summary. you, sam, and dean get hit with a curse and the only way out is through release.
pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f ) x sam winchester
wordcount. 1924 genre. smut
warnings. explicit sexual content, threesome, curse-induced arousal, oral sex (m+f receiving), penetrative sex (vaginal), rough sex, hair-pulling, spanking, choking, multiple orgasms, come play, dirty talk, sweat/body fluids, exhaustion, consensual adult situations
notes. since i had no clue kinktober was a thing, i didn't really prepare for it, so i thought---why not make nice on the very last day!!
The witch’s dying breath had been a hiss of Latin and the snap of a glass vial.
Three drops of black liquid hit the air.
One on Dean’s neck.
One on Sam’s wrist.
One on your tongue.
Now the motel room burns.
The AC wheezes like a dying lung, but the heat is inside your skin, coiling low, pulsing between your legs. Your pulse is a drumline; your cunt throbs with every heartbeat.
Across the room, Dean paces, shirt half-unbuttoned, sweat shining on his collarbones. Sam leans against the dresser, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight you hear the grind of teeth.
“Feels like I swallowed a fucking furnace,” Dean growls. His voice is raw, scraped thin.
Sam’s laugh is broken. “Try having it crawl up your spine and set up camp in your dick.”
You press thighs together, but the friction only makes it worse. The curse is a living thing, licking at your nerves, whispering take, take, take.
“Antidote?” you manage.
“She said it burns out through… release. Multiple.” Sam says, flat.
Dean stops pacing. His eyes—green gone feral—lock on you. “You in, sweetheart?”
You’re already peeling off your tank top. “Clock’s ticking.”
Dean climbs onto the bed like a predator, knees sinking into the sagging mattress, springs groaning under his weight. He shoves your shorts down your thighs, seams rasping, buttons popping. Your panties follow—cheap lace torn at the hip with a sharp rip that echoes in the humid air. He spreads you wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, leaving crescent bruises.
“Fuck, look at this pretty pussy,” he rasps, voice shredded, breath hot against your slick folds. “Already dripping, shining like a goddamn invitation.”
His mouth descends—no teasing, no mercy. Tongue flattens against your clit, licks a brutal stripe upward, tasting salt and musk and the faint metallic tang of the curse. You cry out, hips bucking; the headboard knocks the wall with a dull thud. He pins you down, one calloused hand splayed across your stomach, fingers spanning navel to ribs, the other sliding two thick fingers inside you without warning. They curl, scissoring, knuckles dragging against your walls with wet, obscene sounds.
You fist the sheets—cheap polyester, rough under your palms—back arching, spine bowing off the bed. “Dean—fuck—”
He growls against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight to your core, a low rumble that makes your toes curl. Sucks your clit hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles. His stubble scrapes your inner thighs, raw and burning, sweat and your own slick smearing across his chin.
Across the room, Sam’s jeans are pooled at his ankles, belt buckle clinking against the dresser’s edge. He’s braced one hand on the wood, the other wrapped tight around his cock—long, flushed, veins standing out under his grip. He strokes slow and deliberate, thumb swiping over the head, smearing precome in glossy trails that catch the dim light. His eyes—dark, blown—lock on you, pupils swallowing color. Every time Dean’s tongue flicks your clit, Sam’s fist tightens, a low groan rumbling in his chest, sweat beading at his temple and sliding down his jaw.
“See that, Sammy?” Dean lifts his head, lips swollen and shiny with you, chin dripping. “She’s fucking gushing.”
Sam’s breath hitches, a sharp inhale that flares his nostrils. “Keep going.” His voice cracks, raw with need.
Dean dives back in, tongue spearing inside you alongside his fingers, nose buried in your clit. The room smells of sex and sweat and the faint ozone of the curse, thick enough to taste. You’re close—coiled tight, thighs trembling, muscles quivering under his grip.
“Sammy,” you gasp, voice wrecked, throat raw. “Get over here—now.”
Sam stumbles forward, cock bobbing, precome stringing from the tip to his fingers. He kneels by your head, fist still moving, knuckles brushing your cheek. You replace his hand with your mouth—swallow him deep, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing the underside. He groans, hips jerking, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair, tugging just enough to sting.
Dean’s fingers slip free with a slick schlick, and the sudden emptiness makes you whine around Sam’s cock. Dean’s laugh is dark, filthy, vibrating against your inner thigh. “Greedy little thing. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m about to wreck this cunt.”
He rises to his knees, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, a bead of precome trembling at the slit. He fists himself once, twice, spreading the slick, then lines up. One brutal thrust and he’s buried to the hilt, balls slapping your ass. The stretch burns, perfect, full. You moan around Sam, the vibration making Sam’s hips jerk forward, cock nudging the back of your throat.
“Fuck—fuck—” Sam’s voice cracks, raw and desperate. His fingers tighten in your hair, tugging hard enough to sting, guiding your head in a slow, filthy rhythm. “Take it deeper, baby. Yeah, just like that—shit, your mouth’s so fucking hot.”
Dean sets a punishing pace—hips snapping, cock dragging against your walls, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady thud-thud-thud. “Look at you,” he snarls, hand wrapping your throat, squeezing just enough to blur vision, thumb pressing the hollow beneath your jaw. “Choking on Sammy’s dick while I split you open. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
You can’t answer—mouth stuffed, throat working, spit dripping down your chin in thick ropes. Sam’s cock pulses against your tongue, salty and bitter, precome smearing across your lips. You hollow your cheeks, suck harder, tongue swirling the underside, tracing the thick vein that throbs with every heartbeat. Sam’s thighs tremble, muscles jumping under your palms.
“Jesus—gonna come down your throat if you keep that up,” Sam groans, hips stuttering. “Fuck, look at you—eyes watering, lips stretched around me. So fucking pretty.”
Dean’s thrusts turn erratic, hips grinding deep, cock dragging against that spot that makes your toes curl. His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, circling vicious. “Come on it,” he growls. “Milk my cock while you swallow Sammy’s load.”
The curse screams, a living fire under your skin. You come hard—walls spasming around Dean, clit pulsing under his thumb, vision whiting out. The orgasm rips through you, violent, shattering. You scream around Sam, the vibration making him curse, hips jerking forward.
“Fuck—now—” Sam’s warning is choked. He comes with a roar, hot spurts flooding your mouth, salty and thick. You swallow greedily, throat working, some dripping down your chin to mix with the sweat and tears.
Dean doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, hips snapping, cock dragging against your oversensitive walls. “That’s it,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Take it—take every fucking inch. Gonna fill this pussy up, mark you inside out.”
Sam pulls out, cock slick and shining, a string of come connecting your lips to his tip. He collapses beside you, chest heaving, fingers brushing your cheek. “Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You’re incredible.”
Dean’s close—hips stuttering, breath ragged. He leans down, teeth sinking into your shoulder, muffling his groan as he comes, hot and pulsing, flooding your cunt. You clench around him, milking every drop, the curse still simmering, demanding more.
He pulls out slow, come dripping down your thighs, mixing with your own slick. The room smells of sex and sweat and the faint ozone of the curse, thick enough to taste.
Sam’s already hard again, cock twitching against his stomach. Dean’s hand slides between your legs, fingers scooping up the mess, smearing it across your clit. “Round two,” he growls. “We’re not done till this curse is gone.”
