Pitt Fanfiction | AO3 | My Stories MasterList | Tip Jar💰
Poll Winner - SickFic /Yearning - Reader x McKay at 105 votes !
Warnings : Burnout / Worried Cassie / Jealous Cassie / Baran Flirting / Protective Dana / Sexual Tension / Cassie Overprotective / Possessive Kink / Yearning / Love Confessions in Actions / Temp / Sick Reader / Forgetting to Take Care of Yourself / Hospital Beds / Juice and Snacks / Love / Hurt & Comfort / No beta we die like computers in season 2/ 3.9 k Words / 18 +
“Get you hands off me, oh my god why are your fingers so cold? Your hands are usually warm! Stop it!” You bat at Cassie’s hands as she tries to get your temp. You had been practically lifted off your feet to get into the room in the first place. You had a shift in five minutes, and your friendly doctor McKay wasn’t letting you out until you had a clean bill of health. Her hands had already reached out to do the forehead and gentle hand temp check, and you were burning up.
“Behave, don’t make me use the rectal thermometer, doctor.” The older, gorgeous doctor threatened, and she meant it. You were behaving worse than her son when he was ill. Harrison had texted his mother, warning her of your sick status. While Cassie had been worried, seeing you like that had her full blown over protective crazy mama vibes.
“It’s just a case of the spring flu,” you reason but your pushed back onto the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight her, had she been working out?
The hospital lights offend you, making you squint up at the doctors form. Cassie takes your glasses off your nose and pockets them. You try to get them back but she’s faster, mad mom skills and all.
“Maybe, but I gave you your flu shot, though so I’m going to be thorough,” McKay tells you moving her stethoscope as Dana comes in with her little lamb. Emma's smile falters when she sees how pale you look.
“No, I don’t want to be a teaching hospital today.” You say rudely, and Dana narrows her eyes at you.
“Don’t listen to her, Doctors make the absolute worst patients. But as grumpy as she appears, she’s my favorite. So that’s why I came in to torture her.” Dana says, and Cassie squirms a little. And the charge nurse notices immediately.
“Dr. McKay?” Her eyebrows go up expecting.
You have such a high fever that you don’t understand or care about their silent argument.
“I’ve got this, I think Robbie’s got a trauma comin' in.” She eyes the new nurse like that will be better for her. A nice bloody case for Emma. Not you, not while Cassie had you. No extra hands required.
“Dr. McKay, is there a chart made up for our patient?” Dana makes her point clear, but Cassie still isn’t happy. The gentle threat doesn’t reach your tired frame. But to the other three women, it’s clear; If a chart is made, it’s not a personal call anymore.
If anything, Dana could get Cassie off the case for her ‘personal feelings,’ but the nurse is more poking the soft butch to see how much of an ass she’s going to be.
“No,” you say just as the older doctor cringes and nods.
“Yes,” Cassie says on top of you. Her braid falling over her shoulder as her dark scrubs can’t hide the way her body tenses.
“Okay, let’s do some labs and see what color mucus you got kiddo,” Dana tells you and grabs the blanket, pulling it across your lap.
Your eyes drift, you can help it.
“I have rounds.” You say with your eyes already closed.
“You may present your own case if you would like,” Al-Hashimi states coming in and pressing her ID down on the scanner to see your chart. Ignoring the rest of the room to find out what ails you.
Cassie hates this even more than Dana, way more.
“I’ve got this covered, really, just some routine tests.” Doctor McKay is being possessive, and Al-Hashimi doesn’t back down.
They’d been doing this for the past five months, and it was getting to be a game of whose strap was bigger.
Dana was over it, but you were ignorant to the butch brawl.
Emma makes a scared face as her attention goes back and forth to the two women fighting about your chart. Even Dana waits on this one.
The children would get tired eventually, or she’d need to get a kiddie pool with mud for the two to work it out.
Dana had her bets on Cassie, not because of the ankle monitor or the rough history. But not, not because of the ankle monitor, McKay just had this love for you. That the charge nurse was sure wouldn’t blow over anytime soon.
Baran is the queen of passive-aggressive in these situations, though, and she easily calls ranks.
“Then we’ll make sure to put a rush on them and find out, Dr. McKay, may I speak to you in the hall?” The senior attending requests even though it’s not a question.
Cassie makes sure to leave with your glasses in her pocket; you wouldn’t be driving without them.
“Of course Dcotor Al-Hashimi,” she says through her teeth.
The two leave, and you miss how Cassie’s eyes linger in your shivering frame.
Dana ignores the fight in the hall and instead squeezes your knee comfortingly.
Voices raising and falling outside don’t matter; you did.
Dana nods at Emma towards the computer, knowing she’d have better chance at bullying you into submission then the sweet young nurse.
You yawn, and try to get warmer in the blankets. Sweat drips down your forehead and you really wish you had stayed home; the light was too much for your headache.
Dana wipes at your forehead with her palm; it’s less medical and far closer to an intimate gesture.
“So tired, Dana…” you whisper, and she smiles comfortingly at you. You were too cute to even the charge nurse like this, all docile and needy.
“I know, kid, so no more bad patient, okay? Emma here is gonna get you a second warm blanket and I’m gonna get some fluids in you. Starting of course, with your temp, now are you gonna behave or do I need to put you over my knee like my kids?” She says, and you don’t have the energy to fight her. Though you can see how she would totally spank you.
“Apple juice? you squeak in question and even Emma can’t help but smile at how cute you are. The normally smart doctor that she was intimidated by was getting tucked in by the charge nurse and asking for juice.
“As much as you want, you just gotta let me take your temp.” Dana agrees, trying not to smile too openly at how adorable you were. No wonder the two gay ladies in the hall were arguing over your chart.
Your eyes lull closed and Dana takes it as a warning, grabbing the thermometer for under your tongue.
“How long you been feelin this way, kiddo?” She says low in her ‘mama bear’ sorta way. It works on you every time. You fold like a melted string cheese under just a little maternal push.
“I took Harrison to this new exhibit.” You shiver, and the thermometer beeps and is pulled from your lips.
Emma types in your chart once she sees the high number.
“Who’s Harrison?” Emma asks, being a little nosey. Thinking that it’s your boyfriend. Kids these days, she’s probably thinking he’s 5’9 in finance. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dana chuckles at her very wrong idea.
“Harrison is Dr. McKay's little boy, he’s smarter than many of the doctors on this floor and cuter than a button,” Dana informs Emma, and now you smile big.
Yeah that was a good way to describe him.
“He’s adorable and knows he’s got me wrapped around his finger. How else would I start playing the Nintendo Switch on my weekends?” You say and your teeth chatter from your temp.
“You saw the exhibit, you worked 3 shifts and you’ve been having a headache, haven’t you?” Dana asks but starts an IV. You don’t even twitch as the needle goes into your vein.
“Who squealed?” You open one eye to glare.
Dana hid her laugh at the absurdity of the question.
“You got family here, family talks.” Dana dismissed you but you still gave her a dirty gaze. It’s not scary in the least.
“You have spies.” Your throat is raw, and you sound like Johnny Cash after smoking a pack.
But the two nurses don’t tease you, too low-hanging fruit. Besides, Dana has worked hard to be someone you trusted, and it wasn’t her style to tease you while you're half unconscious.
“Everywhere.” Dana agrees just as the two doctors re-enter.
Both are looking equally unhappy.
“Temp?” Al-Hashimi asks and Dana lets Emma answer. She’s squeezing the IV bag, and watching you try and pull the covers up incredibly higher. Your scrubs sticking to your skin like wet newspaper. It’s rough and unkind and you want to sleep.
“103.4,” her gentle voice is kind but you groan and yank the blanket over your head all the way.
“Does Harrison have it too?” Emma asks and misreads the room. This wasn’t a discussion. Everyone looks at her and then Cassie.
“Excuse me?” The doctor doesn’t like that one bit.
“Why would her son have it?” Al-Hashimi asks, but her tone is off.
“He didn’t put on the astronaut helmet with the zillion children coughing in it, so no.” You say, and your voice gives out halfway.
“Rest your voice,” Cassie instructs harshly and then eyes Emma with a new fire.
“Either way, let’s just rule everything else out.”
“Baran!” You try to shout and her lips curl at you using her first name. Just as Cassie’s grinding her jaw.
“Healthy Doctors on my floor. Only healthy Doctors. Get some rest, Khvaab-e-shirin.” Baran reminds you and squeezes your blanket covered foot.
