the things she’s explaining to them. and this guy? he’s staring at her tits while she explains the christian nationalism to domestic violence pipeline. she’s an insanely smart and well spoken political science major who will most likely win whatever election she decides to run in before her 30th birthday. you would’ve pulled her away from this dumb fuck she’s talking to already, but you hope some of her words get through his thick skull.
after the second time she requests that he ‘listen instead of staring at my tits’ you’re about to open your mouth to tell him off when a fist comes flying across his jaw. your mouth drops open as s-named guy (sebastian? doesn’t matter) drops to the ground. you watch him cradle his jaw before your head snaps and your eyes meet tall, impossibly broad, soft blue eyed, clark kent. your eyes are on his for just a moment before he looks back at the guy on the ground. ‘she asked you to listen twice. you’re being a pervert again,’ clark states. your eyes have trail down to his now bruised knuckles.
‘it’s almost 3, do you want me to drive you both home?’ clark’s eyes are on you again. your friend pipes up, ‘yeah, get me out of here.’ clark nods at her then meets your gaze again and asks ‘you?’.
your mind comes out of the fog it was in and you nod, ‘yeah, that would be great. i was supposed to drive. can i leave my car here?’
clark smiles softly, ‘of course.’ then leads you and your friend to a beat up old blue pickup truck. he opens the passenger door and you slide into the middle of the bench seat. your friend climbs in after you. she puts on her seatbelt and you realize you don’t have one. clark climbs into the driver’s seat, ‘sorry, my dad cut the seatbelt out of the middle seat a long time ago. is this-‘ he places his hand on your thigh furthest from him so his arm crosses your body, ‘is this alright?’ you feel your heartbeat between your legs but nod.
as the truck pulls out onto the road, you feel clark’s grip tighten ever so slightly on your thigh. you realize that your friend has fallen asleep about thirty seconds into the drive when you go to say something to her. you clear your throat and decide to make small talk, ‘we had that creative writing seminar together last semester, didn’t we?’
clark nods, ‘yeah, to be honest, i saw you and mandy,’ he gestures toward your sleeping friend with his head, ‘show up to the party and i remember her giving a lecture to one of my brothers about gun control and the myth of male loneliness last semester that was really interesting so i just kept an ear out.’
your heart sinks a little. maybe clark was interested in mandy. you don’t blame him at all, she’s beautiful and so, so intelligent. before you can start to wallow, clark speaks again, ‘and i really haven’t stopped thinking about you or that story you wrote about living in a painting. it changed something in me. your words made me think about art and life in just a completely new way. and i’m not just saying that because you’re insanely beautiful or to make a move on you or anything. not that i wouldn’t want to-‘ he cuts himself off, ‘anyway. yeah.’
you sit mostly in silence for the remainder of the drive until clark pulls up in your apartment parking lot, which is fairly empty for this time of night. mandy is still sleeping and there’s no chance you can get her upstairs to your apartment on your own. clark puts the truck in park and climbs out, walking to the passenger side and gingerly opening the door. he lifts mandy with minimal effort, cradling her sleeping form in his arms. you slip out of the truck and lead clark up to your apartment, unlocking the door. ‘do you want her on the couch or in her bed?’ he asks, his voice just above a whisper. ‘put her in my bed so i can monitor her tonight,’ you lead him into your bedroom and he sets mandy down, making sure she’s on her side. you pull your desk trash can up to the side of the bed, close to where mandy’s head rests. clark pulls the comforter over her, tucking her in ever so slightly.
clark waits for you in your living room while you make sure mandy’s comfortable then shut your bedroom door. ‘do you want some ice?’ you ask. clark looks puzzled. ‘for your hand,’ you remind him. he glances down at his knuckles and flexes them for a moment, ‘oh no, i’m okay.’ you nod, then take a step toward him. you remember him being handsome, but you’ve never seen him this close for this long before. his dark lashes frame bright blue eyes and his curls fall into his face just a little. his perfect pink lips look slightly raw, probably from nervous chewing. you can’t help yourself when you press your body against his and tilt your head up to kiss him. a sigh that sounds almost relieved escapes clark as he wraps his arms around your back and presses his mouth to yours.
your arms find their way around his neck and somehow, your feet leave the ground as clark stands to his full height, lifting you with ease. when you gasp, his tongue slips against yours, deepening the kiss. you feel how wet you are every time you move your legs. clark gets his hands under your thigh to wrap your leg around his hip. he plops down on your couch, bringing you with him, but you land surprisingly softly.
you get your other leg around him so you’re properly straddling him. you roll your hips down so the bulge in his pants meets your damp panties. clark groans and rolls his hips up to meet yours. now you’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, and he breaks the dirty kiss to oblige your request, stripping his shirt off. ‘oh, fuck,’ you moan softly as your hands meet his solid chest and shoulders. his middle has a little fat on it that makes you even wetter. his biceps flex as he pulls your hips down to continue the grind that’s making you want to soak your panties.
‘you need to fuck me,’ you whisper between wet kisses. ‘i don’t have any protection, just let me eat your pussy,’ clark replies. it’s so nonchalant that you have to bite your lip to keep a whimper in and your dignity intact. you nod, pressing another messy kiss to clark’s mouth and getting lost in it for a moment before he lays you out on your couch and starts making his way down your body. his mouth finds one of your nipples through your linen shirt, sucking, leaving a wet spot in his wake. he has you sit up slightly to peel the shirt off. you blush slightly as he takes his time raking his eyes over your bare chest.
he mouths at your nipples for a minute until you’re lifting your hips to try to get some contact between your legs. it’s clark’s turn to blush, ‘sorry, you’re just so beautiful. you’re so soft.’ you whine at that, spreading your legs even more as clark finally settles between them. he peels your panties down your legs and pushes your skirt up slightly before finally, finally getting his tongue on you.
he licks a hot stripe up your folds and moans into them before sucking gently on your clit. that makes your hands reach for his hair to keep him where he is longer. you rock your pelvis against his face desperately. ‘relax, baby, let me take care of you,’ clark hums, pressing a kiss into your thigh. he interlocks his hands over your tummy, keeping you firmly in place so he can start to really eat. you’ve never had a guy do this so eagerly and with such skill. it’s embarrassing how fast you’re coming. clark looks up at you from between your legs, his mouth wet, almost a pout on his bottom lip and asks the question that makes you fully and truly realize how fucked you are with this man. he asks, ‘can i keep going, please?’ and it sounds like it’s for him. like he wasn’t done. like he needs it.
of course you nod and his mouth is on your clit again while he has to hold you in place even tighter while you squirm from sensitivity. you’re tugging at his curls which makes him moan into your folds, sending vibrations to your clit. you’re so, so fucked.
you see him almost every night after that, but you don’t even get your hand on his dick or see it for two and a half weeks. in fact, you’re wondering if it’s small the way he’s begging to finger you and eat you out and the way he lets you get caught up in dry humping while you’re making out. it’s not until one of his frat brothers walks in on you on top of clark, begging to suck his cock, that he gives in. only after the whole house has ridiculed him and said something like ‘come on, man, let the girl suck you off at least,’ does he drop his pants for you. you’re ecstatic to see it’s not small at it, it’s fucking huge. so big, in fact, that it takes clark making you come on his fingers and twenty minutes of him sliding in as slow as he can to get him fully inside of you. the little bottle of lube clark bought for you does it’s part too.
he fucks you through another orgasm then pulls out and comes on your soft tummy. he licks you clean and eats you out again before pulling you into his arms and whispering about how good and loud you were. you blush deeply and despite how shaky your limbs are, you manage you reach up and smack his chest gently. you don’t fucking care how many of his brothers just heard you. all you care about is the fact that clark just fucked you so well and will probably beg to take you to breakfast in the morning and pay before you can even get your wallet out, like he has been for two and a half weeks.
maybe you could fall in love with him, but you push that thought out of your mind, calling it a symptom of being cockdrunk.