Dean’s mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and desperate. His hands fist your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, swallowing your moans.
Behind you, Sam’s heat radiates. His cock—hard again, slick with his own release—nudges your thigh. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back from Dean with a sharp tug that makes you gasp into the kiss. “On your knees,” he growls, voice raw, peak desire shredding his control.
You scramble to all fours, palms sinking into the damp sheets, ass up. Sam’s hand cracks across your cheek—sharp, stinging—the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Fuck, look at that,” he rasps, spanking again, harder, skin blooming red.
Sam lines up, one hand gripping your hip, the other still fisting your hair. He slams in—one brutal thrust, balls-deep, stretching your oversensitive cunt. You scream, the burn exquisite, walls clenching around his girth.
“Take it,” Sam snarls, hips snapping, cock dragging against every nerve. Another spank—crack—your ass jiggles, heat flaring.
Dean kneels in front, cock bobbing, smearing precome across your lips. You’re lost in it—Sam’s relentless pounding, the sting of his hands, the curse screaming for more.
Sam’s thrusts turn savage—hips slamming, cock pistoning deep, balls slapping your clit with every wet smack. His hand cracks across your ass again—sharp, searing—red handprints blooming like brands, skin tingling under the sting. “Gonna fill this pussy,” he snarls, voice shredded, breath hot against your spine. “Gonna mark you so deep you feel me for days.”
Dean kneels in front, cock flushed dark, veins pulsing, a bead of precome trembling at the slit, catching the dim light. You open wide, tongue out, tasting salt and musk. He feeds himself in—slow at first, then deeper, hitting the back of your throat with a slick gluck. Spit drips in thick ropes, mixing with precome, smearing across your chin, pooling on the sheets. “Suck it, baby,” he growls, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair, tugging hard enough to burn. “Swallow every fucking drop.”
Sam’s pace falters—hips stuttering, cock swelling inside you, stretching your walls to the limit. “Fuck—” He comes with a roar, hot spurts flooding your cunt, pulsing thick and endless, the warmth spreading deep. The sensation rips your own orgasm through you—walls spasming, clit throbbing against his pelvis, vision whiting out with sparks. You scream around Dean, the vibration making him curse, hips jerking.
Dean’s close—hips jerking, cock twitching against your tongue, salty and bitter. “Open—fuck—open—” He pulls out just enough, comes in thick ropes across your tongue, lips, chin, the heat splattering your skin. You swallow greedily, throat working, the taste coating your mouth; the rest drips down your neck, mixing with sweat and tears, cooling sticky against your collarbone.
They don’t stop.
Hours blur—positions shifting, bodies slick with sweat that smells of salt and sex and the curse’s fading ozone. Sam takes your ass next, the burn exquisite, his fingers digging into your hips, leaving bruises. Dean fucks your mouth, cock slick with your spit, the headboard creaking in rhythm. Then Dean flips you, fucks you missionary, his stubble scraping your jaw, while Sam feeds you his cock, precome smearing your lips. Orgasms crash one after another—your cunt clenching, ass pulsing, throat raw from screaming—the curse burning out in waves of come and sweat, the air thick enough to choke on.
Finally, it ebbs.
The room reeks of sex, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of spent magic, sheets ruined with damp patches and come stains. You collapse between them, head on Dean’s stomach, his skin hot and slick under your cheek, rising and falling with heavy breaths. His fingers lazily trace your spine, calluses catching on your skin. Your legs drape over Sam’s lap, his hand resting warm and heavy on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles.
“Think it’s gone,” you murmur, voice hoarse, throat raw, exhaustion pulling you under like a tide.
Dean chuckles, low and sated, the sound rumbling under your ear. “If not, we’ll go again.”
The curse is ash. You’re wrecked, marked, theirs.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ
pairing 𑣿 dean winchester x reader
summary 𑣿 dean climbs through your window and you sneak out with him.
content 𑣿 bsf dean, amusement park, first kiss, 2000s vibes if you squint
wc 𑣿 2.8k
a/n : beginner writer
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ໒꒱
you shut the bedroom door behind you carefully, not daring to slam it, although the frustration surging through your body screamed for you to do it. living in this ticking time bomb of a household, something as simple as closing the door a little harder than necessary was enough to provoke your mother's anger. considering that she had just took out her bad mood on you and denied your request for a night out, you did not dare to test her temper further. it was unfair, but you were used to it.
the mattress dipped when you climbed into it with a disappointed huff. you pulled the comforter over your head and fished for your phone under the piles of pillows. the device grazed your fingers and you flipped it on, the tiny screen illuminating the small cocoon you have created under the blankets. your thumbs flied over the dainty buttons, clicking harder than necessary, shooting a text to your best friend who was most probably waiting for you at your usual meetup spot.
"can't make it today. mom was in a bad mood. said no."
you waited for his reply but it never came. you wouldn't be surprised if he was disappointed. especially, since you only get to meet about two times a year, three if you were lucky. dean travels all over the country following his dad's job, never staying more than two weeks in a place. you and dean first met when he was passing through your town and transferred to your school temporarily. a friendship bloomed between you two but he left in just two weeks with the promise of staying in touch. he kept the promise for three years, grasping at the free time he gets in the midst of helping his dad's job to come see you.
the last time you saw each other was six months ago and you missed him like crazy. you missed the way being with him made your worries vanish. you missed laughing with him till your belly aches, yet it was impossible to stop. you missed talking to him about everything and nothing because he's the only one who makes you feel like you're worth listening to. when dean's reply still didn't come, you shot another text saying "i am so sorry" and tossed your phone on your nightstand.
you crawled to the edge of the bed, leaning towards the DVD shelf nearby to look for a movie that will distract you from your bad mood. you decided on "Scream" and inserted the disc on the DVD player and clicked play. you laid back against the pillow as the opening scene filled the screen.
the movie was about thirty minutes in, when there was a sudden series of knocks on your window — a rhythmic thud, thud, thud. your heart jumped, beating wildly in your chest. your limbs were frozen and unmoving, fully convinced that it was a masked killer out there to get you. the bloodcurdling screams coming from your television weren't helping your case either. the breeze from the table fan brushed the curtains slightly creating a small opening, just enough for you take a peek what's behind the glass. you got a glimpse of a very familiar brown leather jacket. no way.
your feet touched the bedroom floor immediately. you slid the curtains open, and there was dean, hanging onto something outside like a monkey. he flashed that signature megawatt smile of his despite struggling to hold on. "help me up, sweetheart."
"what the hell are you doing here? are you out of your mind?!" you questioned lending a hand for him to climb inside. your head popped out of the window, whipping side to side, checking the parameters for any awake family member. the coast seemed clear and you exhaled a deep sigh of relief. you shut the windows and turned around to face dean.
"you're so lucky no one saw you. my mom would've gotten you arrested in a heartbeat. what were you thinking anyway? you could've fell and broken your bones," you rambled while his grin stayed intact. "stop smiling at me."
"hello to you too."
"you can't be here," you sighed.
"you wouldn't come to me. so, i came to you."
"it's not that i wouldn't. i couldn't. my mom wouldn't let me."
"don't worry about it. i paid her room a visit and she's fast asleep."
"you what?!"
"cmon, chop chop. we need to make it before sunrise," dean said guiding you by the shoulders towards your closet for you to change out of your pjs.
"we are not going anywhere."
"are you sure?" his eyes sparkled in challenge.