The anger in Cassie’s features are hot enough they could light her fingers on fire.
But then the senior attending is out of the room again.
“Stop it,” the head nurse snaps at Cassie. “Get that look off your face.”
She says, waiving her pointer in a tiny circle.
“What?” Cassie pushes back rudely, only to get a threatening stare in return.
“I warned our patient I’d take her over my knee, you want to go first?” The motherly threatening is enough that Cassie tries to bounce back.
“Blood draw, and a Covid test. Do strep too.” Cassie lists and Dana actually pulls back, looking offended. Like what was this her first day or something?
“Oh, and then what?” The nurse delivers sarcastically but Emma is typing rapidly on your chart.
“Not you too, please.” Cassie winces after getting the riot act with Doctor Al Hashimi. A very uncomfortable back and forth where the two argued but also danced around the real issue. Baran wanted you and so did Cassie and neither wanted to work in the same shift while yearning over you.
The blonde can’t believe this clear rudeness.
“Hey, I’m bisexual too. You gonna fight every gay on rotation or just the ones in your weight class?” Dana arches an eyebrow, and Cassie’s eyes zone in on you to see if you're paying attention. Luckily you were out.
You look like Harrison when he sleeps. Mouth open, little snores, body curled like a bug in a rug. Cuddling nothing but fabric, how Cassie wanted to crawl into that bed and hold you tight.
Hold a cold cloth on your forehead and rub your lower back over and over. Hypnotic and consistent, watching over your sleeping form to keep you safe.
Kiss your nose and soothe any bad dreams.
Cassie McKay wanted the honor of being the person you snuggled against.
Today and every night, never letting you get cold again. Feet pressed against her own under comforter and silent nights.
“Please Dana, I just…” Cassie is trying really she is, but she’s already raw. Already holding back from fighting with Baran.
So the nurse's shoulders drop a little, no longer wanting to make her point.
She raises her hands up to stop McKay from trying to say another word.
“You started the chart, you finish the chart. Emma and I will keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty. Go do rotations, by the time you're done with our first few happy customers, the labs will be back. You can’t do anything for her now anyway.” Dana says, gently reaching out to squeeze Cassie’s bicep and it helps.
Lord she needed a raise.
“Why did I fall for the cute one everyone wants?” Cassie asks, and Emma tries not to grin at how adorably in love Dr. McKay is.
Dana shakes her head, but makes her way for the door. Pushing the doctor as well.
“Listen, your girl didn’t get sick while on a date with Al Hashimi. Let’s remember who she spends every weekend with. Now stop marking your territory and scram.” Dana says, opening the door and walking the worried Butch out.
It’s hours later when you wake up. Sorta disoriented, you get anxious and jerk from the bed.
Strange fever dreams causing a cold sweat, you gasp in despair.
“Hey, hey, hey, easy, it’s me,” Cassie shushes and in the dim light you blink wearily at her.
“Cass? Cassie that you?” You croak, voice something in between.
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s okay sweetie, I turned off the lights so you could sleep better. Here,” she puts your glasses on your face and now you can make her form out better.
It soothes you and you fall back flat on the bed. Knowing she’s around always makes you feel better.
“Am I dead?” You ask, with the IV in your arm and Cassie working on your chart.
“Not funny.” She says dryly.
“Sorta funny,” you challenge, only to see Cassie looking down, right concerned.
“You should have told me you were feeling sick.” She sighs, disappointed that somehow she missed this. You're burning out right in front of her.
Cassie was always on you to drink water, to sleep, feeding you when you forgot. Packing extra lunches and extra coffee.
So how had the doctor so missed this?
The answer was clear, because you hid it from her. That’s what really made Cassie sick to her stomach.
“I could have worked my shift.” You insist. Anxious that you’d caused a fuss, a call out, you dropped the ball. Made work harder for the team.
“Your temp spiked, you were delirious and dehydrated.” Cassie’s tone is getting more clipped, more tense, it’s building.
In the dark you can see her worry is all consuming.
“Cassie, I just-”
“You just weren’t taking care of yourself!” She shouts and you flinch from her words and then you see her eyes shut as she tries to breathe and calm down. Not wanting to shout at you. Her temper flaring because she’s scared.
“Hey, I’m alright. I just needed some fluids and and-” You start but Cassie wipes at her face and you wonder if you’ve broken something in her.
“You, make everyone else a priority. You can’t burn out like this, your important. Not just a doctor but…Damn it.” Cassie chews on her bottom lip trying so hard to figure out how to do this.
“I didn’t want to worry you.” Your voice cracks and your head is pounding.
“That’s what’s got me worried.” Cassie lets out a self deprecating sound and whispers at her feet.
“Cassie, it’s just the flu.” You say gently but Doctor McKay isn’t able to let it go.
“I need you to take care of yourself, do you understand? You matter. I need you….” Cassie is opening her mouth and she can’t say the rest because that sentence really sums it all up.
Cassie McKay needs you.
“Your mad I didn’t tell you.” You say now, thinking of how you’d evaded her.
Her head falls before she lifts it and tries to calmly discuss this.
“I can’t take care of you if you won’t let me.” Her voice cracks and you reach out, it doesn’t take your fellow doctor more than a second to grab your hand back.
“You have enough to worry-” You try but it makes the older woman huff and cut you off.
“No, no, you don’t get to decide. That’s not how this works.” Cassie insists and you sniffle and she can’t stay mad at you when your sick and out of it.
So you two just hold hands and stare at one another.
“I don’t wanna get you sick.” You whisper, voice straining and Cassie leans forward and pulls wet strand of your hair back off your face.
“I’ll take my chances.” She says gently with love in her eyes.
“Harrison told me it probably had more germs then chucky cheese ball pit and I still put it on. I wanted to be an astronaut.” You say in hushed tones and Cassie can’t help but snort at that.
“What am I gonna do with you,” Cassie keeps playing with your hair and holding your hand.
“Let me win mario cart once in a while?” You try with big pleading eyes. It wasn’t fair that she could beat you and Harrison.
“Not a chance, that’s my street cred.” The older woman says and you giggle then wince in pain.
“I brought you apple juice and applesauce, and I even snagged a donut. But you have to take the tylenol. Or I’m withholding the sprinkles.” She’s got a bunch of goodies on the tray.
“You are cruel.” You say back and Cassie nods like she’s tough shit.
“You know it,” The doctor helps you sit up, propping the bed and pillows until your up.
“I feel like death.” You say in pain.
“Now she tells me,” Cassie lays it on thick and you try to be grumpy about it. But you want that pink sprinkled donut dang it.
“If this is the end, I just want you to know-”
Now Cassie’s not having any of it. She shakes the pill cup.
“Don’t even, jokes about your death will not get me to share sugar.” The older doctor warns.
“I see the light,” you push but take the pills and Cassie opens the apple juice and you take a swig.
“Last warning,” Cassie informs lifting the donut and taking a bite herself.
Your eyes widen, in despair - how could she be so mean.
“I thought you swore to do no harm.” You stick out your bottom lip.
“Dana said she’d spank you if you were bad, what do you think I’d do?” Cassie actually flirts and you lose your ability to speak at the idea.
Dirty dirty thoughts, fuck what a sight.
“That’s what I thought, be good. I’m taking you home after my shift,” she checks her wrist watch. “So in exactly four more hours, so if you can not develop any new illnesses between then and now I’ll even let you pick dinner.”
You don’t get to say anything else, but Cassie sets the rest of the donut onto a napkin and moves the tray over your hospital bed.
“I’m still trying to decide if I want to be good or not,” you flirt but you aren’t joking. You don’t know if you can blame it on the temperature.
Cassie gives you a long look before leaning over your body and kissing your forehead.
You can’t help but close your eyes and feel more loved from such a tiny peck than you had your whole life.
Cassie lingers too long to be considered friendly, before leaning back and eyeing you. Your flushed from the temperature, that’s what she tells herself.
“You’re already in the dog house. Now no more death jokes, close your eyes. Good dreams only, and drink your juice.”
“I want Chinese.” You say, but your heart is doing summersalts in your chest. You don’t want her to go.
“Behave.” Cassie says one last time before moving towards the door.
“Can I have another kiss if I promise to?” You for sure can’t blame it on the temperature now.
But Cassie also couldn’t resist such a request. She moves back to your bed and goes for your forehead but just as you close your eyes to enjoy it again.
She moves down and pecks your lips.
You must look like a cartoon because when you open your eyes she’s smiling at your lovestruck look.