⭒ ❪ ⩇⩇:⩇⩇ ❫ ﹕you and clark are—barely—keeping your relationship quiet at the daily planet… until a new intern decides to test clark’s patience.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 boyfriend!clark x f!reader. clark is down bad for you. heavy makeout. not really smut, but clark ruts his hips against you and sucks your tit. jimmy and lois are menaces. clark breaks things because of jealousy. perry is secretly a fan of the couple ノ 3,464 words
₍^. .^₎⟆ ﹕i swear i try to stay away from pink, but i just can't, that's my colour fr!!! also, suggestions for clark are openn!! request whatever you want!! (as long as is not dark content)
you whimpered into clark’s mouth when his big hands squeezed your ass beneath your skirt, kneading like he’d been waiting all day for this.
“clark—” your palms pressed against his chest in a weak protest, but he only growled low in his throat, pulling you flush against him. his teeth tugged your lip before his tongue swept in, hot and desperate, and you melted right where he wanted you.
who would’ve thought this sweet, stuttering farm boy would be such a filthy freak?
“just a little more—” he rasped, lifting you up and pinning you to the wall like you weighed nothing. his mouth licking down your throat. “no one’s gonna catch us here… i checked.”
your fingers twisted into his hair, pulling, but it only made him hungrier.
“thought you said subtle—” your voice cracked into a whimper as he bit the soft spot at your neck. “clark—”
“i tried, i swear, but you… walk in looking like that—” his hips rutted against yours, the thick bulge in his slacks grinding right where you ached. “i c-can’t—” he silenced himself by crushing his mouth back onto yours, tongue greedy, kiss wet and messy.
and god help you—you let him. because he was clark. so unbearably sweet, so worshipful, so hopelessly obsessed with you.
he’s so sweet, how can you resist?
and he never knew when to stop. the way he stared across the bullpen like a kicked puppy, begging to be the object of your attention instead of those boring articles.
until jimmy smacked him with a “you’re so obvious, man.”
or when he brings your favourite drink, but then he’s forced to set one for jimmy and lois too, or else it’d be suspicious.
the way he begged for “just lunch” when he really meant two hours of being handsy and kissy before superman had to fly.
and now this—sneaking you into the supply room on lunch break because he can’t keep his love to himself—his words, not yours.
your blouse was open, bra tugged down, and his mouth was latched to your breast like a starving man. his tongue flicked your nipple, teeth grazing, sucking until your back arched and you bit down on a gasp. spit and heat smeared your skin where he worshiped you, groaning like the taste of you alone was enough to destroy him.
and it is.
“c-clark, you’re drooling—”
“don’t care.” his voice was wrecked, muffled against your chest as he sucked harder, thumb rolling your other nipple until you whimpered.
so lost in each other neither of you heard the footsteps—until the door banged open.
with a blur of super speed, clark fixed your bra, buttoned you back up, and set you on the ground, standing guiltily just as jimmy walked in with a stack of boxes.
but the damage was done. your hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised, lipstick smeared on clark’s mouth, his jaw, your chest. and worst of all, the straining and very visible outline in his pants, which clark slapped both hands over like that would hide anything.
jimmy just stared, jaw slack. then he sighed like the weight of the world was on him. “see, here’s the thing. i love rooting for my friends getting laid. i do. but we’re supposed to be lying low, not lying on top of each other.”
“it’s not—”
“we’re not lying—” you and clark chorused, equally panicked.
“oh yeah? it’s just ‘not telling the truth,’ huh?”
“exactly!” you squeaked, cheeks blazing.
jimmy handed clark a tissue. “you’ve got lipstick all over your chest, big guy.” then one for you. “and you, miss, lois is gonna kill someone if you’re not back at her desk in…” he checked his watch. “one and a half minutes. tops.”
“thanks, jimmy!” you hugged him quickly before fleeing the room—only stopping for one last stolen kiss on clark’s lips.
when you were gone, clark and jimmy locked eyes.
jimmy pointed blatantly at his crotch. “you’d better sort that out before anyone notices. try thinking about that old lady who tried to kiss you yesterday—the one who stuck her tongue all the way out.”
“darn it…” clark groaned, head thunking back against the shelf. equal parts despair over losing you too soon—and the cursed image jimmy just burned into his brain.
lois was perched on your desk, reviewing an article with you. clark stood farther than he needed to—though you swore he could be closer—but after the supply room incident at lunch (the one jimmy told lois about), both of them decided it was safer to keep you two apart for a while.
“something feels off…” you murmured, arms crossed as you frowned at the words crowding your screen.
“it does,” lois agreed, leaning in. “it feels like it’s missing something… like a chunk of information isn’t there.”
the two of you kept rereading the article, trying to catch what was bugging you so much—until perry’s voice rang through the bullpen.
“and here’s my most competent team!” he declared, wearing a smile so wide you had to blink at it. perry white, smiling? that was… new.
he called out your name, then added, “lois lane.”
two young adults stepped forward, bright and eager.
right. interns.
“this is clark kent, another reporter, and james olsen, photographer.” perry’s tone shifted flat again, far less enthusiastic than when he introduced you and lois. both men exchanged a glance at the difference.
the girl seemed shy, but her eyes lit up as soon as lois sarted talking. she was already scribbling in her notebook, jotting down everything she thought might matter.
the boy, on the other hand, only had eyes for you. he didn’t once glance at lois or ask a single question about what she was saying, instead, his attention stayed pinned to you, sharp enough that even lois and perry caught it.
“and just to make it clear,” perry added, voice firm again, “at the daily planet, especially in your positions—since we don’t take on many interns—dating is not allowed.”
both nodded obediently, though the boy’s gaze didn’t waver. if anything, he looked like the rule had nothing to do with him.
once perry and the interns moved along for the newsroom tour, lois swiveled back toward you, perching even more comfortably on the edge of your desk. there was a spark in her eye that immediately put you on edge.
“seems like my best friend here is a little too hot to handle, huh?” she teased, smirk tugging at her lips.
before you could even open your mouth, jimmy’s head appeared right beside yours—like he had a built-in radar for mockery. “what are we talking about now?” he asked, far too innocently.
“yeah, especially because your best friend is also my girlfriend,” clark interrupted as he stepped in, brows knitting in that awkwardly serious way of his. he planted himself right next to jimmy, tall frame casting a shadow over both of you like he had to stake some sort of claim.
you let out a groan, dragging your hands over your face. subtlety was officially dead.
“i know that, kent.” lois nearly rolled her eyes, leaning back with her arms crossed. “what i’m saying is the little intern boy couldn’t keep his eyes off your girlfriend.”
you didn’t need to lift your head to picture it—the tiny downturn of clark’s mouth, the faint crease in his brow, the beginnings of a pout tugging at his lips.
jimmy, of course, pounced. “charming young boys now?” he teased, elbowing clark’s side. “and here i thought your type was shy, tall, silly farm men.”