"dean," you warned — your eyebrows raised in defiance. there was no way in hell you were sneaking out with him.
"cmon, im only in town for a few days and you won't even hangout with me?" he said giving his best convincing look — just the right amount of pleading in his green eyes and the tilt of his head that was both challenging and inviting.
"it's too risky."
"please please please please-"
"nope this a terrible idea. im not doing it-"
────────── 𑣿 ──────────
"this is a terrible idea," you said as you shoved a piece of fluffy, syrupy waffle in your mouth, still mad at him for making you sneak out.
dean's impala led straight to this charming retro diner a little across town, the kind that you only seen in movies. black and white tiles, red leather clad vinyl booths, waitresses that call you honey and menus with breakfast food options no matter the hour. it even had a jukebox that played frankie valli's can't take my eyes off you.
"no, it's not. live a little," dean retorted back stealing your side of fries. "you know, all your mom is missing is a tower to lock you in and a magical flower that keeps her young."
a small reluctant tug of lips replaced the pout on your face. you snorted despite yourself and it earned you a smile from him. the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and revealed the faint dimple on his left cheek. you ignored the warmth that spread in your chest and the little flutter in your stomach.
"so….slayed any vampire lately, buffy?" you questioned to distract yourself from whatever just happened within you.
"for the millionth time, i don't look like her," he grumbled taking a huge bite of his cheeseburger like it was its fault.
"you do a little," you taunted and the dramatic roll of his eyes made you chuckle.
"no vampires this time. it was a rougarou."
dean's voice filled the booth as he chattered about this creature and how he almost got eaten during the hunt. one conversation led to another — from the world's best cherry pie he had two weeks ago to how sam almost lost an eyebrow during chemistry lab at his new school. just like that, the topics escalated and landed on your upcoming school dance. you filled in about your mom's over the top preparation despite your disinterest towards it.
"she wants me to go to prom with thomas clarke, can you believe it? just because she's in book club with his mom. i don't even know this guy," you complained stabbing a piece of waffle harder than necessary. you paused, taking some time to chew, and continued, "at least he seem nice, i guess. it could be worse, she could've set me up with anthony or something. you remember him right? the douchebag that-"
your words hung in the air when you realized dean had gone quiet. your eyes met his face and you noticed the pinch between his brows and the clench in his jaw.
"what?"
"nothing. hope you have fun with toby."
"thomas."
"whatever."
you raised a brow because his tone didn't sound like he wanted you to have fun. you waited to see if he would say anything else, but he didn't. dean shoved the last of his burger in his mouth and threw a few dollars on the table and stood up. "cmon, we don't want to be late."
────────── 𑣿 ──────────
you had no clue where you were going until you spotted the colorful beams that illuminated the vast night sky. as the impala travelled closer to the source, a bright ferris wheel came into view standing tall in the middle of the wide field surrounded by more clusters of brightness. dean swiftly turned the wheels into the parking lot and pressed the brakes. the two of you got out of the car and headed towards the entrance of the amusement park. music, chatter, and shrieks reached your ears, the place crackling with excitement and joy. the sweet smell of caramel, slightly burned popcorn, and sizzling hotdogs made your mouth water. the air carried the warm late july heat that clung to your skins.
dean's fingers grazed your own as he interlaced them together. you stared down at your joined hands, the unfamiliarity made you confused. "what? do you want to get lost?" he tightened his grip slightly and walked ahead. there was that flutter in your stomach again which you pushed aside, yet again. it's just holding hands, friends do that all the time.
dean's first stop was the cotton candy stall where he ordered two huge bear-shaped cotton candy which made him beam like a little kid on christmas when the vendor handed it to him. the sight of his childlike excitement made your chest warm. it never fails to amaze you how dean lightens up over mundane things sometimes. he has traveled the country since he was a kid and has seen things that would blow a normal persons' mind, yet here he was looking at his uniquely shaped cotton candy like he would sell his first born for it. he inhaled his cotton candy within seconds and queued to get hot dogs, then funnel cakes, then pretzels.
"dean. did you bring me here so i can watch you eat for the entire night?"
"what are you talking about?" he asked with a mouthful of food. he took a bite out of his pretzel, although the hotdog was still in his mouth. the powder sugar from the funnel cakes stained the corners of his lips.
you stared, unamused. he took that as a cue to finish his food and get going. you went on the bumper cars first, driving around and crashing into each other. the next stop was the haunted house where dean kept flinching and touched his gun at least four times. it was not because he was scared, but because he thought it was the real thing. he kept you behind him like he was ready to salt and burn any second. at the booth games, he skillfully shot balloons and won you a teddy bear and named it "dean jr".
before you called it a night, you really wanted to go on the ferris wheel. you tugged at dean's hand dragging him towards the queue when he stopped dead in his tracks refusing to take another step. he looked up at the striking lights of the ferris wheel with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"that looks boring as hell. let's do something else."
"what about the drop tower?" you suggested.
"no."
"roller coaster?"
"nah."
"the swinging pendulum."
"we could play more of those ring toss. i will win you another plushie."
"i don't want to play those. we played enough. i want to try the rides-" you paused mid sentence when it finally clicked. "dean. are you scared of heights?"
"what? nooo" he dragged the no long enough to sound convincing but the slightest crack of fear in his voice gave it away. he cleared his throat. "im not" he said firmly but your face was already splitting into a cheshire cat grin.
"dean winchester…." you drawled.
"don't. start."
"…is scared of heights."
his eyes shot daggers at you and it only made you want to tease him more.
"aww. that's alright. i'll let you hold my hand?"
"you know what? i think it's time to leave."
"fine, fine, fine. let's play more ring toss." you darted behind him curling your hand around his leather clad bicep before he could get further away from you. he rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the tug of his lips. you felt the quick brush of his lips against your hair and your heart skipped a beat.
────────── 𑣿 ──────────
three booth games later, dean's belly grumbled loudly deciding it was time for more fuel. his hand captured yours leading towards the scent of butter and cinnamon wafting through the air in search for some hot churros. dean's churro was generously sprinkled with cinnamon sugar while yours was covered in magic shell chocolate. you didn't even have to look up to sense dean's greedy eyes locked on your churros anticipating a taste.
"no."
"c'mon, angel. just a bite."
"you already have yours."
"i want to try yours. you can try mine," he wiggled his brows, negotiating.
a grumble escaped your lips but you swapped with him anyway. you took a bite of his churro and chewed slowly as the cinnamon sugar melted in your mouth. it was good, but you liked your chocolate better. when he returned your churro, more than half of it was gone. your hand smacked his shoulder.
"ow!"
"you said one bite."
he ordered another one for you and himself and you indulged in your second churros while walking along the quieter pathway towards the exit. a glimmer of light in his peripheral caught dean's attention.