Your grin is so big it actually hurts your cheeks.
“Four whole hours?” You ask needy and revel in how much Cassie seems to like you like this.
“Two hundred and fourty minutes,” Cassie agrees but in the dark now you think you can see her own blush.
“Do you have to go?” It’s desperate but real.
“Dana already is grumbling because I came in here every twenty minutes while you were sleeping. I think if I stay any longer she’ll send Al-Hashimi in and put me on AI charts all night.”
“Baran’s nice!” You argue and your voice cracks. Cassie grabs your juice and makes you take a sip but she’s already disagreeing.
“Hey, don’t forget who’s got your chart.” Cassie threatens and you wonder why the two doctors don’t get along.
You frown and give a little pout.
“You sure you want to take me home? I’m overly needy when I don’t feel good, I know this, and it’s gross.” You say but Cassie shakes her head.
“I like you like this.” She admits afraid of how you’ll react.
“Bedridden, waiting for the end.” You tease again and Cassie grabs your donut and holds it up.
“I warned you.” Cassie’s got this look that you can’t place.
“Not the donut! Anything but the donut.” You shout playfully and move your hand to try to take it.
“Can you be a good girl?” The older doctor asks and you can’t explain the full body reaction you have.
Except that you were sick and maybe subspace was easier to reach like this….or maybe it was all Cassie McKay.
But you sink and the butch see’s it immediately. Tilting her head to the side she sets the donut back down and cups your cheek. Swallowing the sugar and wondering what you taste like.
“Can you be my good girl?” Cassie asks now, and she needs you to say it. Needs it to be true.
Your lip trembles just a bit, but the hold on your face has you feeling so cherished that you get choked up.
You nod once.
And Cassie likes that, she likes that more than anything.
“Good, eat, drink, sleep. Fourteen thousand four hundred seconds, then your butt is being released. And you can get as much sweet and sour soup as you want. Okay?” McKay says more to herself than to you, she’s never been more excited to get off shift.
You nod again and grin, and Cassie doesn’t want to leave you but she’s got to.
“You okay here?” She asks, but she’s stalling.
You nod again, then Cassie’s taking off your glasses and putting them back in her pocket.
You two stare at each other with more feelings than you can take, it’s bursting out of your chest. But she’s walking backwards to the door.
Hesitating, not touching the doorknob.
Almost like she’s afraid if she leaves maybe you’ll change your mind, or maybe this was all too good to be true.
“1.44e+7” You whisper and she looks confused for a second before realizing you are doing the math for the milliseconds.
She points to the applejuice and you grab it again and drink.
“My good girl.”
Take care of yourself
Pitt Fanfiction | AO3 | My Stories MasterList | Tip Jar💰
+ SUMMARY - *Requested - based on this* Regulus is painfully obsessed with you, to the point he’s following you after class and thinking of you every time he comes. When he decides to take something of yours to help him get off, he’s not expecting you to find out.
+ WARNINGS - SMUT! Perv!Regulus, masturbation (m!receiving), sub!Reg, Regulus following reader, Oral (f!receiving), public sex, light stalking?, language, not fully proof-read (lmk if I missed anything!)
+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -
Desire - MEG MYERS
- - -
Soft, lavender sheets. Honey over a warm, homemade breakfast with coffee at the Three Broomsticks. The Hogwarts grounds at the cusp of spring.
Those were the scents he could so clearly make out in Potions this afternoon. It was his final class of the day, and he’d successfully produced an incredibly effective batch of Amortentia. He could tell that because all he could smell was you.
The scent overtook him, shaking him with surprise. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes rolled backwards, closing to conceal the embarrassing gesture. He swayed ever so slightly, his fingers bracing himself against the lab table. Fuck.
“Are you alright, dear boy?” Professor Slughorn’s voice broke through his fantasies.
Regulus’s eyes popped open. The pleasant dizziness subsided only a bit. He nodded.
“Yes, sir, I’m…,” he trailed off. Subconsciously, his eyes glanced toward his cauldron. It steamed gently, the coloring of such flickering soft oranges and pale blue-purples. It was reminiscent of the smells it gave off.
Slughorn’s eyes found his cauldron as well. “Ah, I do believe I can smell it now. It appears you’ve made a superb mixture of the love potion.” He chuckled gleefully.
“Well, now, tell me—what do you smell?” The professor asked, a devious glint in his eye.
“I—er…” Regulus stuttered. It wasn’t as if the scents would indicate anything that related to you, but his knowledge of his perversion made it seem like anybody could know. Besides, if anyone in this room was a Legilimens—he was already screwed.
So, he swallowed nervously and told him. Soft, lavender sheets were reminiscent of your scent. The uniforms that you kept washed and prepared so perfectly in that delicious laundry soap were almost too much for him to bear sometimes. He always knew when he’d just missed you in a room—your scent was overwhelming.
Honey over a warm, homemade breakfast with coffee at the Three Broomsticks. Every Saturday morning, you would join your friends at approximately nine o’clock right inside Hogsmeade. The first few times he’d caught you there, it was by accident. The last dozen, he’d intended to be there.
It didn’t take long to figure that aspect of your schedule out. It just clicked one day that you always happened to be there at the same time. One day, he decided to test his theory and went back the very next day at the same time. And, sure enough, there you were. Gorgeous with a dazzlingly bright smile. You sipped at your creamy coffee and drizzled golden honey over your breakfast. That time he’d realized you always went there on Saturdays, was one of the most beautiful times he’d ever seen you.
The Hogwarts grounds at the cusp of spring. This one was more so a mixture of his love for the school and his love for you. The changing of the seasons at Hogwarts was beautiful and comforting anyway, but you had done to it what you had done to everything else in his life. You took it over, bleeding into every aspect of it like paint in water.
With every early blooming flower, he saw you pressing your nose to them, intaking their scent with a gentle smile on your lips. With every spring shower, he saw you giggling amongst your friends as you raced across the quads to reach your classroom.
Everything he loved had become infected with you, and he didn’t care. He only wanted more.
Professor Slughorn nodded and gave him one last smile before wandering away to check other students. If he had any inkling that any of what Regulus smelled had anything to do with you, he didn’t show it.
Regulus turned back to his cauldron and inconspicuously leaned in, taking another deep breath. The smell was intoxicating. So much so, in fact, that he felt his trousers beginning to tighten.
His eyes snapped open and he looked around the classroom. Everyone seemed focused on their projects. He tugged his robes tighter around his front to cover his issue.
Fuck, when was class going to be over? Desire filled his limbs like a sweet warmth. All he could think about was you—your body, your hair, that smile. He switched his weight back and forth between each foot, fidgeting idly.
His eyes closed as he popped his neck, trying to urge his brain in a different direction. But, of course, everything led back to you.
He’d overheard you talking to your friends earlier this morning, stating that you would be in the library until later this evening while you waited for your laundry. In lieu of looking like a complete stalker, he’d told himself he wouldn’t follow. He would wait in his room and leave you be until this Saturday where he’d resume his typical routine by taking a small booth in the corner, and admiring from afar. But, now, the lust burning within him was almost too much to bear.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, that is all for today!” Slughorn announced. Fucking finally.
That was all Regulus waited around to hear. He muttered a quick vanishing charm over the cauldron. The Amortentia inside and all evidence it had ever been there disappeared before his eyes, but the scent of you lingered. He snatched his bag off the ground and made for the doors.
Somehow, his cauldron would find its way to the collection of them by the door. But, for now, he had to get back to his room and take care of his problem.
His mind raced with thoughts of you, which only served to worsen the pressure in his pants. Your exposed neck flashed across his eyes, your lips spread over your teeth, your body shuddered beneath his. One day, he’d see those things. But, for now, his imagination would work.
At least, it had been. The last few times he’d used you as a visual to get off, it’d taken much longer than it used to. His attraction to you was anything but fading, but his imagination was beginning to not cut it anymore.
If only he could have something of yours that would—
He stopped in his tracks. The entrance to the laundry room stared back at him.
Hadn’t you said something about waiting on your laundry this morning? Would your laundry still be in there?
That was too far. He was beginning to act like a total creep. But, what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you. Right?
With a preemptive glance around, he slipped into the laundry room.
One single house elf wandered about the far corner, sprinkling some scented concoctions over drying clothes on a rack. She did not seem to bear him any mind as he stalked in.
Regulus’s eyes scanned the room, searching for anything that reminded him of your uniform. Nothing really stood out and, amongst the hundreds of laundry soaps being used, he was having a hard time singling your scent out. Until, he came across a hamper in the corner waiting to be picked up.