“isn’t it?” clark turned toward you instantly, voice a little rushed, like he genuinely needed you to confirm.
“yes!” you blurted, louder than intended, cheeks heating. quickly, you dropped your voice, leaning in. “very specifically, my type is clark kent.”
that was all it took—his whole expression broke into a proud, goofy grin, dimples showing, eyes shining like you’d handed him the world.
“and i’m not charming no young boy,” you added firmly, pointing at both men. “so maybe the peanut gallery should get back to work?”
neither of them moved.
“now,” you tried again, voice firmer.
jimmy groaned dramatically. “booo. no fun at all.” he shuffled back to his desk, still laughing.
clark, on the other hand, lingered, his grin softening into something shy. he leaned in slightly, like he was debating stealing a quick kiss—already glancing around to make sure no one was watching—when jimmy’s voice called out again from across the bullpen.
“kent, quit mooning and move it!”
clark startled, muttering a quick “coming!” before retreating, his ears turning a shade of pink you adored.
you couldn’t help it—the fond smile broke free, watching your big, silly man shuffle back to his desk like a scolded puppy.
“and what about the—” lois started, leaning in again, mischief returning full force.
“lois. you too.”
she gasped, hand over her chest like you’d insulted her honor. “but i am working!” she said, feigning innocence.
you sighed, defeated, while she kept grinning like a cat who’d cornered the canary, clearly not done with her teasing.
the next day, the interns were ready to go. penny, as you’d learned, was a complete sweetheart. sharp, serious, already reminding you of a younger lois with the way she devoured assignments and scribbled notes like her life depended on it.
the boy, though… still nameless to you, was another story entirely. no matter how hard he tried to play it cool, he was an absolute mess. tripping over his own feet, mixing up files, misreading headlines, fumbling with jimmy’s camera during “training.” every single mistake had one root cause: he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
lois had noticed. you had noticed. everyone had noticed.
but right now—two weeks later—you were nose-deep in polishing an article, fixing formatting with laser focus, when a hesitant voice pulled you out calling your name.
you blinked up. there he was, leaning over your desk, nearly toppling your pen holder in the process. pens clattered, and he fumbled to fix it. “sorry—sorry, my bad.”
“no problem,” you said, tidying it again with a flick of your fingers, gently shooing him back to a safer distance. “and yes, that’s me. how can i help you…?”
“tyler.” he grinned, sticking out a hand like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“…tyler.” you shook it politely.
he seemed to gather his courage in one shaky breath. “i just—uh, I didn’t think there’d be such pretty reporters here. not every day you meet… someone like you.” the words tumbled out in a rush, and though he tried to hold himself upright, his ears gave him away, bright red.
you glanced at your watch—almost lunch break. clark had promised to take you out today.
“uh… thank you?” you said, voice distracted, already mentally halfway to clark.
from across the bullpen, a trio of spectators watched.
jimmy leaned forward in his chair like he was ringside at a boxing match. “twenty bucks says he’s about to ask her out.”
lois smirked. “make it forty. and double down—he’s embarrassing himself while he does it.”
“that’s not fair,” clark muttered tightly beside them.
and then, snap. the pen in his hand cracked clean in two, ink bleeding into his palm.
lois whipped her head toward him, eyebrows raised. “clark. really?”
jimmy stifled a laugh. “guess somebody’s not a betting man.”
lois sighed. “that’s the third pen this week, clark.”
jimmy snorted. “remember the stapler? what about the mug?”
“or the chair,” lois added.
clark’s ears went pink. “th-that chair was already broken.”
“mmhmm,” jimmy hummed, grinning wide. “you really oughta work on your poker face, big guy. one more crush-fit like that and perry’s gonna make you pay for office supplies.”
clark tried to hide his ruined pen under a stack of papers, glaring at jimmy. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
lois smirked, eyes flicking back to you laughing politely at tyler. “sure you don’t.”
and tyler was practically glued to your side. every time you shifted in your chair, he leaned in closer; every time you moved across the bullpen, he trailed after you like a lost puppy. polite smiles kept slipping onto your face, but inside you were counting the seconds until you could escape for lunch with clark.
the worst part? clark hadn’t gotten even a minute alone with you all morning—or in every other. twice he’d tried to check in, only for tyler to appear with a question about headlines. once he’d hovered by your desk with that little folded note he sometimes left you, but tyler had wedged himself in, asking about fonts of all things.
“wow, you type so fast,” tyler said now, propping an elbow on your desk and leaning much too close while you scrolled through your article. “what’s your secret?”
you kept your smile tight. “practice.”
from across the room, you could feel clark’s stare. the weight of it landed square on tyler’s shoulder blades, as if clark were trying to bore holes straight through him. lois, watching like it was her afternoon entertainment, propped her chin in her hand.
“he’s about to crack,” she murmured to jimmy.
jimmy grinned, stage-whispering, “two bucks says the pen doesn’t survive.”
but instead of breaking something this time, clark pushed back from his desk. his chair squeaked across the floor as he stood, straightened his tie with a decisive tug, and strode across the bullpen with that long, farm-boy determination of his.
“sweeth—” he said your name, clearing his throat. voice polite but firmer than usual, a steady note beneath it. “didn’t we have plans?”
your head whipped up, blinking at him. “oh, right—”
but tyler jumped in, oblivious. “plans? oh, hey, I was just about to invite her to lunch, too—”
clark leaned down, resting a broad hand on the back of your chair. his frame blocked half your desk, his shoulders filling your vision. his smile was polite, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes—those impossible blue eyes—were locked on tyler with barely veiled warning.
“no need,” clark said smoothly. “she already has a lunch date.”
“with who?” tyler blinked, still not getting it.
clark didn’t hesitate. “me.”
the bullpen went dead quiet. you swore you heard jimmy wheeze trying to stifle his laughter. lois pressed her lips together, eyes sparkling with barely hidden glee.
tyler froze, face heating scarlet. “o-oh. right. cool. um. have fun, then.” he shuffled backwards, nearly tripping on the leg of a chair before disappearing in a hurry.
lois clapped once, slow and mocking. “smooth, farm boy. real smooth.”
jimmy leaned back in his chair, grinning like a menace. “hey, at least he didn’t break the coffee pot this time.”
you buried your face in your hand, torn between laughter and embarrassment. clark, meanwhile, looked sheepish as he helped you gather your notes. “couldn’t wait five more minutes, huh?” you teased under your breath.
his ears burned pink, but his smile was soft and unashamed. “five more minutes was too long.”
tyler hadn’t left your side all morning. he hovered over your desk, tossing you half-baked leads, leaning far too close when he talked, and laughing just a little too loud. it was getting impossible. so impossible that even penny was bothered. every time she wanted to ask you something, he was there.
you tried to focus on your notes, tried to give polite answers, but across the bullpen, clark hadn’t touched his papers in twenty minutes, eyes flicking up every time tyler bent too far into your space.
when tyler called you “partner” for the third time, like you were already a team, clark finally pushed back his chair with a scrape.
