dean winchester x bestfriend!hunter!reader
❊ summary: neither of you can afford to lose the other.
❊ content warnings: minor blood, brief mention of injury, emotional tension, sacrificial behavior
❊ word count: 1.5k ❊ genre: angst / fluff
❊ author's note: new year, new me... i was in a writing slump for a while, but i'm definitely feeling better. i love writing angst but dean winchester is just so cute to NOT make this into something adorable.
the air was dense. charged, but also like suffocating beneath six feet of dirt. it was tension, drying sweat, and unspoken yet jarring words resting on the tip of tongues and on the forefronts of minds. it was temporarily suppressed resentment—because you knew one of you would break eventually, even if you didn't mean to.
the hunt was successful—to an extent. the creature was put down, but you almost were, too. dean thought that it was because of your split-second decision to risk your life for his. you knew that he was probably right.
because the truth was that you wouldn't watch him die in front of you. not now, not ever.
if you disregarded the gash just below your left collarbone and the fact that you might have a collapsed lung, your idea worked. point in case, you could still feel your throbbing pulse in your temples, the air expanding in your chest, and dean was sitting beside you, alive.
but that didn't make him any less furious.
neither of you spoke for a while, nor shifted in place. not even awkwardly.
rather, you two sat idly inside the impala. dean stared straight ahead, scope out of the windshield that showed the nothingness of night's embrace. his dirty hands white-knuckled the steering wheel and a deep scowl rested on his brows. you stared into your lap where your jeans were stained with mud and specks of blackened blood, nails scratching the denim with a soft scrrrrritch.
the silence closed in, breathing down your neck and resting on your shoulders.
"i'm sorry," your voice was a whisper, but you knew he heard you, "i had to." it sounded pathetic. vulnerable. you were both of those things, but you weren't truly sorry. not if it meant that your decision kept dean alive and the hunt ended fine.
fine, besides the rift between you and dean—literal and metaphorical. the gap in the bench was wide, and usually you'd fill it, and dean would keep you beside him with his non-steering arm around your shoulders.
not tonight.
your eyes flickered to your boots, mucking up the footwell, then to the faint blood smeared on the dashboard from an open cut on your palm from when you first clambered into the impala over ten minutes ago.
"had to?" dean's voice was gruff like gravel crunching underneath car tires. you cringed. you knew where this was going. you felt dean's hot gaze on the side of your face, tracing your cheek, jaw, and the flutter of your lashes. you tried to pretend you didn't.
"you had to pull the sacrificial lamb act?"
a slight pause—but not mercy. wordlessly, he reached into the backseat, fingers tightening around a first aid kit before tossing it into your lap with equal amounts negligence and responsibility.
you almost said thank you. almost. it died on your tongue as dean grumbled a short, "stitch yourself up, i don't need you bleeding everywhere."
"and for the record," he quickly added, "i'm the dumbass who's supposed stupid shit like that. not you." his gaze went back to the windshield and his hands back to gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. one of them tried to wipe the frustration settling into his features, but the muscle in his jaw audibly ticked, and you knew it already cemented.
something flared inside you. something that made you defiantly shove the first aid kit into the footwell and cross your arms across your chest. a scoff pushed past your lips and the split in the corner burned with every tug.
"i was doing my job, dean," you snapped, "y'know, saving people? saving your ass?" your jaw flexed and your eyes narrowed as you finally turned to face him. your eyes didn't meet, but looking in his direction was enough to make your skin prickle and blood run cool.
you hesitated, either unable to find more to say, or afraid that, if you did, the sharp bite in your voice would provoke a yelling match between you two that never resolves any hurt feelings.
you know from experience.
"yeah, well, part of our job," dean emphasizes the "our," and it feels like stinging slap in your face, "is coming back alive, princess." he finalizes. you're not witty enough to come up with a comeback. even if you were, the bitterness behind your nickname is enough to make you seal your lips regardless and turn away.
the silence rushed back in. it was heavier than before, yet it didn't last long.
a regretful, loaded sigh pierced the silence. "i know why you did it." dean murmured. his eyes fell to the dashboard, knowing better than to look back at you. "but... you're not disposable. not to me."
that stole your attention. dean swallowed thickly, adams apple bobbing in his throat as his jaw flexed again, pondering. sometimes, you wished you were telepathic just to get a glimpse into his thoughts. sure, you could read his body language and analyze each crease and frown on his face, but dean was purposefully unreadable.
a perfect, trained hunter. heartbreaking.
your lips parted to speak, but dean beat you there. "i mean it," he mumbled hoarsely, low-lidded eyes trained on the dash. his tongue darted out to wet his lips, cracked from the cold. "stop acting like collateral damage."
your voice shattered the soft animosity. "then stop acting like you are."
the words hung still in the damp air. you were both frozen in place. you watched him, impatiently waiting for a sarcastic response. he didn't make one. you swallowed hard, blinked even harder, and chewed the inside of your cheek.
your eyes raked over dean's face. he had days-old stubble pebbling on his jaw and chin only visible from the moonlight. his long lashes were downcast, and his eyes avoidant. his grip on the wheel loosened, simply resting now.
you reached for him. your hand gently tightened on his forearm, squeezing softly through his thin jacket. your lips part just enough for you to usher out a quiet, "dean, please," as you mentally pray for him to just glance over at you. for him to recognize you're right there.
because you always had been. and so had he, which was why you couldn't stand for him to not be beside you. dean was the only constant in your life. the one thing that you could bet on besides poker cards and barflies buying you drinks.
after an eternity, dean finally turned to face you. his eyes roamed over the old scar on your chin, the pout resting on your lips, and the slumped rigidness in your shoulders. strands of hair framed your face and the moonlight basked you in an angelic glow.
you might be one in disguise—an angel. sole purpose to prevent dean from spiraling further than he already does. you drag him away from bar counters when he can hardly stand upright and force him to take shots of water instead. you tuck him into bed after aiding him in toeing off his boots, and when you lean down, he whispers "are you an angel?" in the shell of your ear before knocking out cold.
you help him restore baby to a brand-new shine after she's been through hell. you mend the deep injuries that dean can't resolve himself, no matter how much he swears he's fine. in those moments, yeah, you're definitely a guardian sent from heaven.
but you were human, and still, you wielded a power over him like nobody else ever had. the way your nose scrunched in confusion, the low-lidded stares from across motel rooms, how you would push his face away every time he got in yours to taunt you, the lingering scent of you on his pillow in the mornings when you had to share a motel bed all rendered him weak.
"done staring yet?" you asked with a small raise of your brow. your voice was all tease, but your brows were still knitted together with concern.
dean's eyes quickly flicked up to meet your gaze. his plush lips parted open as he swallowed, and after a second, he shook his head, murmuring a small "not quite."
your lips parted, preparing something witty to fly off your tongue, but dean was dean. he interrupted you, closing the gap between you two—bodies on opposite sides of the bench—and tenderly slotted his lips between yours. it was soft, undefined, waiting for rhythm to be breathed into it.
and god, did you give it life.
there was no hesitancy as you leaned back into him, your lips capturing his in a quiet promise. his hands went to your hair, tangling his fingers in the strands, coaxing you further into him. it was desperate hunger, something that words couldn't fathom.
and when you finally parted, lips swollen and chests rapidly rising and falling, dean rested his forehead against yours.
"'m still upset with you," he muttered, yet you could feel the gentle upward curl of the corners of his lips. your hands came to cusp his jaw, stroking gently.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: it’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isn’t fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending
a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist ♬.ᐟ
They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.
Which is, objectively, stupid.
But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.
You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.
Until the knocking starts.
Correction: pounding.
Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.
You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.
But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.
It’s Robin.
Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.
You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.
“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.
Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.
The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.
This time? She’s brought a car with her.
A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.
Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.
A boy.
Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead.
You squint.
“Who the fuck is that?”
…
Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.
You don’t know him. Not really.
Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.
But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.
Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.
Poof. King Steve: dethroned.
Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.
You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.
You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.
And Robin Buckley had Steve.
Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.
He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker.
You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.
Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.
He smiled. You didn’t smile back.
You didn’t care.
It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)
But now, he’s here.
Dying on your lawn.
Ruining your Friday.
…
Up close, he looks worse.
Biblically bad.
Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.
His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.
His eyes flutter.
Then, absurdly, he smiles.
“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”
You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.
“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”
He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.
Then promptly goes limp.
…
“It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”
Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.
“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”
You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”
Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”
“Robin.”
“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”
Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.
You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”
“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”
You level her with a look.
She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”
You glance down at Steve.
His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.”
…
You do fix him.
Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming.
And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.
Like he’s sorry.
Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.
You hate that.
You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.
You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.
And something inside you goes still.
These are... bite marks.
Not scrapes. Not scratches.
Bites.
His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.
Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.
“Jesus christ,” you whisper.
You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.
Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.
Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die.
You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”
Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.
“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.
You blink. “Bats.”
“Like. Big ones? Really big?”
You stare at her. Then at Steve.
You don’t believe her.
But also… you kind of do.
Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.
It fed.
…
“Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”
She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.
“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”
“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”
“Right. On it.”
She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.
You turn back to Steve.
His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.
“Harrington. You with me?”
His hand twitches once, thumb up.
…
He doesn’t scream.
You wish he would.
Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.
But Steve just… takes it.
His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.
You kind of hate him for it.
Because you know this type.
Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.
You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.
It’s not bravery. It’s habit.
A mask.
And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.
Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.
You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.
Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.
Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.
“Shit. S-sorry.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
…
It takes two hours.
Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.
It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.
Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.
Of course he does.
In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.
As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.
“Talk.”
Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.
“…Demobats.” She mutters.
“I’m sorry?”
“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”
You wait. There’s no punchline.
“…You’re serious.”
She nods.
And then it all spills out.
Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.
You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”
But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.
And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.
“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”
“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”
“And you were tortured?”
“I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”
“Jesus christ, Robin.”
“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”
She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”
You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”
“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”
You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.
Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”
You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”
She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.
You scowl.
“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”
Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.
You stiffen. Then sigh.
“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.
You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.
“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.”
…
Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.
You stay on the couch next to Steve.
Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.
You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.
Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.
But then his lips part.
Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.
“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”
It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.
You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.
You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.
And goddammit.
Goddammit, you didn’t want this.
Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly.
Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.
But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.
Without thinking, you lean forward.
Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.
“Steve,” you whisper.
No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.
Your throat tightens.
You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.
His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.”
And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.
You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
You’re starting to think maybe she was right.
…
You wake to yelling.
Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.
“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”
“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”
There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.
“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”
“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.
“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”
“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”
“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Because it works!”
You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.
“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”
Instant silence.
When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.
“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”
“Unfortunately.”
Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”
You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.
You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not.”
“I just need to—”
“Now, Harrington.”
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”
Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.
Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.
You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?”
…
The coffee is yesterday’s.
Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.
You pour three cups anyway.
Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.
Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.
Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.
Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.
You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:
“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”
He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”
“Clearly.”
He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.
“Thank you. For last night.”
You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.”
He huffs a weak laugh.
“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”
Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.
“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”
She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.
“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.
Gives his face a little shake.
“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”
You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"
“Got it?”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”
She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”
“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”
Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.
“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”
Slam!
“—licensed.”
You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.
Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.
He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”
You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.
It hurts worse looking at him.
Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.
You blink.
Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.
“Harrington.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.
You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”
He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”
You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.
You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.
And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know.
…
You try to make pancakes.
Try being the operative word.
There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.
Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.
It’s distracting.
It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.
Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.
“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.
You don’t turn around. “Fine.”
A beat.
“You sure?”
You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.
Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.
“I said I’m fine,” you warn.
He ignores that.
Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.
“Here,” he murmurs.
Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.
Then: flip.
One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.
You blink at it, betrayed.
“I was handling it.”
“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”
He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.
You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?”
He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”
You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.
You file that away, too.
“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”
“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”
“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”
He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”
You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”
He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
And fuck, it lands.
It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.
You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.
And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.
You lunge for it like a lifeline.
It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.
“Hello? …You WHAT?”
Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”
“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”
“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”
You glance back.
Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.
You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.
He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?
You raise your brows like, Try me.
You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”
“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"
Click.
Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.
“She grounded?”
“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”
He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”
Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.
You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.
In your head, you run through the math.
Ten days. Minimum.
Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.
God help you. It’s gonna be a long week.
…
Breakfast is awkward.
No other word for it.
Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.
Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.
Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.
When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.
“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”
His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.
You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”
“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.
“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.
You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.
He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.
The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.
Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—
Jesus.
He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.
You get the hoodie off.
His chest is bare.
And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.
His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.
You both freeze.
There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.
Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.
You don’t.
You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.
“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”
Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.
Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”
He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.
You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat.
…
There’s an old joke your friends like to make.
That you’re a sadist.
That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.
But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.
You’re not a sadist.
No. What you are is a fucking masochist.
Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.
Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.
You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.
But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.
Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.
You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.
Something twists low in your stomach.
You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.
A light knock.
“You good?”
A pause, then:
“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”
There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.
And Steve—
Well.
He’s wet.
And shirtless. And pink.
Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.
Your gaze follows it.
The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.
He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.
“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.”
Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.
You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.
Instead, you say:
“Sit.”
He blinks. “…What?”
“On the floor. Back against the tub.”
There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.
You don’t blink.
He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”
“Steve.”
It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.
His first name, in your voice.
You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.
But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.
He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.
Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.
One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.
You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.
“Lean your head back.”
He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."
There’s a long pause.
Then he does.
His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.
The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.
“Too hot?”
He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”
So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead.
It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.
Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.
And that’s when it happens.
The shift.
Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.
Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.
No, he goes rigid.
His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.
And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.
A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.
You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”
His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”
Then, after a beat:
“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”
Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.
You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.
“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.
So you keep going.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.
His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.
Then, he leans.
Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.
Like a plant bending toward light.
You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.
And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.
Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?
The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.
King Steve.
But this? This isn’t him.
This is the After.
The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.
The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.
This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.
And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.
And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.
You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.
But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.
And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.
You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.
And then a quiet thought hits you.
A hunch, really.
You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.
You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat.
Strangled. That’s what Robin said.
You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.
Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.
But you don’t let up.
You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.
There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.
He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.
“Too hard?” you ask quietly.
His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”
The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.
And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.
He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.
And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.
At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.
That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.
It wants to lean in.
Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.
Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.
To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.
God, you’re losing it.
You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.
Cross. Adjust.
You glance down without thinking.
And oh.
Oh.
The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.
And beneath that?
Yeah.
Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.
You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.
His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.
His eyes flutter open.
And the look he gives you…
It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.
Softer than longing. Sharper than want.
It's something that aches.
You don’t know what to do with it.
So you just keep your hands in his hair.
And you rinse.
…
You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.
After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.
The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.
When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.
Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.
His eyes are still on you.
“Thanks,” he says, quiet.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.
Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.
His breath brushes your cheek.
You’re too close.
It’s too much.
You could kiss him.
God help you, you could.
Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.
And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.
That’s want.
And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.
You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.
“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”
Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.
His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”
You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”
He nods, a little too slow.
You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.
Then you turn.
And you walk out.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go.
...
It starts the way summer storms do.
Not with thunder. Not with rain.
With pressure.
The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.
Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.
The moment before it tips.
It’s here now. In this room.
In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.
The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.
The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.
His voice breaks the quiet.
“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”
“Ten days.”
“Hm. I like this show.”
“Knight Rider?”
“Yeah. It’s cool.”
“No. It’s dumb.”
“What? C’mon, the car talks.”
“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”
“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”
“You hungry?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.
Storm pressure.
It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.
You can’t.
The blanket’s too warm.
He’s too close.
And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.
“…You’re doing it again.”
“Hm?”
You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”
His lips part. “Like what?”
Your eyes drop to his mouth.
His pinky brushes yours.
And just like that, the storm breaks.
…
Steve leans in first.
The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.
Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.
You meet him halfway.
His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.
And then your lips meet.
A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.
There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—
It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.
Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.
You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.
His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.
Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.
Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.
You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.
“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”
You nod, catching your breath.
But he doesn’t stop looking at you
And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
But you know.
You just… know.
The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.
So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.
Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.
“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”
He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.
Still, you don’t stop.
You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.
“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”
He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.
“Shit, baby…” he breathes.
And that word—
It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.
You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.
Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.
Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.
You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.
And it guts you. The honesty of it.
How easy it is to see now.
That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want.
Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.
You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.
His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—
You blink. Your mouth goes dry.
Because he’s—
Wow. Okay.
Noted.
It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.
You swallow hard.
“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”
You look up at him, eyes wide.
“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”
His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.
And there it is.
That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.
“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”
You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”
He raises a brow.
You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.
He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.
You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.
He quiets instantly.
Because your hands are on him now.
You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.
“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”
He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.
You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.
“You can touch me,” you murmur.
His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”
You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”
Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.
Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”
You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.
Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.
And Steve unravels beautifully.
You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.
Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.
Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”
His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.
So you double down.
You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.
You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.
“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"
You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.
“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”
He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:
“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?”
You pause, stunned.
You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”
You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.
Then, finally, you nod.
“Okay.”
You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.
What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.
You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.
The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.
Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.
Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.
“Shit, are you—?”
“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”
He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.
And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.
“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”
You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.
“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”
The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.
And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.
“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”
His fingers circle faster.
And your body breaks.
You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.
He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”
You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.
You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.
“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”
His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.
And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.
And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.
Things too raw for daylight.
Things meant only for him.
…
You never ask him to stay.
Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.
Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.
He never asks. You never offer.
…
You learn the little things first.
That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.
And sometimes, you catch him staring again.
Only now, you don’t look away.
You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."
You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.
Then he moves.
Three steps. That’s all it takes.
Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.
“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.
He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”
You don’t.
You kind of never do.
…
The days bleed together after that.
A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.
He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.
He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.
A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.
You scowl at checkout. He grins.
“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.
You do.
First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.
Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs.
…
Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.
It starts to feel owned.
You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.
He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.
On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.
He’s watching you. Again.
You glance up. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”
“Steve.”
“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”
You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”
He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.
“Yeah,” he says.
But it’s not what he means.
You both know that.
…
The sex changes, too.
In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.
But at night? He’s something else entirely.
He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.
And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation.
He knows you now.
Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.
One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.
“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”
You break on his name.
He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.
And afterward, he stays.
Inside you. Around you.
He never pulls away first.
…
Not all nights are easy.
Some nights, you wake alone.
You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.
You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.
He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.
When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.
Lets you guide him back to bed.
…
Your mornings are different now.
You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.
It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.
The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.
He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.
Like maybe he was meant to be here all along.
…
Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count.
Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.
And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t.
…
Like tonight.
You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.
It would be so easy to stay here.
To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.
But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.
“Why’d you do it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.
“…Do what?”
“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”
And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.
That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.
Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.
You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.
“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”
His hand stills.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”
You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.
“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”
He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Then, quieter:
“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”
Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?
You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.
The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.
Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel.
That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.
Sinks its teeth in. Festers.
Until guilt turns into remorse,
Remorse turns into habit,
And habit drags on as penance.
So he made himself useful.
Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.
Diving first. Bleeding first.
Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.
That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.
You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.
“You’re for you, Steve.”
He blinks, brows knitting.
“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”
His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.
Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.
You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You don’t.
You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.
You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
You get used to the quiet.
Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.
To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.
To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.
You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.
So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.
Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.
You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.
“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”
Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.
You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.
“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.
“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”
You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.
You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”
Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.
“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”
But his ears are pink by the time you close the door.
…
After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.
Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker.
“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”
Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.
You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.
“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?
You glance over your shoulder.
Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.
You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”
Dustin beams. “Awesome.”
You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:
“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”
The room goes still.
Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.
Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.
“No.”
You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”
You blink at him like, Seriously?
He raises his brows like, Try me.
You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.
He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.
“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”
You frown. “Our what now?”
“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”
You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”
But Steve isn’t laughing.
“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
…
The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.
You wait.
Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.
Fear.
You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”
He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”
“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”
His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”
“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”
“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.
But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.
“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.
“...I just got you.”
The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.
His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.
“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”
He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.
He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”
You smile into his shirt. “Deal.”
…
It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.
The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.
“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”
You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”
He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”
“You needed it.”
Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.
He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.
The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.
You let it breathe.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist.
Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.
Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.
That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.
Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.
The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.
And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.
You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.
He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.
And he’s learning to let you.
You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
You hum. “Just thinking.”
“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.
You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:
“I was just… thinking about what you said.”
He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”
“At the gate.”
That’s all you have to say. You both remember.
The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.
I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—
You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:
I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.
You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”
Steve looks at you for a long moment.
Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”
“When?”
He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.
“Not out loud. But you did.”
You think back.
To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.
Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.
Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.
Your fingers find his jaw.
“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”
He tilts his head, waiting.
And you do.
Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.
And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it.
…
The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.
But it’s home.
More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.
The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.
Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.
But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.
And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.
It’s just time, now.
Yours.
Together.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
Maybe she was right.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
You've named it something else now, anyway.
…
epilogue
You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.
You’ve got prep to do for night.
Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.
“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”
You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”
“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”
“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”
He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.
“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”
Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.
But for now, it’s just him.
Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light.
And the sun keeps pouring in.
❊ sam winchester x short!wife!reader
❊ summary: it's a good thing you have you have sam around to reach the things you can't, even if he does it on purpose.
❊ content warnings: none.
❊ word count: 664 ❊ genre: fluff
❊ author's note: me asf but i also love a tall, chivalrous man.
the morning sun was beginning to greet you from behind the peaks of the mountains, casting a warm glow on the dark wooden cabinetry of your kitchen. your husband blessed you with his presence, the welcoming embrace of his strong arms and placement of soft kisses anywhere he could leave them made you melt.
the only thing that sounded better? a home-brewed mug of coffee with an insane amount of sweet creamer.
the problem? your favorite mug was tucked away on the highest possible shelf in your kitchen cabinet and you knew for a fact you didn't put it there last time you washed dishes.
a sigh parted from your sleep-swollen lips as you turned to face your husband, sam, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. his brunet hair was tousled from the battles he fought in his dreams, his sweatpants hung low on his hips like he'd yet to adjust them, and an old t-shirt revealed the taut biceps hidden under the cotton as he crossed his arms.
he leaned back against the edge of the counter, almost making it appear awkward as his giant body tried to settle into something your size.
"did some... rearranging, did we?" you probed, skepticism narrowing your eyes and knitting your brows together. a knowing, lazy grin slowly spread over his face, his eyes still squeezed shut to block out the bright rays of sun bathing the walls of your home.
sam simply hummed. not confirming nor denying, just a simple "hmm." nonetheless, you turned back around, standing on the tips of your toes as you stretched up and high. a strained groan wrung out from your chest, cueing sam to pad over behind you, his front to your back, as he reached up much further than you could without climbing onto the counter.
an exasperated, soft sigh left you and a light chuckle left him. he stepped backward and placed two ceramic mugs on the counter—one for you, the other for him.
"you did it on purpose," your voice was bordering a whine as you turned to be chest-to-chest, eye-to-eye. his hand gently closed the cabinet behind your head, coercing him to lean in close enough that you could count each lash if you weren't so mesmerized by his oozy hazel eyes.
a lopsided grin pulled on his lips, his deep dimples prominent on his flushed cheeks that you would kiss a million times over if he'd let you—even if you already tried this morning and he tickled you until you begged for mercy with a smile plastered on your face.
"i got no idea what you're talkin' about," sam’s voice was still heavy with sleep. slow mornings like this weren't common—hell, they were as scarce as hen's teeth—but you enjoyed every single second of them even if sam was a pain in the ass.
"i think you know exactly what i'm talkin' about, sam." you countered, raising your brows at him incredulously. yet, the corners of your lips tugged upwards, confronting you to tuck your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your grin. when that failed, you crossed your arms over your chest to prove you were still serious, but sam's smile only widened.
"you know i can't reach up there."
now his smile took up his whole damn face. the corners of his eyes crinkled with something tender and his nose scrunched ever so slightly. his hands went to your waist, slipping underneath your baggy sleep t-shirt so that his palms splayed against your smooth skin. your hands followed, resting atop his and thumbs circling his wrists.