It seemed to be filled with uniforms only, but a small metal plaque was imprinted on the side of the basket. Your initials were etched into the silver. His breath caught in his throat. It could have been someone else’s with the same initials, but there was only one way he’d know for sure.
He walked over to the basket and picked up the set of robes at the top. Gently, he pressed them to his nose and inhaled.
His limbs all but melted. These clothes were yours, without a doubt. Fuck, you were irresistible. He gripped the robes and contemplated. Was there anything of yours he could take without you noticing? How wrong was this, really? He wasn’t sure. He felt like a total creep, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted you so fucking bad. He just hadn’t quite figured out how to approach you yet.
And, just as he had begun to set the robes back into their basket and move on—deciding that this behavior was unacceptable—something slipped from within the robes. A flash of a pale peachy color caught his eye.
Interested, he set the robes back into the basket and squatted down to get a better look. Laying scattered across the floor was a lacy coral pair of underwear.
The rear panel of the piece was cut high and couldn’t have covered much of your ass. He swallowed thickly, pinching the material between his fingers.
Without another thought, he shoved the panties into his pocket and disappeared back down the hallway.
When he returned to his dormitory, he locked the door and crawled into bed, pulling the canopy curtains shut tight.
And before he could question the morality of all of this anymore, his desire overtook him. With a shuddering breath, he ripped his belt off and pulled himself out of his pants.
He grabbed the panties out from his pocket and hesitantly took in a breath. Your scent hit him like a rock. He all but groaned and struggled not to come from the sight of your underwear alone. Merlin, he was pathetic.
He pressed the fabric to his face as he began to pump himself to the thought of you. The image of you in these would have him on the floor clawing for you if he wasn’t careful.
Already, he was close and near ecstasy. His eyes opened as an idea crossed his mind. He wrapped his knuckles in the lacy material and then placed his fingers back around his dick. He continued to pump himself with the scratchy fabric tightened against his fingers. He shuddered at the sensation, his eyes rolling backward.
He placed a hand over his mouth to muffle the impending sounds. His head fell back against his pillow. His chest jerked beneath each wave of building pleasure.
Before he could hold it in, he came hard around his fist, your panties soaking in his release. As hard as it was, he forced his eyes open to catch the visual. The sight alone nearly made him come again.
And before any guilt about the situation could cloud his mind, he dozed off with you on his mind.
***
By the time he’d woken up, showered off all of his guilt, and made it to class, he’d worked up enough anxiety upon seeing you that he’d hardly even noticed you weren’t in your normal seat.
His eyes glanced about the room, straying away from the spot they usually locked onto every time he walked in.
He noticed that you were seated right beside his normal spot. His breath stopped in his chest. He nearly turned back around and skipped class, before you caught his eyes with yours. His lips parted as he tried to decipher your expression. You must know what he had done. Why else would you be up there?
Your eyes dropped and a hint of a smile brushed across your lips. He took in a shuddering breath and tightened his fingers around his bag strap. His heart pounded in his chest as he worked up the courage to climb the steps to reach his seat.
This classroom was arranged in an auditorium-type setting, with each row of seats on an elevated set of bleachers that stood about ten rows high.
He’d always sat at the top because it gave him a perfect view of the back of your head, and, more importantly, the tops of your breasts when you’d lean back over the edge of your seat to stretch. He was such a fucking freak and he hated himself for it, but he could not help it.
He reached his seat and sat, knee bouncing nervously beneath the desk.
“Good morning, Regulus,” you spoke quietly. Despite your odd tone, his name on your lips sped his heart rate up even more.
“Er, good morning,” he responded. “What’s up?”
His attempt to sound nonchalant was thoroughly ignored by you as you slid a folded piece of paper onto his desk. Before he could question it, you stood and made your way back to your normal seat.
Maybe it was the nerves wracking his brain, but he could swear you’d buttoned one less button on your shirt than you usually did today.
Right on cue, you leaned backward over your chair and stretched. This time, it was different. The edges of your black bra were ever so slightly exposed this time. You had definitely buttoned one less. And your face found his, smirking slightly.
You knew. You had to.
He broke eye contact and scrambled with the piece of paper, unfolding it as quickly as he could.
I know what you did. You should have just asked. Meet me in my dorm after school. 5pm.
If his heart could physically pound even harder, it did. The blood drained from his face. How could you have known? Did the elf tell you? Fuck, he was going to be sick. The lace panties currently sitting in his back trouser pocket were burning a hole through the chair.
He shouldn’t have brought them. He couldn’t help himself. He needed you so bad. Just gently fingering the material beneath his robes was helping him through the morning.
He took in a deep breath and pulled his hand from his pocket. He needed to focus on something other than you. You were driving him completely insane.
And yet, the class and every other aspect of his life was nothing compared to you—your scent, your face, your voice, your panties around his cock.
He shuddered with want. His heart pounded. Sweat beaded at his temples. If he stuck around much longer, his vision was going to start blurring. He grabbed his bag and whisked himself down the bleacher stairs.
The professor hadn’t yet arrived and was not there to see him disappear through the heavy wooden door.
The door clunked shut behind him, echoing down the corridor like a blast of lightning. He all but ran to the men’s lavatory at the end of the hall, pushing through that door, while trying to ignore the fact that he swore he’d heard the classroom door shut a second time.
He wouldn’t allow himself to hope that it was you running after him.
He ducked down and assured himself that the bathroom was completely empty. His bag dropped from his shoulder as he ran over to the porcelain sinks lining the far wall.
Pain scorched through his chest as his breath came out rapidly. He ripped his robe down his shoulders, letting it slip to a pool on the ground. His hands slammed against the sink, fingers twitching in panic.
He ripped his uniform sweater vest over his head and tossed it away. The old faucet squeaked as he jerked it on, letting the cold water rinse over his hands, then splash onto his face.
He all but panted into his reflection; his cheeks flushed and his eyes lidded. He needed something. Anything. It felt like his insides were on fire.
Before he could turn and whisper a locking charm over the lavatory door, it burst open, revealing you in your full glory. Your chest pumped with heavy breaths as if you’d run to get there.
Anticipation in seeing you jerked through him, a small gasp catching in his chest. Neither of you spoke for a few moments.
“I—”
“Don’t speak,” you interrupted immediately. His jaw snapped shut, his hands anxiously gripping the sink behind him. The still running water began to seep over the sink’s lip, sliding down through his fingers. The cold feeling over his hot skin forced a small gasp from him.
Wordlessly, you willed the sink to stop. The water shut off, and the last bit of leaking liquid fell across his fingers and hit the floor with a gentle splatter.
“The elf told me what you did,” you finally spoke. So he had been right. That was how you’d found out. “She told me a dark-haired boy stole something from my basket. I knew it was you.”
“How—how did you know?” Regulus stuttered out.
“Please. If you were anymore obvious, you’d have begged to fuck me in the middle of class,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. Regulus flushed a deep red at the thought, in disbelief that this conversation was really happening. What made it even crazier was he couldn’t tell if you were mad or not.
“You’ve been obsessed with me for months. I’m not stupid, and you’re more obvious than you think.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Regulus frowned, looking down at his shoes. Embarrassment flared uncomfortably in his stomach. He could feel his cheeks and ears heating up substantially. Despite his desires, he wanted to be far away from you at this moment.
“And yet, I can’t find it in me to be mad at you,” you said. Regulus’s eyes snapped up.
“Do you like me?” you asked, head tilting to the side at the question. Regulus’s mouth parted as if to speak, but stuttered as no words came out. He had silently begged for a scenario where he could admit his feelings to you for months, but now, when it was all he needed to do, he couldn’t speak.
“Reg, do you like me?” You said each word slowly and overenunciated. Your eyes were wide and your head nodded with each word, as if you were talking to a badly-behaved dog. For some reason, that turned him on even more.
He couldn’t speak, but he could show you how much he liked you.
This was either going to go very well, or he was going to elongate this humiliation ritual indefinitely. Then again, your humiliating him was not doing much to put him off. If anything, it was making him harder.
He pressed his lips together and let his hands slide off the sink. He slowly dropped to his knees, the left one bracing against the wet tile, then the right one shortly after. His eyes never left you—lidded and needy. Your eyes lowered with his body.
“Crawl.”
A shuddering breath left his lips, but he did not let anything deter him. At this point, he’d bare himself naked and rip his own chest open to get to you.