“actually,” clark said, his voice calm but firm, “she already has a partner.”
tyler froze. “what? i thought—”
clark crossed the floor in a few strides, standing behind your chair. one hand braced gently on the backrest, the other resting on the desk near your notebook, like a quiet shield. his gaze lowered to yours, soft and protective. “we’ve been working together for a while now,” he said, voice just above a murmur. “long enough that… it’s more than work.”
your heart fluttered as his fingers brushed yours—just enough to make it clear that he wasn’t letting anyone else near you.
tyler’s ears burned red. “i… uh… need to—archives!” he muttered, and vanished without another word.
and then—
“kent.” and, in the same stern voice, he called your name.
both of you turned. perry stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowl in place but eyes twinkling faintly.
clark’s hand slipped from the back of your chair. you followed him into perry’s office, feeling slightly like schoolkids caught passing notes.
“so,” perry said, leaning on his desk, voice gruff but warm, “how long has this been going on?”
you stared at each other. the cogs in your head turning, trying to make up anything before clark. you know he can’t lie to save his life.
“seven months, sir,” clark admitted and you sighed, kicking yourself mentally. “we didn’t want it to—”
“i don’t care if it’s seven months or seven years. if you two are dating, married, or planning a honeymoon on mars.” perry cut in, though a tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “as long as you still bring me stories that sell papers, it’s none of my business. just… don’t start smooching in front of the interns again, you hear me?”
you exhaled in relief. clark blinked, looking half-stunned, half-proud.
perry waved a hand. “now get outta here before i start regretting being soft. but—don’t think i didn’t notice. you two? cute as hell.”
back in the bullpen, clark’s hand brushed yours again—quick, subtle, protective, and warm—and you couldn’t help but grin.
back at your desk, the newsroom buzzed around you, but clark never really left your side. not hovering, exactly—just… there. his chair slid a little closer than necessary whenever you shifted, his elbow brushing yours when he reached for a pen, fingers lingering just a moment too long. small, innocent things—except tyler noticed them all.
the intern tried, bless him, but every time he leaned in with a question, clark was already there. standing, leaning, reaching, smiling at you in that soft, “don’t-you-dare-look-anywhere-else” way. the boy stammered, took a step back, then muttered something about checking the archives and vanished for a solid ten minutes.
lois and jimmy, of course, had front-row seats.
“ohhh, he’s really claiming her now,” lois whispered, eyes gleaming.
jimmy snorted. “look at that hand. the way it just… hovers. classic kent.”
you bit back a laugh, glancing at clark. his cheeks were faintly pink, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth was all confidence—protective confidence.
and every time tyler tried to step in, clark would casually adjust something near you, brush your papers back into place, or drop a pen into your hand with that same soft, lingering touch, like a quiet reminder: she’s mine.
even though it was subtle, tyler got the message loud and clear. by the end of the month, he was shuffling around the bullpen, giving you polite nods from a safe distance, occasionally glancing at clark like he’d accidentally walked into a fortress he couldn’t breach.
you leaned over, whispering to clark, “you don’t have to be so obvious.”
he smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from your shoulder. “i think it’s working.”
“it’s terrifying,” you whispered back, laughing.
“good,” he said softly, eyes warm, gaze never leaving yours. “i like terrifying them a little.” clark teased before tilting your chin up to press your lips together.
and just like that, the days slipped by—clark quietly, unshakably protective, tyler kept in check, and you couldn’t stop smiling at the subtle, constant attention that made even the busiest newsroom feel like your own little bubble.
summary: diving head first into your experiment, clark amps up the romance factor but it's a surprise and awkward encounter that gets the journalistic juices flowing.
warnings: smutty fluff (but will be smutty in next parts), discussions of sex and past relationships, the journalistic foreplay is crazy, big dick clark bc of course, alcohol consumptions (clark can get drunk in this bc yes i forgot that part of his lore), wet dreams
a/n: based on one of my fav smallville plots which is Lois seeing a therapist bc she keeps having sex dreams about Clark <3 sorry for the delay i got crazy writer's block
All this talk about sex soaked your bones like syrup and trickled through your limbs like treacle, your body waking up aching and needy. Heaviness and tightness tugged at you all morning as you readied yourself for work, no memory of your salacious dream and no release to relieve you.
God, you couldn’t even remember the last time you felt worked up, never mind this badly.
That sticky sluggishness followed you all morning, your tight muscles and coiled stomach pleading for some attention, some relief, with every step and stretch.
So much so that Clark beat you to work that morning.
Sluggish footsteps clacked across the marble floors of the bullpen, a yawn crawling up your throat as the clock ticked closer to 9am. The scent of coffee wafted through the air, strong enough to power your aching legs to your desk where a bouquet of pink lilies, an iced coffee and a breakfast bagel lay side-by-side.
Sitting in your desk chair, you stared at the gifts in front of you. Cat approached you with an armful of copier paper and a smug grin, "Somebody has a secret admirer."
Rolling your eyes, you ignored her and dug into your breakfast, a meal you would normally forgo, but she perched on the edge of your desk and continued, "Seriously, who is it? Did they leave a note?"
There was a note attached to the flowers and you scrambled to grab it before Cat could, almost choking on your mouthful of bagel. Cat stared at you with narrow eyes, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
"You totally have a boyfriend," She giggled at you, delicately playing with the lilies' petals before strutting away, casting a teasing glance over her shoulder, "You might as well tell me. I'll find out soon enough!"
Over the partitions between your desk, Clark hunched over his keyboard, a shy smile at his lips as he nudged his glasses up his nose.
"Very cute," You drawled, sipping your iced coffee and rearranging your desk to fit the bouquet of lilies beside your computer, "Now Cat thinks I have a secret boyfriend."
"Sorry," Clark ducked his head, his deep hushed tone undetectable under the loud hustle of bustle of The Daily Planet bullpen.
"I know that we agreed to emotionally stimulate our romance needs for the article but... the line, Clark," You reminded him with a playful sternness, "I appreciate the gesture. This is very sweet, but the flowers are a little too.. real."
"I realised that a little too late," Clark gave a tight-lipped smile, "Sorry. I didn't realise how much I... like romance. Now I've been given the green light to step back into that side of myself for this article... it's like the doors were blown wide open."
"It's not a bad thing, Clark. Someday there's going to be a very lucky lady on the other end of all of this, but right now we have an article to focus on," You pulled yourself closer to your desk and clicked your pen, "We've got the list thing in progress. We need to work on the body of the article."
It was easier said than done.
After almost a year of renouncing men and relationships, your mind was totally blank to all things lovey dovey, all things sex (bar the dream from last night, which was forgotten as soon as your eyelids fluttered open). A fact that you were mortified to admit.
The text cursor blinked at you, your word document still blank after an entire morning of failed brainstorming and ruminating over your previous articles. Clark was torn between helping Lois with a source and coming up with ideas for your joint article.
But with almost six years of singleness between you, the ideas were sparse... basically non-existent.
"I'm heading for lunch," Clark stopped by your desk, swinging his satchel onto his shoulder, the mass of leather smacking his stomach with a clumsy thud.
"Was that an invite?" You narrowed your eyes at him, the cap of your pen nibbled between your teeth as you spun your chair towards him.
"Yeah- Yes, but if you have other plans-" Clark raised his brows as his fidgeting hands adjusted his tie, "I was thinking the cafe on the corner."
Grabbing your purse, you jumped to your feet and nudged him towards the doors, "I'm messing with you, Smallville. I'm starving."