"aw, honey," he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead before peering down at you again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "guess it's a good thing you married me."
"and i thought i married for love," you teasingly grinned as you two leaned into each other, sealing your lips as the sun finally peaked and beamed through the thin white curtains.
touch-starved!dean winchester x ex-girlfriend!hunter!reader
❊ summary: when dean winds up at your doorstep, injured and in desperate need of a patch-me-up, you half-hesitantly and half-willingly lead him inside to take care of him just how he needs.
❊ content warnings: emotional distress and vulnerability, intimacy, blood/injury details, alcohol use (as an anesthetic), weapons (very brief)
❊ word count: 3.3k ❊ genre: angst / suggestive
❊ author's note: i wrote this as a response to a submission but i lost it! regardless, thank you so much, anon, for giving me fuel for my first ever request, and i hope you enjoy!
ps., this is my second post where i made a 67 joke (albeit on accident). am i cooked. it's not funny. i know that. i'm sorry (not really).
the bookshelves filled to the brim with old, dusty books decades—possibly centuries—older than you were, the faint odor of whisky and motor oil stagnant in the air, and the multiple desks with books stacked atop their surface were what made bobby's house in sioux falls home.
it was where you could properly rest up after renting out janky motel rooms for a few weeks. the showers always felt nicer—warmer, somehow—and the bed in the guest bedroom had a mattress that actually remembered your shape.
but the bed remembered two other people, too. it didn't belong solely to you, and you knew that, but the sound of the back door swinging open and heavy boots on the floorboards that made the house rattle still startled you.
you were resting up in the guest bed, jotting a few notes in your second hunting journal, the one where you described your cases, dated them, and finally added bookmarks to your first journal.
now, you warily crept downstairs, knife clutched in your fist engraved with old symbols from some book you'd once skimmed through. your pistol, once beneath your pillow, dug into your lower back, tucked into the elastic waistband of your sleep bottoms.
when you reached the last step and turned the corner, your eyes just peeking around the wall and banister, the face that greeted you was one that makes your heart stutter in your chest—no matter how much you could’ve anticipated it.
dean.
his muddy boots that invited himself inside and left intricate prints on the floorboards stopped abruptly at the sight of you just a few feet away. one of your hands still curled around the wooden banister to keep yourself upright, and your grip on the knife loosened just a bit—dazed.
though your jaw wedged open, your mind didn't fill the blanks for your mouth to form words. your eyes were locked on the each other's faces, not leaving for a long while. dean's pupils dilated when they focused on you, intense and reaping your features like tracing a road map and memorizing all the routes.
all because you two haven't seen each other in months. five months. twenty-three weeks. one hundred and sixty-six days. in just two hours, it would've been sixty-seven days.
but who was counting anymore? your grief? your sickly regret that made you grind your teeth before turning to resentment that made you execute every creature with a sense of strength you never wielded before? the ache in your chest that ruined your post-adrenaline highs before repeating the same cycle?
truthfully, you weren't sure.
what you did know was that the separation hurt much more this time. more than a hunt that would keep you two apart, more than death standing on the front porch, and more than bickering arguments where you refused to speak to each other for hours or days. it was official, sealed in an envelope and stamped—like a divorce where you acted like you never knew each other.
there were no midday 'i miss you' texts buzzing your phone, calls far past midnight just to hear the other's voice, or stumbling on the other's doorstep with heartfelt apologies and make-up sex despite how much you itched to.
it was deleted call logs and ripped up emergency contacts. it was bundling his sweaters and t-shirts you used to sleep in and tossing them into your backseat, out of sight until your eyes dipped a little lower in the rear view mirror with a pang in your chest. even when you tried to throw yourself into hunts and chase leads you knew were dead ends just to stay busy, nighttime still approached and dean plagued your thoughts.
so while you didn’t expect him to wind up at bobby's front door, it made sense that he would. bobby was his father was much as bobby was yours. it was inevitable that you would cross paths eventually—especially here. you just didn't think it would be this soon.
you blinked, inertly discarding the knife once in your fist on the table behind you and your pistol. your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you broke the tense silence with a feeble "dean?"
only then did you notice the blood oozing from a fresh cut on his forehead. while most of it had dried or been smeared, it still trickled down the side of his face and past his cheek, stopping just shy of his jaw.
dean's shoulders relaxed at the sound of your voice, cautionary and tender, like speaking too loud would break an unspoken rule. he winced just barely, the throbbing in his temples and the cramping in his muscles proving no ceasefire. yet, he still fronted his typical bravado, a slight tug at the corner of his lips even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"hey, sweetheart."
your stomach twisted at the sound of his voice, something so familiar sounding so foreign to your ears that it almost made you sick. your heart deflated, but still you took a tentative step closer, feeling the cold floors burn through your socks, snapping you awake.
"what happened?" you asked, eyes flickering over his face inch by inch before assuming to the rest of his figure, scanning for any other visible injuries. you so badly wanted to reach out, console him, caress his face in your palms.
but you couldn't. not anymore. instead, you stood there idly, watching every minuscule twitch from him and holding onto it like it would he would disappear and you would realize you were caught up in a dream—or, maybe another nightmare.
dean cleared his throat, waving your question off like it was nothing. "hunt. djinn—nothing sam and i couldn't handle." he swallowed, throat tight.
dean's body still buzzed with a fraction of adrenaline—it began subsiding on his way over. his body protested every movement, and even sliding out of the impala became a chore: he groaned with every flex of muscle, some he didn't even know he had, and his headache felt like it was splitting his skull open.
when dean tried to take a step forward, he stumbled, barely catching himself by holding onto the wall. you hurriedly sprang to his side, supporting some of his weight on your shoulder like a human crutch.
"okay, let's lay you down," you advised, and, to your relief, he actually listened. you interpreted it as fatigue—that he was too exhausted to fight you. you guided him to the library and helped him settle into the worn couch tucked underneath the windows with the shutters were already drawn. a groan escaped him when he finally sat down, eyes fluttering shut and hands grasping at his head.
you went to the kitchen, snagging the first aid kit left discarded on the kitchen table, half-empty from previous times of use, and simultaneously wetted a washcloth underneath warm tap water.
you went to the kitchen cupboards, stealing the bottle of whisky and the painkillers beside it—makeshift anesthetics—and took a quick swig of the caramel liquid. you knew you would need it tonight, just to loose some edge and ease your mind.
when you returned, you pulled up one of the chairs at bobby's desk to the side of the couch. dean had managed to sit up, just slightly, his back against the armrest. you handed him both bottles like a truce that he gratefully accepted. once your hands freed up, you opened and rifled through the first aid kit, searching for an antiseptic, bandages, and a suture kit.
you sucked in a low breath, eyes trained on the clinical white in your lap. finally, you asked, "what hurts the most?"
"everything," he groaned after popping the painkillers and chasing them with whisky, letting them rest on the windowsill beside him. you sighed again, a bit more dejected with your chest deflating entirely. you closed the kit with a quiet click! before fixing your gaze to his face, eyes briskly examining his wound and avoiding his wandering gaze by all means.
"a djinn, huh?" you pondered aloud, voice still soft. you lifted the washcloth towards his face, and when he didn't outwardly protest, you gently pressed it to his forehead, wiping away the grime, sweat, and smeared blood clinging to his skin, staining the cloth vague shades of brown.
dean let out a low hiss every time you neared the cut, but didn't pull away. instead, his fingers tightened around the couch cushions, his eyes squeezed shut, and his jaw tightened, trying to remain pliant. then, a small smirk played over his lips, his glossy eyes peeking open and fixating on you.
"don't tell me you're jealous?" he teased through gritted teeth, smirk widening despite when he'd hiss out. a scoff scratched your throat, and you couldn't hide the minuscule curl on the corners of your lips. the small remark felt like old times—the playful banter, whispering teases in each others ear, closing in just like this. yet, you shook your head, trying to shove that precarious feeling down.
"hardly." you muttered, continuing to clean him up, your touch feather-light and meticulous. focused. you chewed on the inside of your cheek as you swapped the rag out for a cotton ball doused in antiseptic, gently dragging it over his cut, where you heard him grunt but remain still.
dean stared at you all the while, eyes studying every inch of your face. you were just as gorgeous as you were when he last saw you months ago, even if you were just clad in old sleepwear. you wore an old led zeppelin t-shirt of his that he recognized—that you hoped he didn't—and your hair was unruly despite being tied back. your makeup from the day had worn off, evident by the black smudges of mascara in facial creases, and shallow bags hollowed beneath your eyes.
dean's heart clenched in his chest. god, he was tired. tired of hunting without you, of drinking alone, of waking up with no dip in the mattress beside him or your body pressed against his.
your voice shook him out of his thoughts.
"did you... hallucinate?" your eyes still didn't quite meet his, too concentrated on tending to his face, fingers brushing cheekbones as you cleaned the cut. "while... poisoned, i mean."
he blinked, swallowing hard as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, "y-yeah."
"about?" you promptly asked, capturing his gaze momentarily before fleeting, not ready to confront his gaze just yet, even if you could feel his stare burning your skin.
dean sucked in a breath, eyes flitting to the square carpet that covered up the devil's trap etched into the floorboards. his fingers twitched, thin nails scratching the fabric on the couch as he cleared his throat. "just... regular stuff," he muttered, as vague and evasive as he always was about sensitive topics.
you could read his body language: the drawn shoulders, the averted eyes, the rigid muscles...
you didn't push any further. you didn't want to open any more wounds tonight, so instead, you murmured a soft "okay," and tried to heal the obvious one in front of you. you pressed the cotton ball to his cut again, dabbing softly, and he winced ever so slightly. you retreated just a bit, eyes flickering over his face to ensure he was alright.
dean's sucked in a sharp breath, eyes still trained on the floor, the admission rushed as it spilled from his mouth: "it was us."
a beat of silence. you went still. so did he.
"you, uh... comin' home to me. like nothing ever happened." he added, voice barely above a whisper. raw. vulnerable. his eyes snapped up, catching yours with something you couldn't quiet place besides naming it magnetic. "we were happy."
the confession hung heavy in the air, the tension thick enough that you could slice it in half and have enough to share.
dean's lips parted further, but the words on the tip of his tongue hesitated. he wanted to tell you how he'd woken up from the hallucination desperately searching for your familiar face in the damp, stale warehouse. he wanted to tell you that your voice burrowed into his skull just when he thought he'd forgotten it, or that he'd clung onto the sliver of what he could remember and replayed it in his mind a million times, or that when the cheeky glimmer in your eyes the curve of your lips dissipated, he silently wished the djinn would've poisoned him again just to feel you one more time.
when sam asked him what he saw after rescuing him, dean was too embarrassed to say it was you: the only woman he'd actually imagined spending the rest of his life with—either hunting late into your golden years or finally settling down in a quaint, small house, waking up tangled in each other's warmth. he'd cook breakfast for you in your kitchen—no gas station groceries—and kiss the scars peppering your skin as he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you taut to his side as you giggled in his ear, a wide grin plastered on both your faces.
and yet, he still pushed you away, told you "good things don't last long for me," so that he could keep you safe at a distance; steer you far from the trouble constantly nipping at his heels because he didn't want you hurt—because your absence alive was better than your absence in death.
but none of those words came out. all he could manage was a choked, hardly audible murmur.
"i missed you."
you breath hitched. your chest caved in and swelled simultaneously. for a moment, you felt like you were suffocating while sucking in a shaky breath. dean didn't give you time to recover, kept tugging at your heart strings, because now that he was revealing what had been on his mind for the past five months, the weight leaving his shoulders felt good.