"well, look at that."
you followed his line of sight, turning you head to spot what he was looking at. nestled under a tree, was a photo booth ; the vintage kind that looked too mesmerizing to be true, like going inside feels like escaping to another dimension. the luminous led bulbs and thick red velvet drapes felt inviting — like the night wouldn't be complete if you didn't capture the moment in a little strip.
dean finished the last of his churro, threw the wrapper in the nearest trash bin and tugged at your hand towards the photo booth. your bodies nestled into the cramped space, settling on the small bench. dean jr was placed right in between the two of you like he was your firstborn that earned that spot. dean inserted a penny into the coin slot and a few seconds after the coin clanged within the machine, the bulbs flashed rhythmically and feminine voice instructed to get ready to pose.
your hands flew to your hair, adjusting the windblown strands quickly. dean's arm wrapped around your shoulder pulling you in to his side. his warmth seeped into you where his chest met your shoulder. his scent, leather and musk filled your senses making you almost giddy. there was that flutter again that you couldn't ignore this time. the warmth spread into you down to your toes, his touch and proximity creating a flurry of reactions in you. you couldn't make sense of what exactly was different from how dean was touching you the entire night — his hand holding yours, his careful fingers brushing away your hair, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulder when the crowd grew denser. maybe it was the smaller space, maybe it was the quiet that made you realize how his touch affected you.
"3…2….1…" the voice counted and you got ready to pose. in the first frame, dean pressed his cheek against yours, his face splitting into a toothy grin. your heart thudded violently against your chest but you managed a smile and hoped it doesn't come out looking constipated. in the second frame, dean held up a rockstar sign sticking his tongue out while you made a playful pouty face. the third frame captured the tip of dean's tongue touching your cheek and your sudden mortified expression.
"what the hell?" you turned your head towards him and it was a big, big, big mistake because your faces were close. too close. the laughter died in his throat. he exhaled and his warm breath grazed your parted lips. the air between you shifted, inviting a thick unspoken tension. your heart threatened to jump out of your ribcage, when those gorgeous green eyes dropped to your lips. his forehead touched yours and distance between your mouths shrunk until you could feel the graze of his lips on yours. it was barely a touch at first — feather light and testing. you inhaled a shaky breath, and the press of his lips grew firmer. you made a small sound in the back of your throat and kissed him back. his hand snaked to the back of your neck opening you up deeper for him. the touch of your tongues felt electric and you felt a sudden spark coursing through your entire body like fireworks. "please wait, your photos are printing….your photos are printed. come again!" the automated voice boomed. the light kept flashing, the twinkling background music kept playing, and his lips never left yours.
a/n : hope this was okay LOL. still getting the hang of writing. expect a prequel or sequel (if im not too lazy :P)
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
or; you dedicate yourself to the study of dean's back
⊱ warnings / tags: gn!reader, pre-established relationship, back kisses, vulnerable dean, tooth-rotting intimacy, fluff, faint allusions to smut
‿̩͙‿ ༺
Dean’s astray.
He can’t get a hold of himself. He’s sure of it, because it should be easy to roll sideways and let you fall onto the mattress, and when you gawk, to flash you a smile and say he can’t have you crushing one of his best assets. He’ll get an unimpressed look, but you’ll move to sit beside him and pick up the conversation in a preferably more normal way.
But what’s left of his will seems to be limp, dissolving away with the rest of his body.
You’re talking. One of your theories for the case. The only remaining tether he has to the real world, which is taking him his darndest to parse through and conjure up answers to so you’ll keep going. If you stop, his senses will take over, and they’re already clamoring for him to just let go and feel this. He frowns into the pillow as another soft quake races down the pathway of his spine, trailing after careful fingers until your palm is just inches from his waistband. The chill of your skin brings down the burn of the sun to a gentler warmth. You say something about secondary locations that slips right past him.
He’s gone loony. You’re just theorizing, and he’s dying, hyperconscious of the sound of your breathing, the way your weight is pressing on top of his ass, your thighs caging him in. Your hands; mixing in with his warmth, switching between flat presses and featherlight traces – ever so gentle.
"--y’s and a good old stake, shouldn’t be too hard for us," is the only bit he hears when your voice comes back, and his eyes fly open in alarm.
“Huh? Uh– yeah,” he clears his throat. Totally listening. He shouldn’t have taken off his shirt. “‘Course it won’t. We’ve ganked worse bastards.”
"Well, yeah. But these things can be a little sly."
“Mmh,” he grunts. “Nothin’ we can’t handle.”
He’s back to merging with his pillow, but he can sense the smile on your face. You’ve sat back up to simply rest your palms against the dips of his waist, eyes mapping out each plane, bruise, scar, and freckle into some little constellation of its own.
It’s pretty, and sort of a representative picture of Dean. Not the first time you’re graced with the sight, but not like this – hands poring over his every mark of skin, which you’ve always longed to do but deemed a long shot. Not that he’s shy – this is Dean, but you knew it was simply a sort of territory he tended to leave uncharted, and you were the last thing from a pushover. Not with him, and not when it took so much to even get here.
He seems to be letting you have it right now, though.
You’d draw it; if you could ask as such without pushing your luck. You’re still half-expecting Dean to clamber out of your grip any second, so while he’s not actively wrestling for an out, you could commit this to memory.
You’re being awfully quiet.
Dean has half the mind to turn over and figure out why the hell that is, but that position would make you slip off of him just as he’s starting to warm up to his newfound fate, and he doesn’t think he can manage a redo.
He lets out a muffled grumble of your name, and you hum, thumb tapping against him.
“Keep talkin’.”
You blink, having at some point surmised his acceptance as exhaustion. Guess you’ll have to scratch that.
“Oh,” you murmur, suppressing a smile. “Okay. Um..”
You look back down and pause over a particularly jagged line near his left shoulder blade – a knife wound from a ghoul attack you helped patch up. That was the very first time he’d given in to your aid. Your lips twitch, gently pressing it.
"You remember this?"
"Yeah," he said, angling his face sideways. "Got that in Nebraska. Stung like a bitch.”
You can’t help but sneer as you trace the scar. “Sam had to give up his new flannel,” you remind him – just because you know Sam still gives him shit for it – and it pulls a frown out of him. “And you still bled onto the carseats. Funny that you seemed pretty convinced you could’ve stitched it yourself.”
Dean scoffs, no matter that it had taken him a full hour just to get the needle through. Still. How many people can say the same?
“Because I could. I think I know what I can and can’t do, sweetheart, and that was on–”
“Apparently not.”
His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck enough to be met with your smug smile. He returns it with a sardonic one. “Hilarious,” he mutters before plopping back down – not his fault, your free hand started stroking his hip. “I could’ve. Only reason I let you do it was ‘cause you and Sammy wouldn’t stop pestering me ‘bout it.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
Dean’s rebuttals die at the tip of his tongue when you press a kiss over the old wound – immediately stiffening under you – and you freeze, hands flying to your sides in an instant. “Shit– uh.” Great. Good going, idiot. Of all the times you’ve been able to hold back, this is the one you can’t manage?
“Sorry, I wasn’t–”
“Do that again.”
You must be hearing things.
The surprise is palpable as your gaze snaps down to him, and Dean swallows.
“What?”
“....Do that again,” he says the words quietly. A mumble against cotton, looking almost bashful.
You remember then that this is much tougher for him than you. It should’ve scared him off. You’ve got a dozen reasons why. None of which supported the plausibility that he’d be willing to try. But here you are.
Your mouth snaps shut into a smile. Dean’s fingers twitch, about to ask why you’ve gone so silent again when he feels a peck on the same scar from earlier.
He feels you shift your weight before pressing another tentative kiss to its left.
“Is that okay?”
“..Yeah.”
Only then do you continue. His eyes flutter shut as you pepper more upon his shoulders. Across, along, then moving down. You don’t skip a thing: old burns, scratches, cuts. Every freckle, mole, and sunspot.