"Lois finished her article so she won't need my help anymore. I'm all yours for the rest of the day," Clark said softly, pressing the button to call the elevator. A small crowd gathered around you, awaiting one of the three elevators' arrival.
As soon as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, the crowd of staff shuffled inside as you responded, "You're like the last pair of Manolos on the discount rack."
In the cramped elevator, Clark gazed down at you with furrowed brows, only a few inches between your chests in the crowded space. His towering stature, despite hunching in on himself, dwarfed you, knocking on the door of your primal instincts in a way that you did not want to acknowledge.
The dream. Oh god.
An orange sky hung overhead, the sun dipping below the rolling hills of Kansas farmland, and the loud buzz of cicadas echoed across the Kent farm.. or what your subconscious mind pieced together from pictures and anecdotes of his home.
Although the man in your dream wasn’t exactly the Clark Kent you knew - he wore no glasses and his clothes were akin to the style your ex-boyfriend used to wear - the baby blue eyes and pouty lips were undoubtedly your unconscious mind’s reconstruction, even idealisation, of the man.
Black curls hung over his forehead as he towered over you, his chin almost to his chest to meet your eyes. A raw fire blazed in his gaze, his large working man’s hands grabbed your hips and pulled you flush against him.
Ripping his shirt over his head, this lumberjack/farm boy figment of your imagination captured your lips in a deep kiss, wrapping his thick arms around you.
Glimpses of last night’s subconscious flashed in your mind as you craned your neck to look up at Clark, the real Clark with his dorky glasses hanging from the bridge of his nose and his plump lips twisted into a tight-lipped quirk.
Averting your eyes and turning away from him, you cleared your throat and plastered on a smile, "Everybody wants you." The elevator doors opened to the lobby and Clark smiled to himself, following you out.
Club sandwiches and french fries crowded the table, leaving barely enough room for a notepad each. The cafe was alive with lunchtime customers, a buzz of people in stiff shirts and leather shoes.
"Did you see Superman stopped the Bexler building from burning to the ground last night?" You made conversation between bites of your sandwich. Clark was on his second serving of lunch, sinking enough food to fuel a high school football team.
"Mm. I need to draft my next article on him. Set up an interview too," Clark nodded, glancing up from his plate to smile at you, however his lips immediately sank and his eyes dropped as he stuttered, "I- uh- I need to make note- um note of the train and uh the fire in the Bexler building."
"Clark, are you-" Your brows knitted, your eyes roaming over his tight shoulders and almost pained expression.
"Clark?" A woman’s voice interrupted you, her voice light and bouncy as it floated over your shoulder, her presence growing closer as Clark lifted his eyes higher and higher until she was standing beside your table.
Long brunette waves hung over her shoulder and hazel doe-eyes shone brightly in the soft sunlight. She was small in stature, but then again everyone is small when Clark is in the room.
"I thought it was you," She smiled brightly, her gloved hands folded in front of her, "I barely recognised you in something other than flannel."
"Hi," Clark almost whispered, carefully putting his fork down and wiping his hands on his napkin, "I- What are you doing here?" Ever the gentleman, Clark stood in the presence of a lady, smoothing his shirt and straightening his tie, "I thought you moved to Edge City."
"I'm here for work. Just for a few days to meet with a client then I'm heading back," She answered with a saccharine sweet smile, like sunshine embodied, as she turned to you, "I'm Lana. Lang."
With a polite smile, you introduced yourself, your journalistic curiosity itched to play twenty questions, "It's great to meet you. How do you two know each other?"
Clark's eyes widened momentarily before neutralising, but the tips of his ears burned red.
"Oh, we dated, years ago. When we were in high school," Lana swatted her hand with a little chuckle and Clark added with a tight jaw, "And college."
A shudder tickled at your spine as Lana’s jaw set and her eyes bore into Clark. The familiar but long-lost exchange between their eyes alone reminded you of the one time you bumped into Jamie after the break-up, stilted and uncomfortable.
A stiff tension bubbled between the three of you, a layer of frost beneath the casual pleasantries. After the elevator revelation and this, you wished you could retract that accepted invite to lunch.
Adjusting her purse on her shoulder, Lana gave a weak laugh, "Maybe I should go. My lunch break is almost over."
"No it's-" Clark winced, reaching out to stop her before diverting his hands into his pockets, "It's fine. Sorry. It's nice to see you."
"You too. I've seen your articles. Superman, huh?" Lana attempted to fill the silence, raising her brows in question, the noise of the cafe doing its best to drown out the awkwardness.
"The one and only," Clark chuckled, scuffing his shoe before you interjected, unable to sit through this stilted conversation between exes any longer, "Clark's stuck with me this week. I don't think the gossip column was his first choice but Superman can wait, we have lonely housewives and stagnant relationships to revive."
"I thought I recognised your name!" Lana grinned, her eyes widening a little as she pointed a finger at you, "I saw the Met Morning talk about your work. I love your column! Real eye-opening stuff."
"Thanks. My next article will have a guest in the byline" You joked, plates of food and empty notebooks sat on your table, "And not just crumbs and coffee stains."
"I look forward to reading it," Lana smiled, before pursuing her lips and nodding her head, "I'll leave you to your lunch. I have to head back. It was nice to meet you, and it was good to see you, Clark."
Exchanging goodbyes was a weight off your lungs, even more so for Clark who dropped into his chair and took a deep breath as soon as Lana pushed through the cafe doors.
"Jesus, talk about frosty," You raised your eyebrows, wiping your fingers on your napkin. Clark piled up his cutlery and plates, tucking his notepad back into his bag.
"We should head back. Lunch is almost over," Clark glanced at his watch for a split second then signalled for the cheque. Failing to mask your surprise, you checked the time and sat back in your chair.
Clark looped his finger around his collar before loosening his tie and unfastening the top button of his shirt.
She must have done a real number on him.
Sticking to his earlier promises, Clark paid the bill and cemented his commitment to the article, his effortless chivalry sparking something inside of you. Maybe this article might pan out.
Clark was quiet on the walk back to the office and you decided not to push it, contently walking side-by-side as your mind whirred with ideas.
Unfortunately Clark was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, briefly conversing with you about the content of the body of the article.
Packing away your things, you leaned against the partition between your desks and Clark jerked his head towards you, his glasses jostling down his nose, “Dinner tonight? My place again? We can get takeout?”
Maybe after last night’s episode, it was stupid to invite Clark over again but the weird mixture of sexual repression and bonding with the man had obviously distorted in your mind and the slip wouldn’t happen again now that your conscious mind knew about it.
Clark nodded and righted his glasses, “Sure, yeah. I can cook though. I’m not the biggest fan of eating out.”
"Don't tell a girl that, Clark, she’ll never see you again," You teased in an attempt to get so much as a flustered blush from the man, but he gave a tight-lipped smile and turned back to his work.
Melancholy over past relationships was not going to finish this article… on second thought, it could be fuel to his already admitted long-lost fire.
Shaking your head, you softly rubbed your palm across his broad shoulder, "Don’t beat yourself up, Smallville. Come over at 7." With a small wave, you grabbed your flowers and headed home.
Sweat dripped from your skin and the ends of your baby hairs as your rolled-up Pilates mat bounced against your hip, the strap digging into your aching shoulder.