"i missed havin' you watch my back. missed your smart ass remarks and wakin' up beside you and havin’ you hoggin' the blankets. god, i missed your laugh and your damn gorgeous smile."
a soft chuckle parted his lips, lacking the usual warmth and glimmer in his eyes. there were a thousand other things he missed about you that he would never admit out loud.
for starters, he missed your wispy hair tickling his cheek when he rolled over in bed. he missed the roll of your eyes when he made a corny joke. he missed how you asked if he was "still eatin' that?" even if he was still eating. he missed how you took a sip of his milkshake every damn time, regardless of flavor, and called it a "girlfriend tax."
he missed whenever you begged to drive the impala and, when he finally surrendered the keys to you, you cranked the windows completely down, blasted lynyrd skynyrd over the speakers, and had the brightest grin on your face that no star in the solar system could outshine with your hand out the window, wind combing through your fingers.
so of course he missed you—missed you as much as you longed for him.
but neither of you could find the right words to speak. how could you? hearing those words tumble from his mouth so effortlessly after five whole months of silent pining? it felt like you had so much to say and yet nothing seemed good enough.
the house was eerily silent. the air between you two felt all-consuming and heavy, pressing you until you cracked and spat something out. anything. but you didn't give easy, and maybe that was what made everything that much more difficult.
dean broke the silence, a soft, quiet, almost broken “‘m sorry,” leaving his lips with a defeated sigh, then quickly adding, “for everything. for letting’ you go, for pushin’ you away,” he rambled before suddenly hesitating like it pained him too much to continue.
god, dean was going to ruin you.
your stomach twisted in knots and your throat ran dry. your brows knitted together with an invisible string and your eyes drooped low. a burn began to manifest behind your eyes and you forcefully bit your bottom lip to suppress the sensation.
you still held the cotton ball between your index finger and thumb before setting it aside. your hands reached towards dean, and instead of retaliation, you were met with his wide eyes slowly flickering up to yours, patient and docile. you cusped his face in your palms, thumbs gently caressing his soft, freckled skin and feeling the familiar scratch of the rough, light stubble.
"you're an idiot, dean," your voice was no louder than a whisper, voice cracking and accounting for all the unspoken things you wished you'd said then and now. but there was no bite, no callous or hostility, only exhaustion and something bordering forgiveness.
you felt a salty warmth trickle past your nose and run down cheek. you quickly wiped it away with the back of one of your hands and sniffled, swallowing hard to keep more tears from escaping.
a humorless laugh parted dean's lips that made the knife in your gut twist further. "yeah," he admitted softly, his own eyes welled up and glossy, flickering away from your face momentarily, "i know."
but when his eyes found yours again, downcast and rimmed a faint red, his hand came up to cover yours where it held his face. his touch felt like fire embers burning through you, sizzling against your skin like firecrackers on pavement. dean leaned in, tilting his face inwards until his nose gently bumped yours.
because dean didn't know how to leave ‘well enough’ alone. because the idea of you being so close and yet still out of touch was outrageous to him. because dean secretly wanted to know if you would lean in, too—if you desired him just as much as he did you.
you sucked in a deep, shaky breath, desperately grasping for threads of self-restraint and teetering the border of self-respect. the smell of faint, musky aftershave that stubbornly clung to dean wafted up your nose and your eyes flutter closed. your nails softly clawed his face where you held him, applying every ounce of willpower you could muster.
it was all too familiar—you'd been through these motions so many times before, but nothing quite like this. dean could sense your hesitation, could feel your rapid pulse where his thumb connected to your wrist, and could see the reluctance pooling in your irises.
but his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you a bit nearer, and his other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair just like they used to, and you caved to inhibition.
your lips tenderly slotted between his, testing the waters. when dean sank into you, you felt the ache. this kiss was atypical: it was everything ever left unsaid, apologies that failed to bring justice, and a plea to stay.
and dean did just that. he secured you right where you belonged: taut against him, able to keep you safe in his arms—because he was a fool to think otherwise. dean always needed a partner in crime, someone to stand beside him, or hold on the other telephone line, and he wanted it to be you.
when your lips parted, they hovered just inches apart, neither of you willing to completely pull away. your breaths mingled in the pocket and your foreheads rested against each other. your hands trailed to his shoulders, resting there as you tried to recapture the air he stole from your lungs.
dean whispered your name like a solemn prayer, "please give me another chance. i wanna make things right—wanna show you i can,"
and how could you ever say no?
you nodded, swallowing as the corners of your lips tugged upwards, hope swelling in your chest for the first time in a long while. "'f 'course, dean," you whispered against his lips before sealing them with yours again.
summary You know Josh is gross – the way he looks at you, touches you, says things no decent guy would – but somehow, his desperate obsession feels intoxicating. He's pathetic, and filthy, which is exactly why nobody can know. (read on ao3)
wc 8.4k words
warnings explicit (MDNI!), PIV, fingering, masturbation, semi-rough sex, degradation, humiliation&praise kink, dub-con elements, bit of overstimulation, semi-public sex, emotional manipulation, obsessive/manipulative behaviour, general creepy and grossness from josh, unprotected sex, some noncon touching, alcohol use, sub/dom dynamics grey area
pairing josh washintgon x fem!reader (+ mentions of rest of until dawn gang)
You don’t tell your friends about Josh.
You can’t. He’s just… ugh. Gross.
Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.
And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.
No, gross in the way he looks at you.
His gaze is… devouring.
Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.
His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it.
And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.
Your friends noticed it immediately.
The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.
“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”
“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.
You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.
He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.
“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”
You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”
But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”
Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”
He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it.
But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.
You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense.
And he liked that. He liked it way too much.
Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.
As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.
“Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”
“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.”
Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.”
“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?”
“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.”
You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’.
Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”
You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.
Men like him have always existed.
Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide.
He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.
Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world.
But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.
His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth.
And he never tries to hide it.
Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand.
You always catch it.
The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him.
He’s touchy, too.
Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.
The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.
He’s just one of those guys.
He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.
He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.
He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.
He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another.
Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that.
His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.
And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear.
He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”
It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.
You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.
Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.
You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.
He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.
He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.
Which is exactly why nobody could know.
It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen?
Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights.
Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there.
“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—”
“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.
Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.
Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.
If anything, it only spurred him on.
“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”
“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”
“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”
“Fuck off,” Is all you say.
It started earlier that night.
You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.
You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.
Watching.
He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.
“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.
Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.
But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.
“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.
You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.
The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring.
He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.
Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.
“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.
You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”
“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.
You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.
“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”
Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.
“What? I just bounce it right in?”
“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”
“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.”
“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden.
You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.
“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.”
You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.
But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back.
His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively.
“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles.
“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table.
“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation.
He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”
You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.
You can’t believe you listen to him.
You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again.
“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends.
“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.
You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before.
Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically.
“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips.
You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench.
You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.”
He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence.
You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.
Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.
You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.
You’d have to agree.
You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.
Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.
You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves.
Almost everyone had gone to bed.
You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know.
Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more.
When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders.
You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.”
He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying.
For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs.
“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.
He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”
“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.
Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.
“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.
You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”
You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.
“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”
You can’t help it. “What do you want?”
He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.
God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.
A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.
Yeah. He’s fucking weird.
And just… crude, and touchy.
But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.
He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second.
And maybe that’s why you ask him—
“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves.
Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest.
“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered.
“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?”
He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself.
“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.”
Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.
He’s pathetic.
But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.
Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.
You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now.
He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent.
Good. He should shut up more often, you think.
Before he can say anything, you lean in again.
This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it.
You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.
He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again.
“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm.
He nods so fast it’s pathetic.
“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing.
“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges.
“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender.
His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–”
You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel.
He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.
You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs.
His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses.
“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…”
You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.
He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.
You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew.
“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat.
His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin.
“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.”
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear.
He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…”
You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat.
Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed.
At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you.
God, you’re pathetic.
His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.
You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic.
You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds.
You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts.
“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are.
“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”
You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.
His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in.
“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?”
You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips.
He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?”
He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.”
His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…”
You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges. “Right there, right there…” You mumble.
“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.”
You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him.
“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”
“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.
Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him.
“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?”
You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.
The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave.
“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out.
You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach.
Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.
His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair.
“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…”
His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away.
You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.
Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him.
And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.
Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock.
His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek.
“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.”
You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand.
Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.
Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.
He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines.
You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.
You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected.
You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender.
Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded.
Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening.
His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you.
“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice.
You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward.
With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control.
He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath.
Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids.
“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need.
One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—”
You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.
“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.
You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you.
You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—”
“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off.
Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it.
His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.”
You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely.
“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—”
You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”
He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal.
Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah.
“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken.
“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.”
That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him.
You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.
“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—”
Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard.
“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire.
He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more.
“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—”
He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined.
“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.”
He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.
“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust.
Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw.
He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly.
Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold.
A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.
Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust.
Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”
Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.
“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.”
You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh.
“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.”
You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside.
“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.”
Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly.
“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline.
Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity.
“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?”
You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.”
For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?”
Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.
You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy.
And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—
Because you know he’s right.
note: woah first fic alert ! this was supposed to be way shorter, but i decided to commit to the smut. first time writing it, have no idea if it's any good. veryyyy welcome to feedback! i just kind of try to write and emulate my own fav writers yk . anyway. hope u like! also pls lmk if the warnings aren't quite accurate or if i forgot something!
summary: you’ve known clark kent your entire life. you know him better than you know yourself, if you’re being honest. and you are way too comfortable with him.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, unprotected sex, handjob(?) idk you’ll see, fingering, oral, praise, clark talks you through it, cum.. eating..?, finger licking/in mouth, cute n soft, BIG DICK!clark, size kink/difference, dacryphilia undertones, aftercare, clark gets exposed to a breeding kink, porn with little bit of plot), fluff, shy (at first) and soft!clark, teasing mainly from reader to annoy clark, lowk secondhand embarrassment, reader finally in her last year of university after taking a long fucking time to decide on what she wanted to do with her life, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), no use of y/n, NOT proofread // wc: 7k
yari yaps: i’m supposed to be writing my bwatober fic. but NOOOOO mr. kent has me in a chokehold and im a useless writer that can’t focus on deadlines (bwatober will be posted soon i promise i js cant work on it when this was on my mind) // divider credits
“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?”
You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.
“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”
“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything.
“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”
Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you.
Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”
“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”
You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”
He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—
“So you don’t have an alien dick?”
“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology.
“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“
“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation.
“But are you sure?”
“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”
Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it.
Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.
“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”
“Do you have to be so vulgar?”
“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”
“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”
“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”
“I mean, yes, but not like that!”
“Like what?”
“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now.
“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”
It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait.
“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too.
“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”
“Oh my— stop. please.”
“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?”
“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”
You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did.
A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”
Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”
“You don’t?”
Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response.
“… No,” he finally mutters.
“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”
“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”
You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”
A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time.
“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”
“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”
This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?”
“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan.
“If I do show you, would you stop asking?”
It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up.
“Take your pants off then,” you dare.
Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure.
Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are.
You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover.
As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own.
Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did.
You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman.
You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down.
Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked.
And now, he was unzipping his pants.
“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”
Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”
“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly.
“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”
You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”
“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs.
Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe.
The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen.
Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his.
Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at.
Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane.
“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”
You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."
He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat.
“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”
Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”
“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”
He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches.
You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing.
Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question.
“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”
You’re a dead woman.
You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him.
The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it.
You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.
But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps.
“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady.
Clark releases himself, then nods.
You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought.
His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick.
“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“
“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized.
You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.
There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered.
His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly.
“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”
The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him.
Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”
“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”
“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes.
“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”
He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”
You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees.
Clark notices. He always does.
He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?”
You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are.
“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur.
“You smell different.”
Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him.
But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.
“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease.
A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums.
“You want me to?”
The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him.
Finally, he speaks.
“No. Want you closer, actually.”
You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs.
You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.
Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him.
“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”
“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless.
Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”
A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass.
“You gonna show me how you’ll fit?” is what you say instead.
You’re in his bedroom within a blink of your eyes— comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you.
“Sorry. ‘m a little excited,” Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for him— of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he can’t breathe.
“I can see that. feel it, too,” you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core.