At some point, Dean lets himself go.
It’s difficult not to. Not when you’re taking your sweet sweet time, particularly with the scars. When a whine isn’t jumping to his throat, he makes sure to get a breath in on the intervals you place before every kiss – at times with a run of your thumb – as if recalling the memories associated with it, and wondering at the ones you hadn’t been there for.
This doesn’t mean it was easy.
He’s spent the past hour doing the opposite, after all, afraid of what it would do if he gave in – because this is a tenderness he’s longed for all his life, rushing over him on a random Thursday afternoon with no warning.
“Jesus,” he breathes out, gripping the sheets beneath him when you find your way back to his spine – languid, lingering kisses along where it curved. You had to crawl down – chest now propped on the back of his thighs, so the hand resting on his loin becomes his new tether. This time, he feels your smile when it curls up against him.
He doesn’t get why you’re like that with him. Gentle, in your quieter moments together. Eager, even with the most mundane, tedious shit he could possibly think of. Stakeouts, beer runs, waiting for Sam, sitting on the sink when he shits. His friggin back.
Well. You do like him. That’s why he’s here. That’s why you’re here, but sometimes he doesn’t get that part either. Because you seem to almost savor Dean. And he’s still learning how to take without knocking anything over.
His last spot a little further below, except this one wasn’t exactly battle-bourne. He feels you kiss where he’s pretty sure your teeth bared into him a couple nights ago.
You pat it with a contented hum, sounding way too pleased with yourself. “Still holding up.”
“‘m still gonna get you back for that.”
A snort. “And I’m still waiting,” you say, moving back up to lay atop his slack figure and rest your cheek close to his shoulder. Which part he’s groaning about, you’re not sure. Both of you seem too content to care.
“Do you really still think you could’ve sutured yourself that day?”
“What, the Nebraska thing?” he huffs, pulling at the bedsheets. “Yeah. I told ya, I was halfway through m’first stitch when y’an Sam came barreling in.”
You smirk. “You were flailing around like a highschooler with gum on his back.”
“At least gum’d be easier to get off my back.”
“And yet you didn’t when you had the exact, literal chance.”
The headboard receives his unimpressed glower.
You know something’s wrong when he doesn’t jab back, but then Dean moves. You’re tossed to the mattress with a yelp, smugness wiped clean off your face, mirrored instead on the face of a towering Dean.
He raises a brow as you catch your breath. “Looks like you spoke too soon, huh?”
“Not really. That was a reactive decision, kind of a little late for it to pr–”
Because you’ll drag this into a debate for your own cruel fun, Dean stops you with a kiss. You melt into it all the same, even if your grin refuses to cease – thankfully, it spurs him on.
“You’re a fucking pain,” he says into your mouth, pulling away only to press a kiss to your temple. “You know that?”
“I revel in that fact, actually.”
Your grin only widens when he scoffs.
One of these days, he’ll muck up the nerve to tell you to at least warn a man before you do things like that, or say that he doesn’t revel in that fact.
For now, he’ll let his face slip into the crook of your neck and let your hands lull him to sleep.
｡𓃉 a/n: i. (crawling through the dirt) fi..nally .. (wheeze of agony) got it done . dean's back is so smooth and clean in the show and to that i holler in objection. likely for the same understandable reason they didn't end up giving him tattoos but. still. enjoy the sprinkles of sub!dean.
What kind of person you are!
Fae, you're the kind of person who thrives on being alone. You don't need others to make it in the world, but others often need you. You're dependable, reliable, trustworthy, and grounded. Your perfectionism is due to the fact that you know exactly what you want, how you want it, and when you want it. And when it comes down to needing help, you will outwrite refuse and figure everything out on your own.
Because no one does it right anyways. So why bother?
You do virtually everything alone, you don't really ever feel like you have anyone to lean on anyways. You've done everything solo, so why should the emotional aspect of your life be any different? You're lost in your mind pretty often. Swimming in daydreams, drowning in thoughts, overthinking until you're sure you've lost it. You call it imagination, but it's really dissociation. You're uninterested in the real world because it's not going the way you want it to.
Everything hiding beneath your RBF is strong, and heavy. But when you open your mouth, it all comes out soft, faint, unconfident. There's no strength to portray yourself any differently, due to the fact it's all being used to keep everything in. And even if you opened up, who would it be to? The four walls of your room, or the trees, or maybe that one trustworthy friend of yours.
But even then, you don't allow them to scratch deeper than the surface.
You may not share your emotions or vulnerability. But you do share your curiosity, you express your suspicions, and your bright passion for the unknown in the world around you. You're the kind of person to take a 'walk' and then accidentally hike two miles into the woods because what if you happen to find, Bigfoot? You're the kind of person who pours over research everyone says is useless or stupid, and in your mind you're thinking,
"Well, what happens if we need to know about Lycanthropy? I am the only person in the room who could save us."
What kind of hunter you are!
You used to just be someone who obsessed over true crime in your bedroom. Listening to podcasts, watching Killer Kids on Peacock, looking into cold cases. And now here you were, standing in an abandoned warehouse where three people were found murdered. You just happened to be the only civilian curious enough to dig deeper than the cops were.
Hunting does scare you though, deep down it rattles you to your core. You're uncomfortable with the idea that at any point in time you could killed, hurt, gone. It totally unsettles you. But your determination and drive keeps your shaky hand holding up your flashlight, and your other hand holding onto your somewhat pretty notes.
As a hunter, you're thorough and thoughtful. You question everything and don't stop until all of your questions are answered. You care for every victim you save and meet, sometimes even checking up on them after the case is all said and done, just to be sure that they're doing well. Never by call though, likely through a message you'll reread a hundred times before you actually send it.
Your heart keeps you in the game. Logically, you think hunting is awful. It smells, it's gross, you're scared, the motels you stay at suck, and to make matters worse you're constantly covered in monster gore, and the other hunters are assholes. But you get it done. Your curiosity is relentless, and in the field, you're in control.
Dean Winchester and You!
You met Dean through another hunter. Dean owed that guy a favor, and what he asked for was for Dean to teach you how to hunt properly because he didn't want to do it.
"Get this Rookie trained for me, Winchester, and I'll drop what you owe me." Dean hated the idea. He hated owing people more. He also didn't particularly like when other people got involved in hunting, and he hated having to teach them how to survive.
But God did those pretty green eyes soothe his soul. You looked like nymph. Or something that'd lure him straight to the ocean by song. And your sweet demeanor might've worked on him at a bar, but in the hunt? It made him worry about you.
Dean's first impression of you, is that you won't make the cut. You're too soft spoken and too caught up in your own head. You're just a curious cat that was going to get squashed by the world you wanted so badly to be in and do right. But then again, he owed that hunter a favor, so he'd do his best to keep you alive and teach you what he knows.
"Fine. But I owe you nothing after this." Dean grumbled out bitterly with his arms crossed over his chest, before he looked over at you, "Get your gear, Sweetheart. Pack light, you're in for a long ride." He huffed through his nose, gave that other hunter a harsh glare before heading back outside and to his car.
Little fun things!
Dean didn't expect that once you get comfortable, you'd be so talkative. He also didn't expect you to question everything and actually want to learn. He assumed you'd be some chick who was getting into hunting not caring about much. But you care a lot. Just like Sam did when he was a kid. Your heart was in this. Not just your head. And not an ego.