Clark was waiting at your door when you stepped out of your apartment building elevator and, unlike last night, he wore sweatpants and a Met Meteors sweatshirt, his curls matted against his skin with what you presumed was sweat as it hadn't rained in days,
"Hey," Clark greeted with a warm smile, a bag of groceries in one hand and his gym bag over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he unloaded everything you were carrying onto his own back, "I texted you about dinner when I was at the gym but obviously you were in your class so I made an educated guess."
Your keys jingled as you unlocked your front door, guiding Clark into the kitchen, "I'm happy with whatever. Are you sure you're okay to cook?"
"Of course, I love to cook. My ma would be real disappointed if I offered to cook for a lady and then rescinded the offer at the very last minute," Clark unloaded the bag of groceries onto the counter, his slight Kansas accent twanging on certain syllables.
"A lady, hm?" You raised a brow at him, grabbing two bottles of water from the refrigerator and placing one beside him. Clark furrowed his brows and so you continued, "Okay great, well make yourself at home. Do you mind if I go shower? You can hop in after if you want."
"Oh sure," Clark's voice spiked an octave as his eyes crinkled and his dimples popped, "Thanks. Dinner will be about an hour anyway.”
He turned back to the ingredients laid on the counter, hunting the cupboards for whatever he needed, and you took that as your cue to go, thanking the heavens above that his mood had drastically improved.
Steam fogged the shower, your body relaxing under the hot stream and your muscles thanking you for finally relieving them of the last night’s neglected ache. Vanilla and coconut scrubs and hair care washed away the day, a soft contented sigh drifting past your lips.
Until you were halfway through rinsing your body wash off when the water pressure dropped to sporadic spurts of cold, colder, icy water.
Fucking building manager still hadn’t fixed the boiler.
Like a stone in your shoe, you stepped out of the shower and towelled off, moisturising your skin and redressing. A brief panic stole the breath from your lungs as you considered what to wear.
When Clark was over last night, you wore some old pyjamas but that was a few glasses of wine in and you were past the point of caring. Staring into your drawer, a pair of superman panties and a big t-shirt pleaded at you before you tucked them away like a secret and rifled for a presentable, more appropriate lounge set.
The kitchen buzzed with home comforts. Clark waltzed around the counters, piling up everything he used by the sink, as a pot simmered on the stove.
“Smells amazing,” You sniffed the air, practically floating over to the hob as your stomach grumbled at the tease of a good meal, “You seriously didn’t need to do this.”
Clark’s gaze stopped on you, looking over your matching, nicer sweats with parted lips before quickly snapping his gaze to the bubbling pot.
“It’s going to take another twenty minutes to simmer,” Clark gave a shy smile, stirring the pot and sampling the soup with a teaspoon before adding a sprig of something fresh.
“You’re welcome to use the shower,” You offered as your wet hair soaked your top, “But the boiler is still on the landlord’s ‘to fix’ list so you might get a cold surprise in there.”
“You really don’t mind?” Clark raised an eyebrow at you, twisting his upper body in your direction as he continued to stir the pot.
“Of course not,” You shook your head, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms, “Plus, you kinda smell like a beef factory right now.”
Laughter crinkled at the corners of Clark’s eyes as he placed the lid on the pot and wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, smearing his curls in all manner of direction.
With the instruction to stir every few minutes, Clark disappeared into your bathroom and the sounds of the shower echoed through the apartment. In his absence, you switched the TV on and scattered your work paraphernalia across the coffee table.
“Hey, please can you grab my gym bag?” Clark called from the bathroom, the pitter patter of the shower now replaced by the heavy whir of the extractor fan.
Rounding the coffee table, you grabbed his gym bag and headed towards the bathroom. With a soft knock, you announced your presence and the door opened slightly to reveal Clark’s thankful grin, his glasses fogged up as droplets of water cascaded down his bare shoulder and arm.
“Thanks,” He widened the gap ever so slightly more to fit his gym bag through and grinned at you, “I won’t be long.” With a smile of your own, you stepped back and, in the bathroom mirror’s reflection, caught a glimpse of Clark’s broad back, the muscles rippling as he moved, before the door closed.
Glued to the spot, you swallowed thickly as the flashes of your dream showcased in your mind like an old-fashioned projector film. Flapping your hands, you willed yourself back to the kitchen and mindlessly stared into the bubbling pot as you stirred slowly, willing away every thought about Clark.
It was like last night’s dream opened Pandora’s box and now it couldn’t be shut. Poor Clark was just a pawn in the game of your willpower vs your want, the repressed desire squashed by your break up now unleashed.
“Almost ready?” Clark approached you as he rubbed his curls with a towel, jolting you from your reverie. A bulky sweater and sweatpants hung from his large frame.
“Jesus, for a giant, you have a way of sneaking up on a girl,” You exhaled sharply, your hand on your chest as your heart hammered.
“Sorry,” Clark flashed a grin, his dimples popping, “I’ll send out a signal next time.” He let his towel hang from his shoulders as he stepped beside you and lifted a teaspoon of his soup to your lips.
A wide grin pulled at his cheeks when you swallowed the mouthful with a pleased groan, “That’s really good. Dish it up, Chef Kent.”
Sitting at your dining table, you and Clark ate his mother’s soup recipe, sharing slices of warmed tiger bread.
“It must be good. Nobody has said anything since we sat down,” Clark dipped another slice of tiger bread into his soup.
“I’m gonna need your mother’s phone number,” You laughed, covering your mouthful of soupy bread with your hand, “And thank the culinary gods for blessing you with a gift.”
A soft giggle escaped Clark and a soft pink warmed the apples of his cheeks. Eating in silence, the pair of you practically licked the bowl clean before clearing the table.
With rubber gloves up to his elbows, Clark scrubbed at the pot he used for the soup, hot water and suds splashing around the kitchen sink.
“Can I ask you something?” You stacked the used dishes and cutlery in the dishwasher, switching it on and coming to Clark’s side with a dish towel, “Why have you been single for so long?”
“Oh,” Clark blinked at you before turning back to the soapy pot, “I- I don’t know. I guess I haven’t been looking and it just sort of happened.”
“Yeah I get that,” You lifted yourself onto the counter top, towel-drying the washed crockery on the draining board, “What about Cat? Jimmy told me you went on a date with her.”
The tips of Clark’s ears burned red and he pushed his glasses up his nose with his forearm, his gloved hands dripping with soap. His lips parted as he fumbled for a response, “She’s great, don’t get me wrong, and she’s fun but we’re not compatible romantically. We agreed to be friends.”
“Thing is, she never mentioned it so if I had to guess, you were maybe the instigator of that,” You narrowed your eyes at him with a playful smirk, “C’mon what happened? I’m a nosey bitch.”
Clearing his throat, Clark’s eyes darted to your lips and bypassed the profanity. He turned back to the now clean pot and continued scrubbing, his shoulders hunching, “She kissed me and- and I realised I wasn’t ready. And I couldn’t be ready for her, if that makes sense.”
After the interaction with his ex-girlfriend Lana, you knew exactly what he meant, what he struggled to verbalise.
“If you’re gonna get back out there, it’s got to be the right person otherwise opening your heart again isn't worth it,” You nodded and met his eyes, softening as you exchanged a look of understanding, “You’re preaching to the choir, Kent.”