His hands braced against the wet floor and he crawled toward you. He moved slowly, carefully, so you could turn him down if you decided he wasn’t worth it at any point in the process. He wanted you to know that he was a choice—a disposable one at that. He was less than that.
Once he was inches from your body, his eyes stopped at your unclothed thighs, taking in every inch of your skin until it disappeared beneath your uniform skirt. He forced himself to look away and find your eyes.
Your expression was only describable as bored. If anything, you could have been disgusted with him. What did you want from him? Without instruction, he was useless. He wanted to touch you, to show you how bad he wanted you. He leaned his face forward ever so slightly and glanced up.
When you didn’t protest, he inched closer and closer until, with a shaky breath and a barely stifled moan, he pressed his face above your right knee. He trailed his nose across your skin, breathing your scent in. His hands pulled from the ground and gently cupped the back of your leg.
He exhaled roughly. His lips dragged across the top of your knee, tongue barely darting out to scrape along your flesh.
He placed a line of hot, wet kisses upwards until the hem of your skirt brushed against the bridge of his nose. He paused, looking up at you for permission. He could smell your desire.
You still had a plain expression on your face, your arms crossed. You didn’t say anything, so he took it as a pass to keep going.
He pushed his face upward, your skirt sliding over his face and shielding his eyes from the light in the bathroom. Hesitantly, his lips pressed over you from over top your bottoms.
They were lacy like the ones currently sitting in his back pocket, his tongue could taste the design poured over them. Despite your disinterested expression, you were unbelievably wet. As soon as his mouth pressed to you, the pressure from his jaw forced a gush of desire from between your thighs.
He audibly moaned at the flavor. All hesitancy left him and he pulled the entirety of your cunt over his face. He heard you gasp at the sudden pull, your fingers bracing against his curls as you struggled to keep your balance.
Your legs were split down over his jaw as he worked his tongue over you, revelling in your taste through the lace. Your nonchalance faded away as he continued to kiss against you. Soft moans slipped from between your teeth, echoing gently off the lavatory walls.
“Fuck,” you whispered, fingers tightening in his hair. When you didn’t stop him from going any further, he traced his fingers up the length of your thighs until they reached the waistband of your panties. He slipped his fingertips beneath the strap and pulled them down, the material soaked in a mixture of his saliva and your desire. He pulled his mouth away from you only long enough to push your bottoms down to your ankles, before reuniting his lips with your bare core.
At the connection with nothing in between, he watched through lidded eyes as you threw your head back and moaned aloud. “Reg…fuck, baby!”
The sound of those words on your lips only urged him on faster. Every time he’d touched himself at night, it was to his imagining what you’d sound like as he pleasured you. And this was everything he’d hoped for and more.
Even if you ditched him and never let him touch you again, he’d never lose the memory of your gorgeous body, your taste, your scent, your sounds. Shit.
Before he realized it, he caught himself grinding against your shin. He had no idea how long he’d been doing it for, but it had to have been a few minutes at least, as he felt a coil of pleasure building in the base of his stomach.
“You get off from pleasuring me, Reg?” you teased, scraping your nails easily against his scalp.
He moaned in confirmation, clutching at your ass, kneading the soft skin there as he continued to consume you.
“Shit, baby, I’m gonna…”
Regulus buckled down and traced every inch of you, his tongue swirling as roughly as it could. His hands gripped your thighs even tighter if that was even possible.
As he worked you further toward your orgasm, you let out increasingly loud, breathy moans that pounded in his brain. And with each one, he echoed with one of his own. He forced you closer, and forced himself closer.
And then you were gasping, and clutching at his curls even tighter than before, just as you broke around him. An excess of your lust gushed around his lips, and slid down his cheek and throat in gentle beads.
At the flavor and the way you clenched around his tongue, he came into his trousers, his hips no longer trying to seem subtle as they rocked against you. He panted raggedly against you as he continued to work you through your end, despite the power of his.
Once you had come down from your high, you all but collapsed against him. Your knees buckled and he caught you as you melted into his arms. All of your confidence had seemed to have fallen away. You shuddered as aftershocks hit you like waves.
He wiped his mouth along the length of his sleeve, before gingerly wrapping his arms around you. He only meant to test the waters, but just as with before, you did not question him and you did not push him away. In fact, he felt you snuggle against him with a contented sigh.
With a burst of confidence, he raised a hand and gently eased it across the crown of your head, smoothing your hair along the way. You said nothing, but your fingers gripped against his robes.
He needed to get you up and pull you into your dormitory, so you weren’t resting on the floor of the bathroom. He could tuck you into your bed, and watch you as you fell asleep, just like he’d always wanted to.
But, for now, he was happy with holding you as he could, with your taste still in his mouth.
a/n: Damn, I haven't posted in a while but I finally had some ideas. This was just a filthy idea that came to me lmao. I should be posting another fic soon enough but it will be much longer than this.
Leviathan x Reader.
Cw: Rough Sex, Jealous!Levi, Possessiveness, Double Penetration, Degradation, Choking, Dumbification, Levi having two dicks, Creampies, Fem!reader, kinda OOC.
-----------------------
You had no idea how you ended up like this—on your hands and knees, your back arched so obscenely deep that your ass was high in the air, presenting like some desperate bitch in heat. You’d been like this for what felt like hours, stuffed full of two thick cocks, stretched beyond reason, your cunt clinging to them greedily despite not knowing how the hell they even fit in the first place. But they did—oh, they did—and now, they dragged against your slick, gooey walls, each thrust sending pleasure-cracked lightning through your body. One thick, blunt cock nudged mercilessly against your sweet spot while the other rammed into your cervix over and over, a punishing rhythm that left you shaking and delirious, every nerve in your body reduced to raw sensation.
The filthy plap! plap! of skin against skin echoed through the room, mingling with your ragged moans. Every thrust sent Leviathan’s heavy balls smacking against your swollen clit, the impact making your toes curl, your body shudder. It felt too good—too much. Your eyes rolled back as you drooled onto the floor, your body strung tight between pleasure and unbearable need.
“L-Levi! I-it’s—ah!—too much!” You whimpered, weakly trying to crawl forward, your trembling hands dragging uselessly and pathetically against the smooth floor. But you barely made it an inch before he growled, his long, serpentine tail snapping around your waist like a vice.
With a sharp yank, he hauled you back hard onto his cocks, impaling you deeper, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred with white-hot pleasure as he bottomed out, stuffing you so full your cunt spasmed around the thick intrusion, making you choke on a broken scream.
“But it wasn’t too much when you were acting like a little slut around Belphie, huh?” Leviathan spat, his voice laced with venom. One clawed hand cracked down onto your ass—
SMACK!
A high-pitched mewl ripped from your throat as your abused cunt clenching down around him like a vice, milking him without even meaning to. His rhythm never faltered—deep, ruthless strokes that had your thighs quivering, your mind unraveling at the edges. Your mind scrambled, barely able to grasp what he was talking about—Belphie?
Vaguely, you remembered the youngest brother trying to tug you down for a nap, how you’d squirmed away, desperately refusing because you knew how Leviathan got. As much as he was the awkward, blushing otaku who stammered at the mere mention of holding hands, he was also the Avatar of Envy. And when that envy took hold of him?
He fucked you like the demon that he was, like he needed to carve his claim into your body, brand you from the inside out.
And fuck, it was always so hot.
“I-I—ngh!—didn’t d-do anything,” you moaned, only to yelp when Levi yanked your head back by your hair, exposing your throat, forcing your back into an even deeper arch. His cocks drove into you even harder, your walls stretching around him in helpless surrender. You swore you could feel him in your throat with how impossibly deep he was.
“Didn’t do anything? That w-wasn’t—ah!—an apology, you fucking whore,” Leviathan sneered, his sweaty indigo bangs plastered to his forehead, coral horns gleaming under the ethereal blue glow of his massive fish tank. Henry 2.0 swam lazily in the background, oblivious to the debauchery taking place in front of him.
The creamy mess at the base of his cocks was proof of how many times he had already wrung you dry—how many times he had forced your spent cunt to cum, again and again, until you were nothing more than a twitching, babbling wreck.
Another sharp tug on your hair made you cry out, his claws digging deep into your waist. He was always so mean when he fucked you like this, so cruel. You knew if you didn’t apologize properly, he’d break you completely—fuck you until you passed out, just to prove a point. It only made your cunt clench even more tightly around his cocks at the thought.