“You're lucky I love you,” he sighs.
Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. He’s warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. He’s like the first warmth of spring after a long winter.
“Take this off,” he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.
His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. It’s discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side.
He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck.
“Gosh,” Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, “I’ve dreamt about this moment before.”
“Do I live up to your expectations?” you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms.
He groans, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and he’s in heaven.
“Better,” is all he says before his kisses move even lower.
You’re certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. There’s no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires.
No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasn’t like that. Though you really wouldn’t have minded it.
A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers.
“You practice that a lot in college?” you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest.
“Mm… Not lots of practice, but enough,” he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you. “So pretty, sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and you’re melting for him. Maybe he’s got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it.
“Want this gone,” you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation.
Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
He doesn’t give you any time to appreciate the beauty of him— the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment he’d never looked larger. Confident. Yours.
Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into.
Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“You smell so good,” he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. “Goodness… Already dripping for me and I haven’t even done anything.”
“You gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?” you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it.
“Easy there.” His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby.”
Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit.
A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted.
“Tastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,” he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy.
“Clark—“
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he huffs. “One day.”
Clark didn’t verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision.
It’s as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub that’s begging for his attention. You can’t help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldn’t care if you did. He’s able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.
The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that you’ll find yourself back in this position another day.
But not right now.
Right now, you need him– all of him–
“Slow down,” he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. “Haven’t even started to stretch you out.”
You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. “Clark, you need to hurry up.”
“We have all the time in the world,” he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesn’t work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.
You always knew Clark’s hands were big. It matched the rest of him– long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly that– holding his world safely in his hands.
The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.
“You’re so soft,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead– a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Gosh… Can you hear yourself?”
Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all.
You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldn’t be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come.
His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed.
“Right here, honey?” The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as you’d done to him for years on end.
The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch.
“Easy,” he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval.
“It’s— fuck, that’s… A lot,” you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut.
“If you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?” he asks, almost teasingly.
A shaky breath exits your lips. “You’re— you’re enjoying this.”
“And you’re not?” Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering hole— right down to his knuckles.
Your best friend doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan.
Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you.
With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact.
Slowly, his fingers exit you.
“Mm… I don’t think you can take me tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, “Next time, hm?”
Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading.
“What?” you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. “Clark— No, need you—“
“I’ll just hurt you if we do it today.” He shakes his head. “Need to spend more time. One night of prep isn’t enough—“
“What if I want it to hurt?” you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just need you in me— need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.”
He’s not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. He’s still thinking too rationally for your liking. But he’s pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach instead— if he was truly unaffected by your words, he would’ve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch.
You couldn’t have that.
Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, he’s leaking.
“Look, baby. He’s crying for me,” you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process.
For the first time that night, Clark’s gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly.
You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body.
“So big, so hard for me,” you sigh, almost pouting at him, “And you’re not gonna fill me up?”
Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like he’s trying his best to hold onto the restraint that you’re chipping away from him.
“You know I’m on birth control,” you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. “You wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.”
He swallows. “What kind of experiment?” His voice is broken.
You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. He’s waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left.
Finally, you whisper, “I want to see if Kal-El’s sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.”
Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him.
His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does.
The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. You’re about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long.
Clark Kent is a fucking liar.
Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasn’t enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldn’t stop himself anymore.
Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark notices– of course he does– the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and you’re gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.
His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. “Breathe, honey.” Clark showers you with kisses– your nose, cheeks, eyes, neck– anywhere he could reach. “I know it’s big, baby, I’m so sorry.”
With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. “F… Fuck, Clark,” you gasp out.
“I know, I know,” he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. “Try to relax for me, okay?” Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears.
“You’re so big– God,” you say, voice cracking.
“Not God,” he corrects with a chuckle, “But yes.”
“Fuck you,” you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bit– probably from the familiarity.
You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.
The way there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you don’t think you’re worthy of carrying.
His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally.
How he touches you with extreme care, though you know it’s easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. He’s always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much you’d have to push him to fully break you.
It’s only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you.
Clark’s pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more.
“I… Sweetheart,” he grunts. “You’re still so tight around me.”
As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies.
“Move,” you tell him, breathy. “Please–”
“Hang on,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I’m not paused right now for you. I might–” Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. “I might lose it right away if I don’t give myself a break right now.”
Pride swells in your chest. “Superman is a minuteman?” you tease softly.
“Hey–”
A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix.
His fingers dig into your hipbone– not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.
“You’re playing dirty,” he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.
“So what if you cum fast?” you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. “Don’t tell me Superman can’t go a couple rounds.”
His eye twitches, and you know you’ve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime.
“Of course I can,” Clark says with a tone you know all too well– one that lets you know he’s about to prove you wrong.
His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that he’s going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesn’t.
Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomen– him– deep inside of you.
“Shit,” you gasp out, but you don’t have time for anymore words. He’s pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you can’t even begin to form any thoughts. He’s splitting you apart, filling you in ways that you’ve never felt before.
“That’s it,” Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.
He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry– You’re so pretty like this.”
Clark swallows all your moans and whines like he’s desperate to have them. All you can feel is him– his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto.
“You look so good like this. So perfect, so beautiful— gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me– need you to make a mess all over me.”
As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. “God– Clark!” you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him.
All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he has– prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.
One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. He’s coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.
Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin.
He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for.
“What’s with that look?” he asks, nipping at your lips. “You only have yourself to blame for this.”
“I didn’t do anything just now.” You frown at him, though not entirely upset.
“No,” he agreed, “But you did challenge me to put a baby in you. I’m feeling competitive tonight.”
You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost.
Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes.
Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You don’t fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he can’t get rid of the markings he left behind.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring you’d be wearing high neck clothing on days you didn’t feel like doing your makeup.
You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly… you don’t really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder.
“How do you feel?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Good,” you sigh, content. “Might be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.”
“You asked for it,” he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss, but you’re smiling too.
Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other won’t end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with.
Right now, you’ll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
clark kent taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover
⤷ to be eligible for my taglist, you must have your age stated somewhere on your blog!
synopsis: f (fluff), a (angst), su (suggestive content), NSFW marked as such
➣ newest: an angel
one shots
late night research || f & su, 1.2k
summary: when you wake up and notice that the usual heavy dip in the mattress isn't beside you, you know exactly where to look and how to get it back.
church knells || a, 1.7k
summary: when a hunt goes sideways, you and dean must suffer the consequences of being under prepared and ill-equipped.
body heat || f & su, 2.8k
summary: unable to sleep from the cold, dean promises to keep you warm, one way or another, like the gentleman he is, but the cold happens to extract much more from the both of you than anticipated.
playing nurse || a & su, 3.3k
summary: when dean winds up at your doorstep, injured and in desperate need of a patch-me-up, you half-hesitantly and half-willingly lead him inside to take care of him just how he needs.
an angel || a & f, 1.5k
summary: neither of you can afford to lose the other.
synopsis: f (fluff), a (angst), su (suggestive content), NSFW marked as such
➣ newest: shorter
one shots
burnin' bones || f, 2.2k
summary: after taking on a case you read about in the newspaper, you unexpectedly cross paths with sam, a long-time hunting partner of yours—and one of your favorites that makes your heart beat a bit faster.
brown carharrt || f, 1.1k
summary: after a rough hunt with the winchester brothers who arrived after a local in town went missing, you're covered in dirt and grime. when the younger brother offers his coat to you to change, who are you to refuse?
passionate research || su, 0.5k
summary: your boyfriend is a nerd; a sexy one, at that, and he tends to get you distracted time and time again.
noise complaint || su, 1.2k
summary: it's routine to let off some steam after long days of hard work, but this time, maybe you two were too good at stress relief.
forgive me, father || nsfw, 2.4k
summary: your boyfriend is extremely well-mannered, empathetic, and handsome. what’s more is him in his priest attire, working a case. it’s enough to make you plead for redemption from the darkest, most tempting sin: lust.
shorter || f, 0.6k
summary: it's a good thing you have you have sam around to reach the things you can't, even if he does it on purpose.
sam winchester x girlfriend!hunter!reader
❊ summary: your boyfriend is extremely well-mannered, empathetic, and handsome. what’s more is him in his priest attire, working a case. it’s enough to make you plead for redemption from the darkest, most tempting sin: lust.
❊ content warnings: nsfw (mdni) religious themes, priest kink, blasphemy, hair pulling, oral (fem! receiving), praise kink
note: please do not read if extremely religious or sensitive to religious imagery (please take care of yourself, i'll see you next time around).
❊ word count: 2.4k ❊ genre: smut
❊ author's note: oh. my. god. (no pun intended). this is my first time writing and publishing sexually explicit material, but i had so much fun writing it—it is also one of my favorite writings. i hope you guys love it as much as i do, and happy (late) halloween!
the stained glass depicting a picture of a white dove soaring through the sky casted shades of pale and navy blue onto the church pews. dust floated on the air carried by a open draft from an ajar window. it was cold, the end of october, and the light rain against the windows made the inside of the church even colder.
a few locals had their hands locked in prayer, one elderly woman with curly, white hair had a rosary clutched between her hands as she whispered only loud enough for herself to hear. sam pressed the priest about the death of a local, young woman who'd passed just a few nights before.
and you? you excused yourself to 'have a moment' outside, because the heat in the church consumed you.
you seemed to be the only one bothered by it—the heat from staring too long at sam in that clerical collar, the hollow of his throat, and the light stubble on his face you purposely brushed against when you were making out, plus the black suit? how composed he was with his line of questioning, that empathetic tone—the same one he'd call you 'honey' or 'sweetheart' with?
it was like the devil was tempting you to whisk sam away to a quiet place and have him take care of the issue he was causing between your thighs.
the fresh air was working, up until he wrapped up conversation with the priest and went searching for you.
you stood beside a cracked-open side door to the church, safe from the rainfall and subject to the beautiful sound of it on the ground. you heard sam's footsteps echo through the small, vacant hallway before you saw him, and already, you felt a tightness in your throat and your pulse quicken.
"hey," he greeted, warm and tender. he checked over his shoulder before allowing his hand to find its place on your waist, thumb tenderly stroking your hipbone. "are you feeling alright? you left kinda quick back there,"
oh, sam, you mentally cursed.
you swallowed as you peeked up at him, hardly needing to lift your head as he leaned down to your level. his brows were pulled in the center of his face, and his eyes studying yours for even the slightest thing out of place—the scrunch of your nose, the pout in your lips, the narrowing of your eyes—he knew your tells.
you sucked in deep breath, rolling your lips together as you asked, "you want to hear the truth, samuel?"
sam's brows knitted tighter together as he stared down at you, curiosity glistening in his irises as both his hands came to bracket your hips, the soft material of the nun tunic gliding beneath his palms. he stood over you like hired protection and, instinctively, your hands went to his shoulders.
his lips parted, but you didn't give him time to answer as you spoke again. you fixed a few loose strands of his hair, tucking them back into place, and your eyes flicked between his starchy white collar and eyes carefully watching you.