Dean didn't let you really hunt alongside him or Sam until he trusted you with a weapon. And by trusted, he meant once you were trained by him. You held one of his guns up, one green eye pinched shut, the other focusing on the target ahead of you. Dean was coming up behind you to take your hands in his and help you aim, "Hold and aim like that. You do it any different, and your face'll be gone." You were tense under his rough palmed touch. He could feel your tension. And he stepped back feeling a bit strained himself.
Your first genuine hunt with Dean was one of your biggest nightmares. A warlock was taking the eyes of his victims and using them in rituals to take glimpses into the future. Dean was pushing ahead, cringing at all of the jars holding eyeballs. "Jesus, what a sight." But his pun fell off when he saw you, paled, wide eyes, gulping, "Fae? Y'alright?" He sighed heavily before pulling you forward by your arm to stay in step with him. Which.. inadvertently made you feel safer.
Sam and you read pretty often together. You'll read a book and then pass the book you just finished onto Sam and vice versa. Dean, he picked up that you really liked reading and started 'casually' swinging by the libraries in towns he'd have a hunt at, just to bring back new books for you. He always brushed it off as being nothing, that the books were for his 'nerd of a brother' too. But you know better than that, Fae.
You are one of the very few people Dean will hug regularly. He's been away on a hunt that took a few weeks, he's trudging through the Bunker, dropping his duffle once he sees you, and is allowing you into his arms for a hug. He grunts at the force you apply when you slam into his chest, but then he's laughing, "Missed me that much?" He's playing it cool, but you can hear his heart racing when you lean into his chest.
Extras!
You are an absolute menace on cases where you go undercover with the brothers. You're in a sparkling new FED suit, on the porch of a victim's home, you and the Winchesters were about to interrogate them, and when you'd open your mouth, suddenly you were Agent Van Halen who also happens to be British. Sam would be dying internally, and Dean would just roll with it. "Looks like we're hunting with someone from, Wales." He'd snort and elbow Sam, who looked ready to murder you both. "Don't enable her."
Dean's sweet with you, because you're a natural comfort to him. You're the only stable thing he has in his life. Except for when he does something outside of what you planned in your head that day, but never actually verbalized for him to follow, then you're a little she-demon. But other than that, you're his Stable Haven. And he does what he can to make you happy and feel comfortable at the bunker, so you never decide to leave.
Dean got flustered the first time you asked him to help you with your hair, "You want me to help you, with your hair?" He raised a brow and looked at you confused. His gaze fell over to Sam who just shrugged. You had oil on your hands from cleaning your guns and you needed your hair out of your face to finsih the job. Dean carefully braided your long hair and tied it off with a band just for you. Just because you asked.
Dean used to doubt you as a hunter. But you were proving him wrong with each hunt you went on with him and his brother. Sure, he taught you the basics to hunting, but you were coming into being a hunter of your own making. He just worries about you getting hurt now. Not from a lack of knowledge, but from sacrifice. One the ballsier hunts you do quite a bit to save him and Sam, and that scares the hell out of him.
Overall!
Based on all of the lovely information you've shared with me, like your zodiac, your favorite color, your fears and more, I can say that you're a very loyal, reliable, and determined individual. Sure, you can be a bit of a perfectionist, maybe even hard on yourself by keeping everything inside, but you're still such a strong person.
You're someone who could be trusted to not burn down a house if they were home alone. You're someone who people can go to for answers that are deeper than what Google has to offer, but you're also someone who can make others question things on a more profound level too. You're seriously amazing Fae, and I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.
Now, based on everything, I see you being compatible with Dean, in the cutest and in an emotionally deep way. There is potential, because I see him finding you beautiful in and out. And if he were to just look past the idea that you're too good for him, it would flourish beautifully. If the relationship with him doesn't work out, it'd be on him.
You're his 'too good to be true', and he'd question you a lot, are you willing to reassure him?
"Fae! What the hell was that back there?" He's shouting over the downpour that's slamming against your bodies, "I was saving you."
"Saving me? I don't need savin', Fae." He scoffed out. "Well, clearly you did, Dean."
"No, you don't do that for me! Never. I ain't gonna lose you like everyone else who tried saving me!" He's angry, not at you, rather at what you did. You scared the hell out of him. You made him feel trapped and he hated it. He despised it even. If the rain wasn't pouring so hard, you might've been able to see his tears and his vulnerability better.
"You won't lose me, Dean."
"You don't know that, Sweetheart! So, stop takin' those risks. I'm not worth it." His self-deprecating nature was taking over. He didn't feel like he was worth more than your life, he wasn't even worth a quarter of it. "Stop that, Dean!"
"Stop what? Huh? Being honest. I thought you liked that, Fae. That I'd never lie to you." He snapped back at you. And it hurt. He could see your lips quivering; he could see your eyes hurting. He was pushing you away by making you feel unsafe, by putting thoughts and words that were never yours to begin with in your mouth and believing them.
"I'm sorry, Sweetheart. C'mere.. don't cry." He's walking towards you now. The inches between you both shrank into nothing. You were pulled taut against his soaking clothes and body by him. His hand is at the back of your head tangled in your wet locks, his other is rubbing your back.
"I'm sorry. 'M so sorry. I was scared, Fae. I was just scared." He sounded weak, he sounded vulnerable, and he was easy to forgive in that moment. He wasn't lying. He brough the hand that was in your hair to your face to angle it up. Rain dribbled down both of your pained features, "I'm sorry." He gritted out again, hoarse and rough.
You initiated it the final step that'd lead you two to more. You leaned up and kissed him. Your wet and cold hands cradled his face, as you poured yourself into Dean.
I seriously loved making this one! And I really hope that you like it and that it's accurate to you, if not you can totally let me know! It helps me grow and do better! <3
The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.
A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.
His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.
“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.
His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.
His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.
His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.
“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.
And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.
Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.
And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.
You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”
His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”
summary: steve taking care of you after a night out <3
tags/warnings: boyfriend!steve x reader, mention of alcohol consumption, drunkness, mention of vomit, hangovers, domestic fluff, caretaker!steve harrington, mentions of sex, use of pet names (baby, honey, pretty girl), this is diabolically tooth-rotting
---
It’s almost 1:30 AM when the doorbell rings.
Steve glances up at the sound, breaking from his vigil on the couch in front of the TV. He’s been sitting there fighting his own exhaustion all night while he waits for you to come home. When you’d told him earlier about your plans to hit a few bars with your girlfriends, he’d passed on the offer to join you, resigning himself instead to a quiet night in, recharging from work and letting you have your fun on your own. But because he always insists on staying up till you make it back despite your exasperated requests, tonight has been less than entertaining for him.
He doesn’t mind, though. He’d pull an all-nighter if it meant he saw you home safe.
Steve gets up from the couch and pads over to the door, snorting a little at the thought that you must be drunk enough not to be able to turn your key in the lock. Well, that was part of tonight’s plan, like you’d told him earlier– you’d been looking forward to getting shit-faced all week.
Steve pulls open the door and finds you draped over your friend Gina, your miniskirt riding up on your thighs as you stumble against her.
Wow. Mission accomplished, then.
You let out a long, exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God,” you breathe as your eyes find him. “Oh my God, it’s Steve!”
Steve stifles his laughter at your expression– the total shock and joy splitting your face from ear to ear. “Hi, baby.”