When he changed his pace, slowing just enough to make you feel every thick vein, every ridge, your forehead dropped against the cool floor. You drooled messily onto it, shuddering, your pupils practically heart-shaped at the change in pace. He pulled out almost completely, leaving just the fat, leaking heads stretching your entrance, before driving all the way in again, burying himself to the base, grinding deep. The pressure against your cervix made your breath hitch, made your walls squeeze around him in helpless spasms. His tail still kept your hips up, ass high in the air, forcing you to take everything he gave you.
“‘M-‘m sorry! I-I won’t—f-fuck—do it again!” you sobbed, voice breaking into little hiccupping cries. Another deep, merciless grind had you gasping, his cocks stretching you so wide it felt like they were reshaping your insides. “I-I’ll be g-good!”
At your pathetic little plea, Leviathan’s cocks throbbed, the tight heat of your desperate little cunt making him groan. He leaned forward, pressing his sweaty, overheated chest against your back, his hot breath ghosting over your ear as his long fingers abandoned your hair in favor to sliding down—
Oh.
Oh.
A keening whimper tore from your throat as his thumb pressed down, circling your swollen, aching bud in tight, merciless motions. Your cunt instantly clamped down, gripping him in a desperate, needy vice. Fuck—fuck—just that and the slow, deliberate grind of his hips had you teetering on the edge.
“I-I can feel you tightening up,” Levi panted, his breath hot against your ear. His normally pale cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, his sunset-colored eyes glowing orange with predatory hunger. His thumb pressed down harder, faster, dragging you toward the inevitable. “Gonna make a mess on my cocks again, huh?”
Your toes curled. Your eyes rolled. You tried to rock back against him, to get him to pound you again, but his tail kept you trapped. You whined, needy, desperate.
“L-Levi! M-more—ahn!—I n-need more!”
The groan he let out was pure filth, low and breathless. His breath tickled your ear as he dragged his tongue along the shell before pulling back again. You whimpered when his fingers left your clit, but before you could protest, his hands clamped around your waist and—
He slammed into you.
“You were just whining that it was too much, and now you want more?” Leviathan panted, voice rough. “I-I guess—s-shit—I shouldn’t expect anything less from a cock-hungry little slut like you.”
His heavy balls slammed against your clit again, the wet plap! plap! echoing through the room, so obscene you would’ve blushed if you had a single thought left in your fucked-out brain. The sound of your sloppy cunt sucking him in, taking both of his cocks to the root, was filthy. It only made you get wetter, made your slick drip down your thighs, messy and wanton.
One of his hands released your waist and snaked up—
Around your throat.
Your high-pitched squeal turned into something closer to a gargled sob as his grip tightened just enough, the pressure sending you careening straight over the edge. Your body trembled violently, your walls spasming around his cocks, milking them greedily as you gushed, slick dripping down your trembling thigh. Your mind blanked, drowned in white-hot euphoria. You weren’t even sure what you were saying anymore, just slurred, broken babbles of his name.
Leviathan let out a guttural moan, his grip tightening as he slammed into you one last time—twice—before burying himself deep and cumming.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your already abused cunt, making you tremble as the heat pooled inside you. He didn’t stop, didn’t pull out—just rocked his hips lazily, fucking his seed even deeper, filling you until you overflowed.
You barely twitched when his tail gently flipped you onto your back, legs spread, his cum already beginning to leak from your wrecked cunt. You expected him to be back to his awkward, flustered self—to stammer out apologies for being so rough, to blush and look away like he always did.
But your breath hitched when you looked up at him.
He was still in his demon form, his tail flicking idly, those glowing sunset eyes fixed on you like prey. His cocks—still hard—were glistening with his own release, drooling more thick strands onto your already ruined entrance.
Fuck.
“I thought we were done. I already apologized,” you murmured, voice shaky—though your traitorous thighs spread wider in silent invitation. Your twitchy, leaking cunt clenched around nothing, desperate for him to fill it again.
Leviathan’s lips curled, his tail coiling possessively around your waist. He took both of his cocks in one hand and—
Pap! Pap! Pap!
He slapped your soaked, needy cunt with the heavy, leaking heads, making you jolt, slick spilling even more in anticipation.
“It wasn’t good enough,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “You need to give me a better apology.”
Leviathan was definitely going to fuck you unconscious.
May you do Till x fem reader who is always sleepy and stoic in ANAKT garden?^_^
Till has a crush on her instead of Mizi and reader likes him back!!!
Do you see me in your dreams?~ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Till x Fem!Sleepy!Reader
A/N: IM SO SORRY im so late to write this, ive been busy with comic con :(!! I hope you like this though!~
You two would first meet as kids, of course, he would secretly give glances to your sleepy, small figure as you dozed off under one of the trees in ANAKT garden.
Till is… well he’s shy, but not fully shy. You’ve see how he acts, right? Sort of aggressive, but oh, when it comes to you, he’s the softest boy you’ve ever met <3
Eventually he does try to strike up a conversation with you, but he gets too nervous and runs away!!! Who knew you were such a pretty girl up close?!
it didn’t make it better that you were just staring at him with a blank face as he ran away from you… :( he won’t stop trying though!
With the help of Mizi pushing him towards you, he does manage to say a few words…
“H-hi… Y-Y/N…” there was no way you COULDN’T have notice the insane stutter this boy just did. You simply stared at him as his hands shook, why weren’t you showing any hint of happiness or even sadness that he was right in front of you?!
Now it’s his life mission to crack a smile on your face!!! Or anything… besides the neutral sleepy face that you have on all the time…
He’ll do anything at this point… make you a sloppy flower crown, (he tried his best!!), give you a silly drawing of you, or him, or he’ll just stick to being a lovestruck idiot that is so deeply in love with you that he gets so anxious at the thought of you not loving him back and what if you’ll never think of him like th-
“Y-Y/N! IHAVEAREALLYHUGECRUSHONYOUITHINKYOURESOPRETTYANDIDONTKNOWIFYOULIKEMEBACK.” Till blurted out as he stood in front of you, everyone looking at the sudden outburst of emotion. Hell yeah, he was embarrassed, but he finally confessed to you.
You didn’t really do much with his confession, just a simple nod and an “Okay. I like you too.” And then go back to sleep.
His face was BEET red at the sudden realization that you just said you liked HIM back. Him?! Out of everyone?! God, even the aliens think he’s ugly, well… that’s not really saying much. But still!
He is so happy he gets to call you his, and you call him yours!! Although much hasn’t changed with your sleepiness and stoic attitude, he thinks his whole world has been revived and shined a light on…
He does eventually take small naps with you and still try to make you smile, when he does succeed in making your constant 180 degree angle of a smile even a centimeter above it, he’s so overjoyed<3
You really don’t realize how much he loves you :((
A/N: I LOVE TILL SO MUCH HES my favorite… I hope you liked this fic! I had fun writing it at 11:30 pm on a school night /srs hehe~
Summary: Jake and Neytiri neglected and forgot you, their wife. Only when the kids finally say something, they notice too.
Author’s note: Hii! I‘m new on Tumblr and this is my very first post so please don’t be so harsh. My first language is not English(don’t expect this to be a masterpiece because of that please) and I do not use AI. Ao3 comments have often told me that my stories are from AI but they’re not, I just have a bland and boring writing style.
The lazy afternoon sun is shining through the tiny gaps of the kelku(house/home). Everybody is exhausted from the very long day, despite the children not really doing anything.
Kiri is braiding beads into Tuk‘s hair, Neteyam and Lo‘ak are sharpening their knives while arguing about who’s fault it was for the hexapede running away before they could catch it. Neytiri and Jake are tangled in their nivi(hammock), tails intertwined and resting in each other‘s embrace. Only you aren’t there.
„Dad! When is sa‘nu(mommy/mom) coming back?“ Tuk whines from Kiri‘s lap. You promised her that you would be there for the evening meal, and that you would tell her a story when it is time to go to sleep.
Jake does not move his head to look at his youngest daughter, nor does he stop rubbing circles on Neytiri‘s waist. „Your mother will be back soon. She’s…Neytiri what is she doing again?“ It sounds weird to his own ears that he can not recall what you are doing right now.
„She‘s visiting a friend in the healing tents. I saw her carrying a basket full of herbs and some other shit.“ Lo‘ak says it as if it is normal for everyone to know where you are. Neytiri can see their other children nodding their heads.
Why did they know about your whereabouts and they did not?