"i've had... sinful thoughts, father." you breathed, a mischievous glint in your eyes that was not as innocent as your outfit depicted you to be. your fingertips twitched, eager, as they trailed from his shoulder to his chest, tracing lazy shapes against the lapels of his coat. then, lower, hand sinking down to his thigh, where you felt him stiffen beneath your touch and he drew in a shaky breath.
one of his hands caught your wrist, not restraining but holding, like an 'are you sure?' at that, you refrained from navigating elsewhere as sam lowly groaned your name, double-checking over his shoulder before catching your low-lidded gaze again. "right here? inside of the church, baby?"
you didn't think you could stoop so low to your desires, but then again, god was missing, the angels stopped caring, so who was really watching?
you physically watched him toe the precipice between giving in and the concern of someone seeing you two. you felt it in the way his features skewed, how he gripped your waist tighter, and the delicious way he leaned into you, craving what you were offering right here in a quaint, dreary town.
so you helped him. it was what good girlfriends did, right?
you dragged him back down the hallway, twisting one of the doorknobs that, fortunately for you two, swung the door open and revealed an empty, private space. there were bookshelves filled to the brim and laced with dust, a desk left untouched, and small, stained-glass windows that allowed some light to bleed in. no words were exchanged, but you both knew to shove yourselves inside, shutting and locking the door behind you.
literally behind you, as sam pressed you up against the hearty wood, hands immediately on your hips again as an intoxicating grin played across your lips. your fingers went back to his slacks, fingers meeting his belt loops and tugging on them just to tease—which elicited as a low groan from him.
you continued, slowly yet feverishly working towards his buckle and undoing the leather band restraining the real prize beneath all those layers—something to properly sate you.
you felt the exact moment sam's resolve shattered—when he conceded to your hot touches, your dark eyes and long lashes, they way your lips brushed the shell of his ear when you stood on your toes and leaned in to whisper, "i must seek penance, father."
you couldn't say it wasn't exactly what you wanted.
his mouth was on you, first—lips sweet and balmy like the chapstick you saw him use time to time. an effortless rhythm emerged between you two, muffled hums pulled from the others chest as sam further invaded your space.
"what do you need atonement for, sweetheart?" he muttered between open-mouthed kisses, his hands balling up the material of your tunic in his fists. your arms swing around his neck, desperately tugging the hair at the nape of his neck just to feel more of him. your heart swelled in your chest as you realized he was actually entertaining this.
"i've sinned, father. i've been possessed by lust," you managed to mumur before capturing sam's lips with yours again. a growl in his throat went directly to your abdomen, a hot sensation blooming. one of his hands abandoned your side, making you whimper at the loss, the sound swallowed by sam's mouth as his tongue finds yours—a dangerous game.
you chased sam's touch, your fingers barely wrapping around his wrist as he continued to guide both your hands lower.
until he strummed a different chord in your body.
your mouths parted with a small pop! sound as sam handled a new task, taking his precious time to hike up the skirt of your getup, revealing your bare tanned skin and the black stockings with lace trim that ceased mid-thigh. a breath escaped him, and you took your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes flicked back up to watch his expressions.
sam's eyes fluttered shut at the sight of you and he blinked hard, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. his hand—rough, calloused, able to palm your damn face—gently kneaded your inner thigh, your flesh soft and warm. you were so patient like you'd been waiting for this moment since this morning. spoiler: you were. ever since you saw him adorned head-to-toe in his stupidly attractive priest attire, preaching about righteousness to the other father, you couldn't stop thinking about him.
you knew damn well sam didn't care about appealing to god or the angels. not for a few years, now.
which was probably why you were here: inside of a church, defacing the lord's words in his home.
"please help me to be pure again, father," you spurred on.
sam's snarled in your ear, his teeth baring just barely, before his face relaxed and he sighed heavy, "you're gonna be the death of me, angel." you swallowed hard, bracing yourself because you knew that the snap of his self-restraint—the gentle caresses, the way he handled you so delicately—was inching nearer.
a breath parted your lips, and then suddenly, he picked you up, warranting a squeal from you and a quiet, scolding "sam!" that scratched your throat. your arms went around his broad shoulders, holding until your ass met the forgotten desk in the center of the room.
sam's mouth reconnected with yours, kisses broken by heavy panting and sam's gaze making you blush when he admired you between them like you were god's gift to mankind. the hands once carrying you by supporting your thighs went to your waist, another bruising squeeze to your hips, before one of his hands was back on your thigh and widening the gap between your legs.
your breath hitched as the pads of his fingers barely brushed the soft, black lace of your panties—the ones you wore on purpose. sam's head dipped to the crook of your neck, his warm breath, swollen lips, and short stubble grazing your skin in a manner that drove you insane. your fingers went to his hair, tugging with a small whine dying in your throat, and you could feel a mean grin begin to play on his lips.
"want me to take care of you, angel?" he drawled, voice low and gravelly. his fingers pressed a bit harder against you, delving further until they met your core, clothed and weeping. you heard the timbre of a groan rumble in his chest and breathe into your ear, a shiver running down your spine as you arched into his touch.
your next words came out as a breath, barely audible, "please, sam."
the next few moments were a blur: sam settling on his knees, roughly rucking up the skirt piece to pool at your hips, his hands keeping your legs separated, and you, revealed entirely to him as he slid you to the edge of the desk. before you could catch your breath, sam hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties, shrugging them down your legs and storing them in his pocket.
you quirked your brow at him, corner of your lips tugging upwards and your stomach flipping like an olympic gymnast. sam glanced back up at you, offering a shameless shrug as he mirrored your sly grin. “safekeeping,” he muttered, before bringing his face directly in front of your cunt with a shaky breath.
"my pretty girl," was all he said before licking a bold, devastatingly slow stripe that made you shudder and fist his hair in your hands. you swore you saw stars then, dizzying and sparkling in your eyes as they flutter shut. then, he's prying you open more, his tongue splayed against your folds and licking, teasing, making all of you wail in a way that allows a choked sob escape you.
you were quick to cover your mouth with your hand, muffling your moans and whines, but the squelch between your legs still echoed off the walls. sam wasn't helping you two keep it down, neither. his other hand—the one not prying your legs apart—trailed to your stomach, just above his head, before slithering down as his thumb connected with your clit, rubbing slow, rough circles.
"sam!" you cried beneath the confines of your hand, eyes darting between watching and squeezing shut where your head spun and felt full of cotton.
"that's right, it's okay, sweetheart," he cooed when he retracted his tongue from between you with a lewd, wet pop! his thumb is still circling your clit, and he mouthed your folds: wet, sloppy, obnoxious and so so good. "taste so sweet, angel. you're jus' soakin' everywhere—doin' so good for me..."
sam slid two fingers inside of you, earning a high-pitched moan as he extracted the air from your lungs. he knew exactly how to pleasure you: pumping in, then out, before shoving them to the hilt and curling in that one spot that rendered you sex-drunk. his tongue still worked wonders, overstimulating to the highest degree that made you clench your thighs around his head. at that, you could feel his groan vibrate in your core, intensifying the sensation.
"oh, god, sam," you babbled, feeling a knot in your abdomen tighten with every ticking second. sam's mouth, fingers, and his stubble scratching up the inside of your thighs surely was heaven—or he was simply carrying you there. "'m so close, please, sam," your fingers tugged tighter on his hair, drawing another long groan from his chest.
"c'mon, sweetheart, i got you," he mumbled against you, quickening his gestures.
the knot in your abdomen wound tighter, tighter, until it finally ruptured, like a levee bursting, you writhing against the surface of the desk, back arching and driving your hips into his face, in a goddamn church—a house of god. and yet, you had no regrets. yet.
sam didn’t stop. his tongue laved up your folds, and though he extracted his fingers, his thumb still circled your clit, gentler as you steadied yourself from your high.
"you alright, sweetheart?" sam murmured, his hands sliding to your thighs, massaging gently as you hummed.
"oh, yeah. more than alright," you grinned lazily, using your forearms for support to peer down at him. sam's mouth was glistening with your slick, hair clinging to his forehead laced with sweat, and his eyes meeting yours with admiration.
sam's tongue dragged over his lips as stood up, leaning in to kiss you. his hand went to the back of your head, supporting you, and you took this as a sign to sit up straight to be nearer, kiss better. you could taste yourself on his tongue prodding your lips, making your stomach do somersaults and cartwheels.
"did so good, angel," sam breathed when your lips parted, lips dragging to your ear before mumbling,"but... i don't think you've quite... shown repentance for your sins."
you froze in place, lips parting with nothing to say, mind blank as you receded your face, able to see him wholly. excitement replaced your exhaustion, and you blinked up at sam, eyes wide and doe-like.
"i truly am penitent, father," your voice was light, airy, and when you glanced down, you could see the very visible bulge in sam's black slacks. it seemed painful, restrained underneath a thick layer. so, your hand slithered down his abdomen, palming the stiffness in his pants that made him groan outwardly and his eyes flutter shut momentarily.
˚₊‧꒰ა @sequoia-roots ☆ sam winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
⋆˙⟡ where aries, unknown, taurus meets taurus, virgo*, capricorn. ⟡˙⋆
ꔛ. the beginning,
✧ who you are in the supernatural world .ᐟ
you? you’re the hunter who learned the ropes fast—part logic, part instinct, with a soft spot for lost causes. your aries sun gives you courage and initiative, but your taurus moon + venus ground you, making you someone who doesn’t break easily. you’re human, though there’s an aura about you—something otherworldly, maybe psychic dreams or heightened intuition from that pisces mercury. you know when something’s off, long before it happens.
you’re the kind of hunter who carries bandages in one pocket and a blade in the other. your duality fascinates people—and terrifies monsters.
✧ first meeting + first impression
you meet sam during a research trip gone sideways. maybe you’re at a library digging into local lore, maybe a case overlaps and he finds you already halfway through solving it. he notices the precision first—you’re not guessing, you know what you’re doing.
his first thought? “she’s either trouble or brilliant. maybe both.”
you speak softly but carry that aries fire—quick to stand your ground, quicker to put yourself in danger if it means saving someone. it’s so him that it throws him off.
✧ the friendship dynamic
your friendship is built on trust and quiet understanding. both of you think before you speak, and when you finally do, it’s something that matters. he brings stability, you bring courage. you tease him for being too serious, and he secretly loves it because you remind him what lightness feels like.
you’re the planner and the dreamer, he’s the realist with a bleeding heart. together, you’re lethal on hunts and strangely soft off them.
✧ quirks + fun things
you make him playlists with hidden meanings—he pretends not to notice, but he does.
he always brings you snacks after a hunt; “fuel for the brain,” he calls it.
you text him conspiracy theories at 2 a.m. and he always replies with a full paragraph.
ꔛ. something more,
✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ
oh, it’s so compatible. your taurus moon and venus lock perfectly with his taurus sun and mars—you two are on the same sensual frequency. it’s that slow, steady kind of passion that builds until it’s unbearable. but both of you are so cautious it might take forever to move.
he’d wait for a sign; you’d get frustrated waiting for him to make the move. eventually, it’s you—one late night, too much tension, too much eye contact—and you just kiss him. and that’s it. you’re done for.
✧ the relationship dynamic
deeply physical, quietly emotional. you two are the kind of couple who communicate through touch more than words. arguments are rare, but when they happen, they cut deep. your aries sun is fiery and blunt; his taurus nature is stubborn as hell. it’s a battle of wills until one of you breaks (hint: it’s usually him).
but oh, the making up? slow, deliberate, like time doesn’t exist. both of you crave security, and neither gives up easily once you’ve found it.
✧ their favorite n worst version of you
his favorite version of you is when you’re soft but sure—when you trust him enough to drop your guard and let him see the tenderness behind your strength. he loves your quiet confidence, your earthy humor, your loyalty.
his least favorite? when you pull away emotionally. your pisces mercury makes you retreat into silence when you’re hurt, and it kills him not to know how to fix it.
✧ fighting, hurting, making up
you’d both avoid fighting until something finally snaps. when it does, it’s raw honesty from you and calm logic from him. you’d say things that sting; he’d respond in that low voice that makes you hate him for being so calm. but you’d be the first to soften—because you hate staying angry.
he’d make the bigger gestures to fix things: a quiet drive, a rare “i’m sorry,” maybe a small gift he’ll insist “isn’t a big deal.”
ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ flirting
this is where the tension lives. he’s subtle—you’re bold. he compliments your research skills; you lean in and ask if that’s the only thing he’s impressed by. he stumbles over his words (venus in gemini, poor boy) and you grin, all slow and dangerous.
he flirts with his eyes, with little things—his voice dropping when he says your name, his hand brushing yours when he hands over lore notes. you? you tease him just to watch him get flustered, because when sam winchester blushes, it’s better than victory.
eventually, it’s not if something happens, it’s when. and when it does? it’s quiet, magnetic, the kind of chemistry that hums between two people who’ve been pretending they weren’t thinking about this the whole damn time.
ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 9.4 / 10
you’re earthy passion meeting calm devotion. his steadiness grounds your fire; your spark ignites his calm. your charts line up like puzzle pieces—especially emotionally and physically.
the only danger lies in emotional pacing—you feel first, he processes later. but if you learn each other’s rhythms, you’d be unstoppable.
you’re the warmth he never knew he needed, and he’s the peace you didn’t think you could trust. together, it’s slow, sincere, and achingly beautiful. he’d never say it out loud, but you’d become his quiet place in a world that never stops breaking.
ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ
* since the birth time of sam hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a virgo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.
this is SO ADORABLE and well-written!! i’ve had a tough week, so reading this is literally like, the best thing ever. you always do such an amazing job and i can’t get enough. thank you so much!
sam winchester x girlfriend!reader
❊ summary: it's routine to let off some steam after long days of hard work, but this time, maybe you two were too good at stress relief.
❊ content warnings: implied sexual content, nudity, strong sexual innuendos, mild exhibitionism, physical intimacy marks
❊ word count: 1.2k ❊ genre: suggestive
❊ author's note: sam is a certified munch and i know this much to be true. also, he's just a cutie patootie at heart.
the air was thick with something unspoken, yet something mutually known and agreed upon by the two of you as soon as the pair of your dirty boots crossed the threshold into your stagnant motel room, which now smelled of sweat and lust.
it was curtains drawn, lights dimmed, and clothes carefully stripped and aimlessly tossed to the floor since they served no purpose now. it was sam's large hands stroking your skin, worshiping every inch, and your hands white-knuckling his hair and the wrinkled sheets as he thrusted you into euphoria, until the morning sun barely breached the tips of the mountains.
it was routine: after hours of breaking-in book spines, following possible leads in costumes and handing over fake id's, or ending the night with a successful hunt, you both needed a healthy outlet to release your frustrations and let off some steam.
tonight was no different.
you both lay exhausted beneath the covers, you, tugging them up to your collarbones laced with love bites, and sam, with them pooled dangerously low at his waist. sam lay right behind you, face nuzzled into the dip of your shoulder as his rough hands gently massaged where he'd palmed and gripped your skin mercilessly moments ago, tender purple bruises already blooming.
you were certain most of your makeup was sweated off or smeared, and you tried to untangle and tame your hair but to no avail.
a peaceful quiet settled in as you two coiled into each other, half-asleep. sam's hands migrated to idly trace your hip bone, the feather-light touch prickling your skin as content hums vibrated in your throat.
then, a knock at the door.
it was timid, soft enough you wouldn't have noticed if you two were actually sleeping. sam groaned and buried his face further into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses on your naked shoulder that wrung a giggle out of you. for a second, you wondered if the knock was real or delusion until it came in three soft successions again, a bit bolder this time.
"i got it, sweetheart," sam murmured, gently rubbing your back as he rolled out of bed and made himself decent for whoever stood on the other side. he peeked through the peephole before slightly cracking open the door, the hinges protesting, as pale lights from outside filtered into the room and cast above your head. in turn, you shoved your face into your pillow, barely grasping the gist of the conversation—a noise complaint.
maybe you better at stress relief than you thought—which brought a faint grin to your lips as you slightly leaned up from your resting place against the broken-in mattress and your half-lidded eyes settled over sam.
the dim lighting projecting from the ajar bathroom door cast some light into the room, enough that the orange glow cast onto sam's back muscles taut beneath his t-shirt. once he closed the door, he turned to face you, a pink velvet spreading like wildfire over his dimpled cheeks—which weren't smiling at all, unlike you—and his brows knit together.
nothing like this had ever happened before, which was obvious based off the war of embarrassment and mortification waging war on sam's face. nonetheless, he glanced at you his low eyes catching your mischievous grin.
"that wasn't funny," he deadpanned with a light scoff, slowly approaching you with his hands on his hips and shaking his head. "i told you that you needed to be quiet, honey."
as if he wasn't moaning and groaning in your ear, too.
but you knew he wasn't upset—just flustered—as he joined you in bed again, eager hands finding your waist and pulling you flush to him with a kiss to your temple.
"'s a little funny, sammy, you gotta admit it," you drawled, the smile on your face widening like sin, "plus, 's not like i'm the only one to blame here." your voice dropped as you peered at him through your lashes, eyes raking over the post-orgasm glow that adorned his face like an angel resting before you. you tucked your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched him relax.
"yeah, well, you weren't exactly on your best behavior, either," he retorted, pressing warm, tender kisses along the expanse of your neck and shoulder, soft lips dragging. you hummed at the sensation, one of your hands reaching to tangle your fingers in his messy hair. your other hand intertwined with sam's as his forehead rested on your clavicle, nose nudging you gently, with a soft sigh deflating his chest.
"y'know what we should do?" he inquired, hot breath fanning over your skin.
"get some sleep?" a breathy chuckle parted your lips, sam following suit before ceding.
"not exactly what i was imagining," he muttered, voice deep and low as he nipped at your ear. "i was thinkin' maybe a shower," he purred, teasing undertones hardly going unnoticed as he moved to press another lingering kiss on your pulse point just below your jaw. he pressed his body a little closer, and you could feel a gentle prod at your thigh as his other hand coasted the side of your leg. "y'know, clean up a little."
"you're not tired yet?" you asked, voice just above a whisper as a gentle tug pulled at your lips. your eyes fluttered over the side of sam's face, brows drawing and eyes narrowing. nonetheless, you swallowed hard and instinctively pressed your thighs together, heat pooling in your abdomen once more.
"well, 'm a little tired," he started, shifting in place to prop himself up on his elbow to really look at you. his fingers combed through your unruly hair as his dark, soft eyes pleaded in a way that was all sam. then, a lazy smirk ghosted over his lips as he reached to cusp your face in one of his absurdly large hands.
"you wouldn't even have to do any work—just let me take care of you," sam breathed, his lips parted and hungry as his breathing grew more ragged by the second.
a light scoff scratched your throat as you peered at him. that sinful but sweet glint in his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his swollen lips, the intoxicating way his hair was still slightly damp with sweat—damn him.
"okay," you oblige, but as he goes to speak, you bring one of your fingers up to his lips, silently and effectively shushing him as his brows pull taut, watching you with precision. "but only if you promise to keep quiet, 'cause..." you trailed off, leaning further into him, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you feel him tremble and hear the slight hitch in his breath, "you can get pretty loud, sammy."
sam just bit his tongue, restraining the groan that threatened to part his lips. his jaw tightened with constraint and his fingers itched to feel more of you. you were way too good at pressing his buttons.
"o-okay," sam relented, voice strained and raspy, masking a shaky exhale as you leaned back, eyes like sirens luring him nearer. "i'll- uh, try to be quieter," he blinked, hands immediately going to your waist and gripping you with a hunger you didn't know he still possessed.
"promise?" you ask, sealing your fate as his eyes widen, pupils blown as they stare up at you, and you're pretty sure you can see your refection in them.
only after a beat of a moment and a hard swallow followed by an eager nod, sam managed to pant out, "oh, yeah. promise, sweetheart."
dean winchester x bestfriend!reader
❊ summary: unable to sleep from the cold, dean promises to keep you warm, one way or another, like the gentleman he is, but the cold happens to extract much more from both of you than anticipated.
❊ content warnings: sexual tension, intimacy, emotional vulnerability, dangerously sexy and adorable dean winchester
❊ word count: 2.8k ❊ genre: fluff / suggestive
❊ author's note: the mutual pining is strong with this one! i love love love how this turned out, and i hope you guys do too!
p.s., sorry for not writing recently, i've been sick and so so busy. take this post as my sincerest apology!
the motel room fostered a chill that no amount of blankets or thick layers could chase away. the shoddy heater beneath the window with the edges frosted over sputtered out dust when it breathed, and occasionally death-rattled when it tried to kick into any temperature above sixty seven degrees.
even through the drawn blackout curtains, a thin gap revealed the parking lot. dim lighting from lamp posts and the flickering lantern hung beside the front door revealed the rock salt scattered over the asphalt and the sheer layer of ice glazing the main road that ran through the town.
the ice storm pressed hard against the walls. sometimes, the patter of freezing rain on the roof would jolt you awake, ripping a small gasp from your throat—because, when you weren't entirely stripped with exhaustion, every other noise would wake you—and you would instinctively reach for the knife on the nightstand.
but now, the rain ceded, and silence pressed you harder than the cold did.
"god, 's freezin' in here," you managed to whisper through your clenched jaw as you tugged the covers impossibly closer. even through your old hoodie—which used to belong to someone whose name you don't bother to remember—you could feel goosebumps prickling your arms. your hands, cupped over your mouth as you blow warm air into them, were numb and pale.
oh, the things you wouldn't do to stay decently warm.
"well, the offer still stands," dean's voice resounded from the other creaky motel mattress, the smug grin ghosting over his lips practically audible, "you could always warm up with me."
a light scoff scratched your throat as you kept your back faced to him. "you're gross."
"that's not what i meant," he enunciated the 't,' and you graciously decided to let him continue. "just thought that we would keep each other warm—body heat."
you paused. "still sounds perverted coming from you, of all people."
he scoffed. "really?"
"yeah. and 'm not comin' over there. i can't even feel my legs anymore." the last sentence was only half of a joke as you cringed, tightening your jaw again as you locked your hands into prayer before desperately rubbing them together.
a breath of a laugh escaped dean's chest. a beat of a moment passed before anyone pierced the silence again.
dean caved first, a groan rumbling from his chest that made you stir. you heard him slide off the mattress, the box spring wailing, as he crossed the short distance between you two. you propped yourself onto your forearms, lips parted as you rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, watching.
before you could begin to protest, he nudged you gently, hand on your shoulder, his eyes droopy and blinking slow as he mumbled a quick, quiet "move over." not demanding, just effortless.
so, of course you shuffle over, using all your remaining stamina. the cold once harboring in the absent spot is harsh against your skin, like teeth grating down your spine. the hair on your arms stood up, and a sound of defiance left you.
dean settles in haphazardly, bumping into you with equal amounts of blindness that was perfectly dean winchester. you grunted and shot daggers over your shoulder, eyes raking him over as he adjusted. but as he did, you instantly recognized how—
"god, you're so warm," you gushed quietly, tentatively inching closer while leaving a thin gap between you. he felt like sitting in front of a crackling fireplace, and your eyes fluttered shut as the heat began to embrace you, chasing your goosebumps away.
"and you're freezing," dean remarked, chest rumbling with chuckle that shook the bed, "c'mere." with that, dean manhandled you, pulling you closer by your midsection and taut against him. you hissed through your teeth at his touch: his fingers were freezing, but he quickly retracted them once your bodies were pressed together.
you were close enough that the tip of your nose grazed dean's cheek and the soft material of your sweatpants glided across his when your legs brushed. the only thing you were unsure of was where to put your hands—usually, they lay in front of your face, but that wasn't an option now. instead, you tucked one hand into the pocket of your hoodie, and the other tucked beneath your head.
then, another thought at the forefront of your mind: this was the most intimate you two had ever been together, besides those moments where you stitched each other up after a hunt, or sat side-by-side in a diner booth and dean would courteously let you steal his bacon or sausage from his plate—something he'd never allow for anybody else.
so, yeah. maybe you did have the slightest, tiniest, smudge of a crush on your best friend—just a little. nothing serious... right?
dean shifted ever so slightly, resting his chin atop your head, essentially escorting your face into the crook of his neck, warming your nose and lips effortlessly.
you didn't mind the proximity as much as you thought you'd might. instead, you liked it better this way. maybe dean did know a thing or two about staying—
"you warmin' up yet, sweetheart?" his deep, gentle voice makes your skull rattle in your head and your heart thrust against your ribcage like a wild animal. you sucked in a quick breath, effectively inhaling the scent of amber and leather, as you ushered out a response, trying not to focus on how good he smells, or how his muscles seem perfectly carved out for you to slot into.