Gina shoots him a sympathetic look and hauls you back onto your feet, transferring you into Steve’s arms with a grunt of effort. “Hey, Steve. Sorry– she’s really gone.”
“Steve!” you say again as you fold yourself into his chest, his arms supporting you easily. You smell like fruity liqueur. “I kept trying to call you, but Gina took my phone–”
“Here’s that,” Gina supplies, pulling the phone out of her pocket and handing it to Steve. She gives him a dry look. “I didn’t want her to freak you out.”
“Thanks,” Steve laughs, voice full of amusement as he clutches your swaying form. “And hey, thanks for taking care of her tonight.”
“Anything for my girl,” Gina tosses back, flashing a sweet smile. She’s not usually a big drinker, but it’s never a great job to be designated babysitter. “I should go– I’ve got two more dropoffs.”
Steve smiles back, holding you around the waist while your fingertips trace patterns onto his chest. “You need anything?” he offers Gina. “Anybody need a ride?”
“All good. I’m sober,” Gina assures him. “Tell her to call me tomorrow, yeah?”
Steve nods, watching your friend retreat down the hallway. “You’re doing God’s work, Gina!”
She laughs and waves goodbye, and Steve helps you stumble inside, closing and locking the door behind you both.
“Agh!” you exclaim, pulling back from his grip a little to press a hand to your mouth, your excitement uncontainable. “Wow. It’s my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, hi, baby,” Steve laughs, hands gripping you firmly to keep you from falling. “You have a fun night?”
“The best,” you gush, teetering off to the side in your heeled boots. “Oh my gosh, I wish you came with us. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too,” Steve tells you, maneuvering you further into your apartment and easing you down into an armchair. “Let’s get your shoes off, huh?”
“These are my cute boots,” you inform him. “I like these boots.”
“They are cute,” he agrees. “Just not so good to sleep in, right?” He kneels in front of you and lifts one of your feet off the ground to unzip your boot for you, and you suck in a breath.
“Why are you taking them?” you ask in a whisper, appalled.
Steve has to bite his tongue to keep his smile down. “I’m just getting you comfortable, baby. You gotta change before bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” you shake your head. You always get argumentative when you’re drunk. “Why are we going to bed?”
“It’s late, beautiful,” he reminds you. “You’re gonna regret it tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.”
Your gasp again, both of your hands flying to your mouth. “You think I’m beautiful?”
Steve’s smile spreads as he stares up at you. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”
You’re trying to hide your grin behind your hands, but it isn’t working. You tuck your knees up to your chest in your glee. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.”
Steve heaves a sigh at the retreat of your legs. “My beautiful, uncooperative girlfriend. Come on, baby. Help me out here.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” you repeat petulantly, humor in your voice as you angle your head at him. “Just wanna stay here and look at you.”
“You can look at me when we’re in bed,” Steve reasons with you. “I promise, honey. Just let me get your boots off.”
You sigh and relent, letting him drag one of your feet toward his chest again. His hands come up your calves to unzip your boot, and he can feel your eyes fixed securely on him.
“You’re so pretty,” you hum, eyes tracing over his face. “So pretty. I was showing everyone pictures of you tonight.”
Steve feels his ears go pink. “Baby, what did I tell you about showing people my picture?”
“I can’t help it!” you protest as he sets your now-bare foot gently down and moves for the other. “I’m so proud of you. Agh, you’re so cute.”
The words make something in Steve’s chest flutter, even after being with you for so long. It always feels like he’s still getting used to being loved the way you love him– the way he knows himself to be capable of loving, but never fully expected in return. “Thanks, baby,” he murmurs as he tugs off your other boot and rises. “Okay. You ready to stand?”
“Mm-hm,” you chirp, reaching your hands up toward him. Steve leans down and wraps his arms around you to haul you upright, and you wobble as you teeter to your feet, only steadied by the press of your body against his. “Wow. You’re strong.”
Steve bites back his laughter. “I try.”
“Your arms are huge,” you marvel, gripping them with your icy fingers. Suddenly, you glance up at him, face open. “I love you. Will you kiss me?”
The words are so plain– so natural. Steve doesn’t fight his smile this time as he lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, sweet and delicate.
You sigh into it. “Wow. That was really nice.”
“I love you,” Steve tells you, amusement flickering through him. “Okay,” he repeats, his focus honed on stabilizing you once more. “You wanna walk, or can I carry you?”
You wave him off. “Pfft. I can walk. I’m not that drunk.”
“Uh-huh,” Steve replies flatly.
You shoot him a look you probably intend to be stern, but your total lack of control over your emotions right now isn’t doing you any favors in convincing him. Still, stubbornly, you push away from him and make your way to the bedroom, Steve’s hands hovering over your waist as he follows behind you, just in case.
“You got it?” he affirms, his voice a hum. “Yeah, there you go. Okay– careful, baby.”
“I’m fine,” you sigh. “I’m good.”
“You think you’re gonna be sick?” he asks you– not that he’d really mind either way. He’s certainly helped you drunkenly vomit before.
“Nope,” you assure him, the word dropping off your tongue casually despite the way you’re about to run into a wall.
“Careful– careful, baby,” Steve chides you, managing to grab you out of the way just before you smack into the doorframe.
“You worry too much,” you huff.
Steve swallows his stress and steers you toward the bed. “Yeah, well, you give me plenty to worry about.” He situates you so you’re seated on the bed, and you flop back against the comforter, heaving a sigh. Steve shakes his head fondly and crosses to the dresser to pull out some of his sleep clothes for you. He doesn’t know if he could wrestle you into one of your pajama sets in your condition, and you have a weird obsession with sleeping in his clothes, anyway. He’s never understood it.
When he returns, you’re winding your hands through the air and staring at the ceiling. “I feel great. I wanna stay up forever.”
“Uh-huh,” Steve says again, playing along to get you to comply. “Gotta sit up, babe. Come on– gimme your hands.”
You heave another breath as you let him pull you upright, and Steve lifts your hands over your head so he can attempt to work your tight shirt off your body.
“Woah,” you giggle as his hands make contact with the exposed skin of your stomach. “What’re you doin’?”
Steve pulls his hands off of you, just in case you want to do it yourself, and points to the sweatshirt waiting on the bed. “Getting you comfy. That okay?”
“You wanna have sex?” you whisper conspiratorially, grinning at the offer.
Steve just barely holds back his laughter. “Pardon?”
“Wanna have sex?” you repeat, your eyes wide with enthusiasm as you reach out one of your legs and rub it along his.
He grins and shakes his head. “Not right now, baby.”
“What?” you ask, brow knitting in confusion. “Why not? You always wanna have sex.”
Steve fights his blush again. “I don’t always want to have sex,” he protests.
“Yeah, you do,” you tease him. “I’m not complaining, though. Feels good.”
Steve lets out another laugh. “Maybe tomorrow, pretty girl.”
“You don’t want to?” you ask, still confused– hurt flashing across your face.
Steve sees that look and moves immediately to soothe you, one of his hands lifting to brush your hair down gently. “Not like that, honey. I just don’t wanna do anything while you’re drunk, okay?”
“But I want to,” you protest gently, your eyes finding his pleadingly.
“I know,” Steve smiles softly. “Not tonight. Sorry, baby.”
“Worst boyfriend ever,” you mutter, and he barks a laugh.
“You want my help changing, or you wanna do it yourself?” he asks you, still grinning.