„You know, sa‘nu looks sad often these past weeks. And she doesn’t sit with us at dinner anymore.“ Tuk states it like it is obvious. And to the children, it is. You have not been smiling a lot, nor were you there for any meals these past weeks. Tuk thought her sa‘nok and sempul(Mother and father) would notice and eventually ask you about it. But that did not happen.
„Ma‘ite(daughter), that is not true. Your sa‘nu has been here for meals. And she is not sad! Right, Ma Jake?“ Neytiri is unconvinced of her own words. She is clearly rummaging through her own memories, trying to find you anywhere. But she can not find any.
Jake‘s heart is pounding in his ears. He can not recall any time where you were with them. Not when hunting, not when flying for date night, and not for any meal in weeks. But why did they not notice sooner?
„Mom is actually super sad. You don’t take her hunting anymore, you don’t sit with her at cooking fires. You either spend your time with each other or with us or duties. But not with mom!“ Lo‘ak was the first to notice your distance but kept his mouth shut. He thought it will pass but it did not.
Then again, he did not say anything because he simply thought it will be over soon. So he just let it happen, they all let it happen. Avoidance is always the best way to cover things up.
Neytiri sits up and stumbles out of the nivi, crashing down onto the ground with a loud sound. She is panicking, trying to find evidence that they did not forget you, that they did not neglect you.
But her son is right. Your weaving projects are not next to hers anymore. Your bow is not proudly displayed next to hers anymore. You even moved your hunting gear from theirs!
Kiri, who has stayed silent for so long, sighs. Whenever she asked, you would deflect her questions or tell her it is not anything serious. But seeing her sa‘nok panicking, she knows it is most definitely something serious.
„Did you know she has her own nivi?“ Kiri‘s voice is deadly calm. Like a weapon made to hurt her parents and only her parents. Tuk looked up at her sister, then at her parents.
„Her own nivi? No, she doesn’t have her own nivi! That’s bullshit!“ Jake tries to reason, but he can not tell if you slept beside them. You would always come to sleep next to them at the end of the day. Because you love them and you know they love you too, right?
„Is it?“ Neteyam usually did not speak against his father, but this time he can not bring himself to stay silent. They have been watching you suffer in loneliness and did not say a word. He is so ashamed of himself that he can not even bear to be angry at his parents.
Neytiri lets out a sob. How has she not noticed her own mate suffering? How has she not noticed you were not there when they were always together?
Jake immediately wraps an arm around his wife. But the realization and shame burns in his face. Neither of them noticed anything, and you did not say a word either.
But he can not fault you for that right now. He needs to have a clear head and with the children staring at them with accusative attitude, he definitely does not have one.
„Kids, listen. I need you to stay at your grandma‘s tonight. Your mothers and I will get you in the morning.“ even though they are not on patrol or on a hunting trip, he barks orders at his children.
They reluctantly start to pack up, though Tuk is loudly protesting. „Sa‘nu promised me to tell me a story before bed! Dad you can’t make me leave!“ she whines even as Neteyam picks her up and carries her out of the kelku.
Immediately it is silent. Silent except for the sobs Neytiri is letting out. The kelku is suddenly too big for them, and they can vividly remember a time when that was different. When you filled out the space that is now empty and big and silent.
„Baby, Baby listen to me.“ Jake puts his hands on Neytiri‘s shoulders and finally gets her to look at him through tear stained eyes. „When she comes home tonight, we need to show her that we still very much love and need her. No accusations and no shouting. Okay?“
Neytiri nods because she can not bring herself to speak. Her eyes go over the kelku again, suddenly finding space where your things once were. Just for how long have you been distancing yourself from them?
The empty basket in your hands does not keep your mind from thinking. You have a weird feeling in your chest and it will not stop no matter what you do. You only hope that nothing has happened while you were gone.
Your friend is fine. With the herbs you just delivered, she will be back to normal in no time! But you already had a weird feeling when you kneeled next to her.
There is your kelku, the home you have been living in for years. But the negative feeling comes from there. Should you go in? Maybe you will just see something what makes your heart break a little more.
You sigh and push the flap aside, hoping to find your family eating dinner.
But no, there are no children. There are just Jake and Neytiri, sitting on the ground. The atmosphere is tense around the three of you.
„Jake…Neytiri.“ you greet softly and put the basket on the ground. Out of instinct, you pull the woven shawl tighter around you. Maybe because you hope it can protect you from whatever conversation will be happening. „Where are the children?“
“Why did you not tell me how you were feeling? Why did you not tell us how we have been treating you?“ Neytiri never liked to beat around the bush. No, she would rather talk directly about the fact that they have been neglecting their mate and said mate did not say anything about it.
„I do now understand, Neytiri. Answer me please, where are the children?“ Oh, you know exactly what they are talking about. And they can see it in your face, you just do not want to answer the question.
„They’re at Mo‘at‘s. Now answer us.“ Jake‘s voice is grave and filled with anger. Not anger towards you, never you, but at himself. How could he let it get this far?
„Again, I do not know what you want to hear.“ you try to sound confident but it comes out rather as if you are trying to run from their questions.
„Ma yawne do not lie to us! We have neglected you, have acted as if you are nothing more than a friend or a guest in your own home! We did not even know about your separate nivi!“ Neytiri‘s voice raises in sadness. The words are bitter on her tongue but they are truthful. The truth is always bitter.
„How do you know about that?“ that got your attention. And based on Jake and Neytiri‘s expressions, they do not know for long. Who told them? Was it Tuk?
„Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t say a word! You have been suffering in silence for Eywa knows how long and didn’t say a word. And hell, we didn’t notice either. Tuk made us see it!“ Jake is pacing while shouting and you know you can not escape this conversation or situation.
Instead of saying anything, you lower your head and look down at the ground in front of you. Then you sigh and decide that apologizing might be the easiest way out of this.
„I apologize. I thought you would notice and eventually stop but you did not and then it just became…habit. Again, forgive me for not saying anything.“ your voice is calm but your mind definitely is not. You are so exhausted.
„Why are you apologizing?! Baby please listen instead of apologizing!“ the nickname feels strange on Jake‘s tongue. How long has it been since he called you anything but your name?
You sigh and look up, and let out a startled gasp because suddenly, he is in front of you. Before you can react, he has already taken your hands into his. Jake‘s hands are warm, yours are cold. They always are cold.
„Baby let me apologize. I‘ve been a terrible husband. God, neglecting your wife is the worst thing you can do in a marriage! I’ve spent so much time with the children and duties that I was glad to have some alone time with Neytiri and I completely forgot about you! I’m so sorry baby please forgive me!“ the emotion in his voice makes you tremble. Jake has always been emotional with you and Neytiri, just never in front of the kids.
„Jake stop-“ you get stopped by a hand on your arm. It is Neytiri who is looking at you with so much sorrow and so much sadness in her big yellow eyes. You used to spend hours looking into those eyes, but not anymore.
„No, ma yawne. We promised you forever and told you we can not live without at our side, and we have done so anyway. Without us even noticing..“ Neytiri breaks into a sob. She is suddenly reminded how she misses you at her side during flying, hunting, weaving. Those are all things you two have done together, and now you do it alone.
All three of you can vividly remember the night Jake and Neytiri asked you to meet them in their kelku. For no particular reason, you wore your favorite loincloth and your prettiest necklace acting as a chest garment. You even rebraided your hair twice because you were so nervous.
They confessed rather clumsily. First Neytiri, then Jake. But both of them wanted you at their side forever. They promised you you would never be alone anymore.
Believing them, you held your kuru to each of theirs and made tsaheylu. You felt everything in that moment, and from that moment on you were their wife.
How could things have ended up like this?
„Say something baby. Please..“ Jake is desperate not to lose you. A mating bond is forever, but that does not mean he is willing to lose you emotionally.
Now that you look at them like that, they seem equally desperate to make you happy again. With a sigh, you take a deep breath.
„You have both hurt me immensely. You stopped reaching out to me, stopped asking me to come with you. And whenever I asked one of you to come with me, you would brush me off.“ you make a pause and take in their expressions. Neytiri is losing hope and is probably praying to the Great Mother that she is not losing you tonight. Jake looks as if he is about to throw up from the truth in your words.
„But I still love you both so much. I could not bring myself to leave you, emotionally or physically. I forgive you both for all the things you have done. But you must promise me that it will never happen again. Promise me..“ your voice cracks. Tears are running down your cheeks and you can not wipe them because Jake is holding your hands too tightly.
Suddenly, you do not need to wipe your tears anymore because Jake is cupping your face and already did it for you. He leans down and gives you a kiss on the forehead.