“At least we have our careers and... work out classes to channel our frustrations,” Clark gave a lopsided grin before unplugging the sink and removing the wet rubber gloves. You gave a weak laugh, jumping down from the counter.
A soft silence fell between you as Clark wiped the counters and you put the dried pot back in the cupboard. In silence, you grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses, following Clark to the sofa.
“Can I ask you about Lana?" You glanced across at him as he watched you pour two glasses of wine and hand one to him, "We don't have to, but it might help the article."
Sipping his wine with a thick gulp, Clark adjusted the pillow behind his back, fidgeting his hips against the plush leather, "It will... At least I think it will."
"Seriously Clark, we don't have to," You chanced a gentle hand on his upper arm as you settled into the couch cushions. He softly squeezed your hand under his and shook his head, his curls bouncing.
"I never really talked about it, to anyone. Bottled it up. I think that's why it hit me so hard today," Clark admitted, swallowing a mouthful of wine and rubbing the skin at the collar of his shirt.
"When Jamie and I broke up, I started seeing a therapist," You exhaled a scoff, raising your glass to your lips, "It still hurt to see him but I think talking helped in the long run."
Nodding to himself, Clark's head was dipped and his gaze was trained on his wooly socks, scuffing against the leg of the coffee table.
He gulped down another mouthful of wine, wincing softly, "We- We started dating in high school and were on-and-off through college. I was obsessed with her for years and I still can't believe she wanted to be my girlfriend. My only other girlfriend was two years later and I realised I wasn't ready for a normal relationship."
"What do you mean 'normal relationship'?" You asked, tucking your legs underneath you and melting into the back of the sofa. A sitcom rerun played on the TV screen, a blur of colour and canned laughter behind your conversation.
"I put her on a pedestal and, when we were in college and our lives started to drift, I was willing to follow her wherever. I couldn't believe that she loved me, chose me," Clark scoffed and rubbed his neck, "Like a lost puppy."
"You were in love. That's normal," You shrugged, topping up your glasses of wine. Smiling to yourself when Clark mindlessly tilted his glass towards you for a refill.
"She could do no wrong. Still can't. That's not normal," Clark shook his head, "I met Lori in college but we started dating after we graduated. That was a normal relationship. Something wasn't working and we would talk about it, not just bottle it up and wait for it to bubble over."
"I know where you're coming from. It's the first love curse," You balanced your wine glass between your thighs and unfolded a blanket over your lap, stretching it out for Clark if he chose to accept it, "You're so blinded by love that nothing pops that perfect bubble. Same with my first boyfriend. He cheated on me and I still stayed with him because I thought that love was enough to forgive him."
Pulling the blanket over his lap, Clark sipped his wine and melted into the sofa, his large frame overwhelming the cushions, "I saw her today and I was 14 again. But we could never trust each other. Lori saw right through me. She knew I found it hard to trust her and she knew why. It wasn't fair on her."
Clark rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses to his forehead before righting them on the bridge of his nose. With your glass to your lips, you looked at him as he continued talking, really looked at him.
His blue eyes were slightly green under the LED lights of the television and his eyelids drooped with every sip of his wine. A slick shine coated his plump pink lips after every mouthful, his tongue peaking out to swipe away the remnants of wine. Large hands curled around the wine glass in his lap, absentmindedly thumbing at the fuzzy blanket.
Normally Clark would be Clark to you, but that dream fucked up your mental filter and the sight of his thick fingers circling the rim of the glass pulled a soft gasp from you.
"I just wish I had someone that I could be open with, totally honest about the relationship. What works, what doesn't work. I want to trust my partner and I want her to trust me," Clark carded his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp before smoothing down the jostled curls.
"Add it to the list," You grabbed a notebook from the coffee table and tossed it into his lap, "Sounds like that would massively spice up your relationship."
"But- But it's not sexual..?" Clark's brows knitted, settling the notebook in his lap and sliding the pen from the spiral bind.
"Doesn't have to be," There was a slight slur in your words as you topped up your glasses again, "But I think if you fully trusted your partner, there would be no barriers and imagine sex without barriers.. just open, honest, raw passion."
Clark's parted lips quivered as a heavy breath exhaled from his chest, blinking at you with wine-flush cheeks. A satisfied smirk tugged at your lips, "I'm right, aren't I?"
A smile cracked from his stupor and Clark breathed a soft laugh, nodding and adding it to his list. The page was split down the middle with your list on the left and Clark's on the right. After adding his second bullet point, he sheepishly continued onto the third.
So far his read:
1. lie back and not worry about anything (hurting partner or overwhelming her) / take a backseat and let partner take charge
2. have open and honest conversations about the relationship
3. hot/cold sensations
Narrowing your eyes at him, you raised your glass to your lips before abandoning it on the coffee table, "Elaborate." Clark flushed as a bubbly laugh tumbled from him, the pen in his hand tapping against the notebook, "You remember what I told you yesterday?"
"The big dick thing?" You giggled with a slight slur, feeling the wine fizzing through your synapses, "Clark, a woman is never going to forget that kind of confession."
His lips pursed and his dimples popped as he fought his laughter and wide grin, "Yes, that. It's sort of meant that I've had to find... work arounds."
Resting your head against your fist, you listened intently and leaned against the back of the sofa.
"I've always got to factor in preparation time," Clark giggled softly as his face grew redder and redder, thankfully the wine kept his lips loose, "But a lot of time, that's not viable. So I have had a lot of cold showers over the years and I've become... Pavlov'ed- "
He broke his sentence with a laugh before continuing, scrubbing his neck, "When you said the shower might turn cold, I panicked so bad. What kind of man would I be if I came out of your bathroom aroused over cold water."
Laughter tumbled from your lips at his confession. Clark tugged the blanket over his head and curled into the sofa, his own deep laughter muffled under the fleece.
"Okay okay, your turn," Clark emerged from the blanket and finished his glass of wine before placing it on the coffee table, his face and neck blotched with spots of red flush, "Have you thought of anymore?"
You nodded and took the notebook from his lap, searching for the pen in the folds of the blanket before clinking the end, "Don't let this go to your head but I love princess treatment. The flowers, the breakfast, the coffee... all there, just waiting for me. It's like a physical representation of I appreciate you."
"Really? I thought you were annoyed because Cat thinks you have a secret boyfriend," Clark lifted his brows and adjusted his hips, widening his legs as he sunk into the cushions.
"I was but not really," You bit your lip and giggled, "You picked my favourite flowers too. And you got my breakfast order perfect. That was the perfect way to get me into that mindset."
Clark hummed, his eyes trailing over you as he pushed his glasses up his nose.
"I also thought about what we talked about yesterday. You know I made that joke about Superman and Batman?" You glanced over at him and Clark's eyes jumped up to yours, nodding softly, "I tried to convince Jamie to do role-play when we were together but he never went for this one.”
“Yeah?” Clark nibbled at his bottom lip, tapping his fingers against the back of the sofa, almost reaching your shoulders.
“Don’t... Don’t laugh,” You huffed a laugh, raising a finger between you, “I asked him to dress up as Superman.”
“Super- Superman?!” Clark choked, his brows jumping to his hairline.
Shoving your face into a cushion, you nodded and giggled, “We did the whole French maid thing, the plumber and leaky shower, the pool boy and lonely housewife, but that’s where he drew the line. I still have the costume.”