You consider your options, then look back up at him. “You.”
“Okay,” Steve nods, always glad to have the confirmation. “Hands up, buttercup.”
You dutifully lift your hands and help him wrestle off your top, and Steve is extra mindful to work the fabric gently around your chin, ensuring it doesn’t snag on your face. Just as carefully, he unlatches your bra and pulls it off of you, practiced with this particular style after months of being with you. Your nudity is anything but arousing to him, though– just intimate, in that strange, quiet way familiar domesticity has become precious to him. It’s a kind of trust he doesn’t know what to do with, the way the two of you are unashamed to be bare in front of one another, the way you put yourself in his hands tonight without a thought.
And he hadn’t lied before– he doesn’t want to have sex with you now. He doesn’t find vulnerability attractive.
Slowly, he pulls your clothes off of you and tugs you into his own. His sweatshirt and shorts absolutely dwarf you, and you wrap your hands gleefully in the too-long sleeves as you reach out for him again.
“Hi,” he says again as your hands come around his waist, tugging him close. He holds you back, stroking your hair. “Are you hungry? You want me to make you something?”
“No,” you sigh. “I need to wash my face. That’s all.”
“Okay,” Steve relents as your hands run over his back. “You know, to do that, you gotta get up.”
“Mm-hm.” You affirm lazily, your cheek pressed to his chest.
Steve smiles to himself and reaches down to scoop you up, hooking your legs around his waist. “Come on, beautiful. Let’s go.”
You make a muffled noise of agreement against him as he carries you to the bathroom.
“You getting tired?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer. He’s always been good at memorizing your tells. It’s a small, affectionate hobby he’s adopted.
“No,” you tell him petulantly, and he chuckles as he gently sets you down in the bathroom and you take a seat on the closed toilet lid.
It’s a slow, quiet process as Steve wets a washcloth with warm water and turns to you, wiping gently at your face until he’s worked the makeup off of your skin. Your eyes are closed, and your breaths are sighing against his face. Steve is diligent about it, his hands moving with careful precision. When he’s done, it’s a wordless effort to get you to stand and rinse your face, towel it off, and brush your teeth. Eventually, though, Steve helps you get it done, and pads back to the bedroom after you.
He helps you into bed, pulling the covers up around you, and he can tell you’re too far gone now to protest any more. Pressing a final kiss to your forehead, Steve leaves to pick up the clothes still scattered on the floor and get you a glass of water for the morning.
“Steve,” you call out, your voice suddenly panicked.
He already knows what you’re going to ask. “I’ll be right back, baby,” he promises. “Give me one second.”
You make a disheartened sound and turn over in bed.
Steve turns off the TV and picks up the front room as quickly as he can. When he returns to the bedroom with a glass in hand for you, the lights are all off except for the lamp on his nightstand, which casts light over your softened face. He smiles when he realizes you’ve curled up on his side of the bed, your hair scattered across his pillow. He sets the glass down, turns out the light, and carefully slips under the covers beside you, realizing you’re still awake by the way you reach for him instantly, your arms wrapping around him.
“Steve?” you start, your voice a low mumble.
“Yeah, baby?” he whispers back, shifting so you can curl up against his chest, your body practically thrown over his.
“You’re not the worst boyfriend,” you tell him sleepily. “You’re the best. Ever.”
His laughter rumbles in his chest. “Thanks, baby. You’re the best girlfriend ever.”
“I’m sorry you had to take care of me tonight,” you make out, your eyes already shut.
“Why are you saying sorry?” Steve chides you, pulling you tighter into his arms and pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “Nothing to be sorry for. I like taking care of you.”
“I’m sorry,” you say again, unconvinced.
“Hey,” Steve stops you. “Did you have fun tonight?”
“Mm-hm,” you affirm skeptically.
“That’s all that matters,” he says firmly. “No apologizing.”
You take a big breath. “I love you more than anything,” you mumble against his chest.
The words still Steve, halting his hands on you. It’s simple– stupid. He’s heard you say it a million times before. But he can’t help it– every time, it feels like you’ve stopped his heart in his chest.
“I love you too,” he says back, his voice a little weak. “I love you so much.”
His hands continue their gentle tracing against your skin, and within moments, you slip into sleep. And Steve, swallowing emotion, follows after you.
When the morning finally breaks over your peacefully sleeping form, so does your pounding headache.
You groan as you roll over, realizing when you hit the abruptly cold other side of the bed that Steve isn’t in it with you.
It takes a while for you to drag yourself out from beneath the covers and push to your feet, and you follow the faint sounds of plates clanking out to the kitchen. The image of your boyfriend standing there, pajama pants slung low on his hips, the skin of his bare torso bronzed by the morning light, his messy hair falling over his forehead as he stares down at the pan on the stove, almost feels like a miracle cure for your hangover.
You sidle up to him and lean back against the counter, arms crossed in the old sweatshirt he put you in, worn and soft from years of use.
Steve smiles as he glances over at you. “Morning, sunshine.”
You bite back your indignation at the nickname– the one he always uses when you sleep late. “Morning.”
“Your coffee’s on the counter,” he tells you, gesturing with the spatula on his hand.
You mumble out a thank you and go hunting for the cup, watching out of the corner of your eye as the muscles in his back flex while he flips the pancake.
“So, how bad was I?” you ask ironically, though you remember what happened last night with fair enough accuracy.
Steve shakes his head, still smiling. “Not bad.”
“Mm-hm,” you reply, unconvinced. “I’m ridiculous.”
“You’re cute,” he tells you, his grin spreading. “It was nothing embarrassing, beautiful. You were just very excited.”
You let out a little groan. “God, I showed so many people your picture.”
Steve huffs a laugh, going a little pink. “Yeah, you told me.”
“Never let me get drunk again,” you beg him. “I’m a danger to myself.”
“You’re an adorable drunk,” Steve informs you, eyes on the pancake batter as he ladles it into the pan. “You’re so smiley. I’d prefer it if you didn’t fight me so hard, but I’ll still take it.”
You whimper, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder, wishing it would soothe the ache there. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he tells you, like he’s said it a million times. “You’re my girl. It’s my job to take care of you.”
“You’re too good to me,” you tell him, eyes pressed shut. “You’re standing here being all perfect, making me coffee and pancakes and dealing with all my drunk bullshit.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says mildly. “Plus, you know, you’re a really intense cuddler when you’re wasted. I can’t get you off of me in the mornings.”
You laugh reluctantly, and Steve turns from the stove to wrap his arms around you, tugging you into an embrace.
“I love you,” he says. “You make it worth it, you know that?”
Your hands knit behind his back, pressing him impossibly closer. “I love you. So much.”
He nuzzles into your hair, breathing you in for a moment. And when he pulls back, a smile on his face, all he tells you is, “Eat your pancakes.”
You smile back at him, brilliant feeling shining in your chest. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he throws back, waving his spatula. “And once you’re done, I’m putting all your photos of me in a locked album.”
---
author's note: this is so deeply unproofread my bad
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
some people will be like “I wonder why fanfic writers don’t share their works anymore😔” and then this is them when a writer is kind enough to share something they write — as a hobby, for their own enjoyment — with them for free.
some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free
“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.
you people let tiktok rot your brains to the point you see everything as content farm and engagement. not a piece of art created by the artist’s love and passion. it’s dystopian.