"a bit," you breathed, "are you?" wordlessly, you shuffled closer, seeking more insulation and comfort. he responded with the same kindness, his hand on your waist tugging you nearer like you weighed nothing.
"warmer than i was when you left me cold and alone," he teased, and you could literally feel the small smile sprawl on his lips as it pressed into your hair. you mentally rolled your eyes, and dean must've sensed it because a light chortle made his whole body tremble.
his voice probed again, "think we'll survive the night?"
"maybe," you tiredly murmured, and a weary breath escaped dean's lips.
"we'll be just fine," he assured, his hand comfortingly running up and down the canyon of your back.
despite how much exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, the cold still rattled you awake. your mind raced, one thought after the other, and your muscles ached for a good night's rest and a swig of whisky to speed up the process. the idea of how vulnerable you were being with dean wasn't helping, either.
but you told yourself it was strictly for survival. wasn't it? it's why when you asked dean if you could start invading his space—but not those exact words—he answered with "i said i'd keep you warm, didn't i?" in his smooth tone. it's why you two were currently chest-to-chest with your legs intertwined. it's why, when you eventually rolled back over, dean's chest was flush with your back and his arm lazily hung over your waist—for warmth, of course.
but none of those excuses soothed your mind.
"dean?" you started, your voice a question and breath that tread the air lightly. he hummed in acknowledgement, slightly shifting in place. it was a sleepy hmmm?, yet it held no immediate signs of falling asleep, so you continued.
"thank you."
another short hum. "you don't gotta thank me."
"but i should."
dean's hand loosely laying over your stomach twitched. his knuckles gently brushed the midriff where your hoodie rode up. his fingers were electrifyingly cold, but you didn't push them away. instead, they grazed against your skin in soothing, slow caresses that made your eyes flutter shut and shock your nerves.
"'m just doin' what any decent guy would, sweetheart." dean mumbled against the shell of your ear, a chill tracing your spine from the timbre in his voice. you swallowed, hard, and you felt immobilized in a way that wasn't half bad. instead, you sucked in a long, shaky breath as your mind simultaneously short-circuited and rambled on.
"no... no decent guy would do this for someone." your voice was just below a whisper, but the room was quiet enough that it echoed off the bare walls. "'s much more than bein' decent."
and you only know this because dean was so much more than a decent guy. he was your hunting partner that patched you up when you were bloodied and half-indecent. he was your best friend that ate junk food with you in the impala when nobody was looking. if you were in the bathroom, he'd order your food for you because he had your favorite meals memorized by heart. he was the person you were honest to and spoke your mind with. he was the man who'd carry you to bed if you fell asleep in an uncomfortable chair. he was the one who tucked your hair behind your ear and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead afterward.
"so what am i, then?" his voice matched yours: whispering, like it was a secret just between you two.
"you're..." you paused. how could you articulate that? the feeling deep in your gut, the knowledge lodged in your mind with no equal translation in any spoken language? and how could you confess something like that to one of the closest people you have left?
"you're... you, y'know? 's what makes you special, dean. you're..." and you can't find a better substitute for the word that falls from your lips next, "perfect."
dean's breathing hitched in his chest, and so did yours. you braced yourself, waiting for... what? something. anything. regardless, you could hear your heart faintly throb in your ears as you counted the seconds of uninterrupted silence. one... two... three... four...
"say that again," dean pleaded, voice hoarse, his plush lips still pressed against your ear before drifting and dragging across your neck.
dean could smell your shampoo that made your hair shiny and soft, the scent of cheap vanilla-sandalwood perfume that he loved wafting from your pulse points, and couldn't hurdle over the addicting fact that it was all you. right beside him. not some girl in a magazine or at a bar that he assumed he'd end up with. you. your words echoed in his mind, over and over, consuming his thoughts.
perfect.
his calloused fingers continued their journey along the stretch of your stomach, the tips of them skimming your skin with feather-light touch, riding your sweater higher up. his breath was warm and his voice made you stiffen, "i need to hear you say that again. please..."
you were stunned, hesitant to move your lips or even subtly shift in place. somehow, you found the courage to flip over and face him, your faces just inches apart as your breath intermingled. your eyes immediately found his—wide, intimate, dark. dean wasted no time sneaking his hand back onto your waist. you sucked in a shaky breath and your tongue darted out to wet your lips, heart thundering in your chest like a million drums.
"you're perfect, dean. so damn per—"
before you could even finish, dean's lips were on yours. it was gentle: his plush lips desperate to meet yours in a warm greeting. a quiet squeal of surprise died in the back of your throat, but this time, your body didn't freeze or hesitate. you kissed him back with the same rawness, something hot blooming in your stomach.
your body instinctively pressed against the wall that was dean, your hand eagerly finding the side of his face and angling him just right to slot his lips perfectly between yours. a low growl pulled from dean's throat that spurred you on, enticing you to tangle your other hand in his hair, tugging him impossibly closer. dean did the same, instead fisting your hair and tangling his fingers in your locks, eliciting a purr. his other hand went to your lower back, shifting and bumping your hips against his, closing any room between you.
the first kiss was tender, a desperate plea of affirmation and invitation. dean's lips were so soft and waxy like lip balm, making yours just glide against him. then the kiss got messier, full of teeth carefully nipping and saliva pooling as dean's tongue sought out yours in a way that made you press your thighs together and made your brain foggy.
dean rolled you over, your back pressed into the mattress, his body hovering over yours. your lips separated for a second, but when they reconnected? dean's mouth moved feverishly, heatedly, in a way you liked more than you'd admit—if your unabashed moan went unnoticed. his hands went to your waist, grounding you and bruising in the process. your hands found his shoulders, claiming purchase there as your nails dug crescents into his skin.
"de-dean,"
"need you—" he gasped, head spinning on his shoulders. his hips involuntarily bucked into yours, drawing out a soft huff from your mouth that drove him feral as his fingers tightened their hold on you. he pulled away slightly, a shudder wracking through him, and a deep breath inflating his chest as he murmured, "christ, sweetheart."
you paused, a thin string of spit connecting your lips snapping as you hesitantly pulled away, gazing up at him warily. your eyes traced over each memorized freckle, mole, and scar littering his face and neck, your brows vaguely pulling together. "was it too much? 'm sorry, i—"
"no, no. not that, 's just..." he trailed off, swallowing as his eyes flickered to capture yours. you felt like slipping into a black void—hot and embarrassed. you swallowed hard as you anticipated what he was going to say next, waiting for him to dismiss your presence, your touch, or even a flicker of your gaze.
but he didn't.
because dean was more than decent.
dean was the one you come to for everything. he was the one who hugged you tighter, who brushed your hair and braided it when you give him pouty eyes, who brewed you a cup of coffee in the morning and added the exact amount of sweetener that you liked, and who called you when you were running late just to make sure you were okay.
"just thinkin'..."
"about?" you probed, voice faltering. a shy, pink blush crept over your cheeks as you bit the inside of your cheek, your hands relaxing and palms massaging his shoulders ever-so-gently. his gaze was strong. too strong, like he could see every imperfection in your face.
but then there was a shift in the air, a change of energy, when he answered. "you." his admission was barely above a whisper. you blinked at him, mind muddled as you waited for him to spell it out. a soft huff came out of his nose as his swollen lips parted open.
"you just... i can't stop thinkin' about you. ever." his breath hitched in his chest, and you're pretty sure you died awhile ago.
"you're so good to me, so... beautiful, and helluva partner..."
okay, so you were dreaming. surely, this was all your mind's twisted, sick work. but the pulse in your ears? the taste of cinnamon that lingered on your lips that wasn't there earlier?
your mind took a moment to catch up, but your hands were already there, reaching to cup his face in your palms, feeling the smooth skin and rigid jaw in your hands like delicate porcelain. you caught your bottom lip between your teeth as you shamelessly stared at his big, pretty eyes that watched you like you were mans last gift to earth.
and dean? his face was softening, his stomach churning as he came to the realization of what this was: a confession. he was so damn smitten, and the way you watched him only fanned the flames of yearning more than ever. his eyes traced your features one last time before his head dipped down, lips hovering over yours.
"i love you," then, just a beat of a second later,"'m so in love with you. have been since i first met you."
you felt your heart lurch into your throat at his words. you opened your mouth, but nothing came out, besides the soft crackle of your voice and an airy "de." but you did manage to do one thing:
"i love you, too. i think i always have,"
the second that left your lips, dean pressed his lips back against yours. it was feverish, heated, as much as it was passionate and an admission of want. his hands, calloused and scarred, slipped under your sweater, spanning across the broad plane of bare skin. you shivered at his touch, a light moan falling from your lips that dean opportunistically stole away from you.
"sorry, sweetheart," he mumbled, tongue running across your lip, mouth everywhere: pressing hot kisses to your jaw, muffled grunts against your neck that made you impatiently claw at his head of hair.
sam winchester x girlfriend!reader
❊ summary: your boyfriend is a nerd; a sexy one, at that, and he tends to get you distracted time and time again.
❊ content warnings: sexual themes/tension
❊ word count: 595 ❊ genre: suggestive
❊ author's note: no thoughts. i just think sam is just so freakin' cute when he gets all serious and studious. it rewires my brain chemistry.
p.s., i fear i'm way too chalant and i want to try writing smaller one-shots! please lmk if you prefer this or longer one-shots, and i'll oblige [insert kissy face here].
the second story of the library was quiet, for the most part.
sam's voice echoed past the tall, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with novels and old paperbacks with the spine broken—some bookshelves were overflowing so badly that a small cart had been wheeled out to store extra books onto. the other tables scattered on the second floor were empty, chairs pushed in and table lamps switched off.
you two were sat side-by-side, a gap between you. sam was rambling on about something from an article he read on his laptop, only motivated from the triple-shot espresso he downed earlier. his brows furrowed in the center as he narrowed his eyes at the screen, reading aloud to you. he was referencing something you two were supposed to be researching for your next hunt, but all you could focus on was him.
you watched how his lips moved, the slight tousle in his hair from the brisk walk over, and the soft blush settled over his cheeks from the humid environment outside. you blinked at him, lost in your own little world. you noticed every twitch in his features, the little pants between sentences, and how he would occasionally take a short breath and pause to reread a piece of the text.
you only snapped out of your trance when sam's hazel eyes darted up to you and he instantly stopped reading to ask, "are you even listening to me?" with a small, exasperated sigh.
you blinked and stared at him like a deer in headlights, lips parting but unable to usher anything out. instead, you sighed with defeat, head lolling to the side as your eyes fluttered shut. "i'm sorry, sammy," you apologized, though you weren't truly sorry at all.
you inched your chair closer to his, thinning the gap. your shoulders were already brushing, but now? you could smell his faint cologne and shampoo from his morning shower. you carefully reached out, cupping the side of his face, and your thumb gently caressed his cheek.
"it's just... you get so passionate when you're all worked up, and it's a little distracting," you continued, sucking in a slow, calculated breath as you peered at him through your lashes. his eyes faltered to the ground, tongue running over his teeth in thought, face twisted into something softer with his brows still drawn taut.
"maybe we should take a quick break," you pushed, your voice almost a purr as you suggested something much more than a brief five-minute wordle on the new york times. sam swallowed, hard, and his lips parted just barely. a velvety pink crept onto his cheeks as he muttered your name under his breath.
"c'mon, sam," you spurred on. one of your hands slowly trailed up his jean-clad thigh, deep red nails softly scratching the dark denim. you leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice barely a whisper, "there's nobody else around to bother us, just you and me."
you could hear his breath hitch in his throat, feel his muscles tense beneath your palm and fingertips. you could almost feel his resolve chipping away and hear the gears turning in his pretty head.
"god, you're gonna drive me crazy, sweetheart," sam finally managed to pant out, tongue darted out to wet his lips. his big, almost pleading, eyes met yours before falling to your lips. "c'mere," he murmured, gently pulling you into his lap.
cracking. snapping. rupturing.
it puts the final nail in your coffin as you eagerly and willingly slot your lips between his.