Clark’s lips parted, trembling to form words but no sound came out. An untapped fantasy seared into his mind.
“You’re judging me so hard right now,” You tossed the throw pillow at him and Clark fumbled to catch it, holding it in his lap.
“I’m not, I swear! I just didn’t expect you to say that,” Clark protested, shaking his head, “Why- Why do you still have it?”
“I always hoped he’d agree to it but it’s been collecting dust since we split,” You shrugged, and a soft smirk graced your lips, “Who knows.. it might get used eventually.”
“Can I see it?” The question tumbled from his lips before he could restrain himself. Curiosity got the better of him.
Raising a brow at him, you paused as a smile lifted at your cheeks, “Journalistic curiosity or plain nosiness?”
“Bit of both,” Clark blushed, tentatively following you as you retreated to your bedroom. Reaching into the top of your wardrobe, you raised onto your tiptoes and pried a large box from the tower of shoeboxes with the tips of your fingers.
The traces of alcohol swimming in your mind unsettled your balance and warmth soaked your back as Clark leaned over you, effortlessly grabbing the box and avoiding the potential Jenga collapse of tumbling boxes above you.
A flush crawled up your skin at the gesture, pulling your shirt down where it had risen and turning to Clark. His boyish smile beamed down at you as he handed you the box, "Didn't want an avalanche."
"Thanks," You stole a glance at his tall frame and wide shoulders, before dropping the box to your bed. A rush of nervousness licked up your spine at the looming male presence behind you and the box of forgotten shit.
A smattering of dust lay across the black glossy exterior, expelling into the air as you pulled the lid loose. Inside lay a treasure trove of your long-forgotten sex stuff; a pair of fluffy handcuffs, sex dice, the remnants of a sexy nurse costume, the odd vibrator and cock ring, and the topical Superman costume.
Most of the items in the box were gag gifts, silly and amusing presents from birthday parties and bachelorette parties. The Superman costume, however, was one you purchased yourself.
Clark cleared his throat, his face a worrying shade of red at the sight of your collection. Averted eyes darted around your bedroom as his hands dove into his pockets.
"Sorry," You laughed, grabbing the costume and shutting the lid on everything else, "Lots of stupid gifts. Have I ever told you about the time I met Jamie's parents for the first time?"
Clark shook his head, adjusting his collar as the redness subsided into an adorable shade of pink at the apples of his cheeks.
"Let's just say I blindly reached into the cupboard and thirty minutes later, my in-laws were eating penis pasta," You rambled on, cringing at your attempt to lighten the thick tension, "Courtesy of a girls trip to Miami."
"Is that it?" Clark thankfully changed the subject, pointing to the thick plastic parcel, hints of blue peeking out of the sliced opening. Humming a response, you pulled away the plastic and unfurled the costume.
A laugh punched from Clark and the painful sting of insecurity spread across your skin, prickling like goosebumps. You glanced at the costume as Clark took it from you and held it up against himself.
Maybe this is why Jamie refused to participate. The costume looked like an oversized child's onesie, nothing sexy or sleek about it. The fuzzy material and bulky zip were something out of a 1960s sci-fi show.
Amusement took over you, your body racked with laughter.
"I can see what was so enticing," Clark grinned and oh god, was Clark Kent teasing you?
"Shut up! Maybe I was a little blindsided," You shoved him playfully and snatched the costume, screwing it into a ball and tossing it aside, "But the fantasy remains the same. Cat did a poll and almost 1/2 of the Metropolis population that voted would totally do Superman."
Clark went all shy again, his dimples deepening as he pursed his lips, "Really? I didn't know people felt that way."
"I know he's your friend so this is totally between us, but yeah! He's hot, ripped and like the nicest guy ever," You rolled your eyes; of course, men wouldn't see his appeal.
"Steve says nice guys always finish last," Clark muttered with a crease between his brows, his fists buried deep in his pockets.
A loud scoff came from you, "Steve is a thrice-divorced bonehead. Don't take advice from him. You could totally work the geeky, gentle giant thing you've got going on."
Clark furrowed his brows at you, his lips parting wordlessly. Playfully rolling your eyes, you punched his upper arm, trying to be friendly despite the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you.
His bicep dwarfed your palm as you teased, "Single for five years? I know you've got your qualms but c'mon Clark, you could at least have some fun."
"Women don't usually stick around for the guy that's scared of fun," Clark mumbled, hunched against your dresser and scratching his cheek. He gave a tight-lipped smile at your knitted brows.
"So what you've got a big dick! You're not gonna kill someone, Clark," You scoffed loudly, tucking away the costume into the box.
Clark choked on his inhale, a fresh blush crawling up his neck, "Darn it, I should've kept my mouth shut." His coyness was adorable, the sudden fidgeting and twitching under your gaze.
“Look I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you but Clark if it’s as big as you’re making out, you should be proud,” You shrugged, shifting the boxes in the top of your wardrobe to make space, “Few men are blessed with that kind of gift.”
Clark flushed, tugging at his sweater as if the heat of his skin was melting it into his flesh. How on God’s green earth did the conversation become about his dick?
Taking the box from your hands, Clark manoeuvred the wardrobe jenga and slotted the sex box back into place, his sweater rising and exposing his toned mid-riff.
“I think the biggest I’ve ever seen was like 6 inches or something,” You continued, absentmindedly watching him as he tugged his sweater over his happy trail.
Clark was just so easy to talk to and you were a nosy bitch that likes to gossip. The whole night was spent bonding and this was all for the article, you reasoned.
“Are you- Are you trying to ask how.. big I am?” Clark stuttered with fast blinks. His fingers fidgeted against your dresser.
"No! Oh my god no!" You whipped towards him with wide eyes and Clark visibly deflated with relief, his shoulders and chest dropping with a deep exhale, "It's late. I think- I think I should go to bed. Too much wine."
Backing out of your bedroom, Clark gave a tight-lipped smile, smoothing his hair at the nape of his neck, "Good idea. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait Clark," You followed after him, sighing at the mess you made, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I think- This is how me and Cat talk, and Lois. Nothing is off-limits. I know you're a guy, obviously, but I'm sorry, crossed a line there."
"It's okay. I got a little too comfortable there too," Clark waved a hand, tossing the blanket over the back of the sofa and retrieving his phone from the crevices of the sofa cushions.
"I don't- You don't need to run off. It's late. You've had a few glasses of wine," You kept your distance from him, shuffling into the kitchen to grab some waters, "You can't drive home. Take the couch for the night."
Clark hesitated before twisting towards you, "Are you sure?" Stepping closer to him, you offered him the water, which he gladly took.
"Yeah. I can't make you walk home this late. Not after teasing you about your- Never mind, that's an off-limits topic," You chuckled and thankfully Clark smiled back. It was confirmation enough that everything was fine between the two of you.
With a hoard of blankets and pillows, Clark accepted your offer and took the sofa for the night, bidding you a sheepish goodnight as you closed your bedroom door.
Maybe the line was a little blurred but that was just the wine. The experiment between the two of you would still work and the article would be submitted on Friday.
Despite the ache in your stomach, you pushed every thought about Clark to the deep caverns of your mind, tucked away never to be seen again.
That night you drifted off to sleep with the contented thought that you and Clark were becoming friends, no longer confined to the work bullpen.
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