„We will never do that again, you hear me? Never in my entire damn life will I forget you again.“ Jake is determined not to let it happen again. Because if it does, he will haul himself off a cliff and drop dead. You do not deserve to be treated like an afterthought.
Neytiri is smiling for the first time since she had the realization that they are terrible mates to you. She takes your palm and presses kisses to it while mumbling praise and thanks to Eywa, and to you.
While you are distracted, you are picked up by Jake. You shriek. „Jake! What are you doing?“ you obviously try to push against him but he is simply stronger than you. So you protest without success.
„Making my wife feel loved again.“ he carries you to the giant nivi. There could be easily fit four people in. First he lays you inside, then he climbs inside himself.
He rests his back against the nivi, with you on his chest listening to his heartbeat. Your exhaustion and sleepiness seems to make itself known.
Neytiri climbs in from the other side, was to curl against your back. Her hand is rubbing circles on your waist, calming you instantly. „Oel ngati kameie(I See You).“ she whispers into your ear and you can not help but smile. How long has your heart longed to hear those words again?
„Oel ngati kameie.“ you respond sleepily. Before you drift off to sleep, you can faintly hear Jake telling you that he loves you but you are already asleep instead is responding.
Jake and Neytiri stay awake a little longer, staring at your sleeping form. They are silently vowing to themselves to never neglect you again, may Eywa strike them down if they ever did again.
But with some time passed, they too fall asleep. And it’s the best sleep you all three have had since you began sleeping in an extra nivi.
summary: Herman is inexperienced and orgasms way too soon.
kinks: dry-humping & pre-ejaculation
word count: 749
You were aware he'd be inexperienced, the way he always shut himself out from the opportunities to meet people and get closer to them. In a way, you understand the need to hide oneself so nobody can hurt you. Or maybe so that you can't hurt yourself, by being a disappointment and failure. Whatever it is, you're just glad you got Herman to trust you enough to be vulnerable with each other.
He seems tense and the opposite of calm right now, with you straddled on his lap and your thighs bracketing his. Earlier, you'd zipped down his suit all the way, though he insisted on keeping it on. Now he lays half naked with his chest and torso bare beneath you, while your palms caress over his pale and freckled skin to soothe his nerves. You feel a bit naked compared to him, your own clothes thrown away somewhere, leaving you only in your bra and panties.
"Relax for once, we can take it as slow as you need." you try to assure him, but it does only a little to quiet his frightened mind. His chest gently heavies under your palms with each deep breath he takes and his eyes, partially hidden beneath his fogged up googles stare into yours, wide and unsure. "I-I...yeah, slow. Slow is good." he response quietly, his voice a bit shaky but otherwise contend. Even in his nervous state, he appears to be thrilled at having you on top of him.
"You- you should know-" he was about to trail off before a hesitant grind of your hips on top of him made him gasp in overwhelming pleasure. You can feel the bulge pressing against your clothed pussy and you really need that friction by how turned on you are. "Sorry, Hermy. But you're not the only one who's horny." you excuse yourself with a grin on your face, your own cheeks matching his red ones.
You move your hips in slow and gentle grinding on top of him, rubbing yourself over his bulge eagerly. The fabric of your panties cling to your folds, from the wetness that's caused by your arousal. And Herman can feel that too, his cock throbs in response under his suit.
"Wait- You don't get it-" his hands, until now so hesitant to even touch you the slightest, reach out to grip you by your waist. Not really stopping you but also not encouraging you, just to hold onto you for dear life. Before you can tease him further, his grip on your waist tightens and his own hips grind upwards to meet yours. "Close- I'm so close, I'm sorry!" he whines with shame, at the same time his hips never falters and neither does yours.
"It's okay, I don't mind." you assure him with a breathless voice, while holding onto his chest with your palms sprawled out over his skin and matching the rhythm of his hips.
"Come on, let go already..." you mumble towards him with want, and that's what makes him explode. His wet hands, wetter than usual due to your activity, grip strongly on your waist, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he ruts his stuttering hips against you like a man possessed. The googles on his face are fogged up completely, and while he seems to spill himself into his boxers (and herosuit), you reach out to pull them off his head. His half lidded and dazed eyes meeting yours.
"Oh yeah, that was- that was so good." he falls limp onto the waterproof-plastic wrapped bed, his chest rising and falling to catch his breath. You stare at him with a soft grin on your face, amusingly taking in his flushed cheeks and goofy grin on his lips.
"Easy for you to say, I didn't reach my orgasm." at those words, his grin slowly fades away. His gaze turning into guilt. "Sorry...I didn't mean to- I'm sorry, I-" he tries to explain himself, but you stop him with a gentle press of your lips against his, not even giving him a chance to spill his insecure thoughts out loud. "I wasn't trying to make you fell guilty, hermy." you assure him with a gentle whisper against his lips, before pressing another lovely kiss on the corner of his mouth.
His hands on your waist relax and brush down to your thighs, giving a gentle squeeze of affection. At your soothing words, his eyes flutter closed and his tense eyebrows relax.
For when you get around to it: could you please write Bo, Vincent, and Michael with a fem!s/o that collects porcelain dolls? I was just gifted a new one for my collection on Christmas and would love to read them dealing with their partner being practically obsessed with them ^_^
a/n: hi love, im so sorry for how painfully short and lacking this is. i have not written for months and my creative flow is like nonexistent... :( but as always i appreciate the request <3 hopefully ill post something better soon
Call me Babydoll ~
Michael
Michael fails to understand your quirky obsession with those dolls he perceives as creepy. To him, they appear to do nothing but gather dust, occupy space, and waste money.
You’d often see him just standing there, gazing at your dolls, head slightly tilted. It seemed like he was curious, but whenever you tried to share what you liked about them, he’d lose interest and walk away before you could really say much. You wouldn’t really say it bothered you, but deep down, it felt a bit disappointing. Michael is who he is, he doesn’t care about a lot. You figured you were lucky he even cared about you.
It took you some time to realize it, but the shelves where your dolls belonged stayed pristine despite your lack of cleaning for weeks. It clicked in your head immediately who was behind this, it warmed your heart to see Michael somewhat caring for something that meant a lot to you. He doesn't care to hear about them, he knows you like them and that's all he needs to know. He stays away from them despite when he sneaks inside in the middle of the night and cleans the shelves to the best of his abilities, Michael is not a clean man but he does his best.
Vincent
Vincent is incredibly accepting and deeply understanding of your unique collection, showing a genuine appreciation for the things you treasure, even when others might not see their true value. He loves to see the smile on your face when you bring a new one home, and helps you pick out a spot for it. Hes very careful if he ever handles your dolls, he knows they are fragile and not easy to come by.
If hes ever out by himself and comes across one he will bring it home to show you, proud of himself and only hoping his gift will make you smile.
During his free time he likes to rearrange them, though he would never admit it, he has a perfectionist side that compels him to keep things straight on the shelves. You found it quite adorable when you'd come home and find your dolls arranged neatly and perfectly on their shelf.
He does ask you about them, and listens carefully when you rant on and on about them, adoration glinting in his eyes. He loves hearing you talk, and loves how excited you become over something you're passionate about. Not to mention he finds your collection absolutely adorable and thinks you have great taste.
Bo
He’s more upfront regarding your affection for porcelain dolls, openly admitting his lack of understanding and clearly stating he wants them nowhere near his belongings. It stings, but he doesn't care to apologize. However, on a sunny afternoon, after shopping, you find him assembling a large bookshelf in your shared bedroom, sweat gathering on his brow.
When you asked about it, his only answer was 'its for you.'
Bo had a unique way of showing affection and care. He struggled with verbal expression and wasn't fond of physical contact. Often, he would say one thing but the next his actions contradict his words. He showed his love through acts of service, starting with the bookshelf that was clearly meant for your dolls.
Next, you'd find flowers placed next to them, a note that says 'with love.' in one of the dolls lap. Bo might secretly hate your collection, not understand it, hate having them in his space, but he loves you too much to tell you no. And, he knows he should be supportive of you. Occasionally he will ask you if you need more space for them, or ask innocent questions about how your love for them started. He wont admit that he has more questions he wants to ask, mostly curious about your life and interests rather than the dolls themselves.
Whenever you bring a new one home and excitedly tell him about it, hes more focused on the smile on your lips, the excitement in your eyes, and the sweet tone of your voice. He doesn't particularly care about the doll, as long as you are happy, he is.
MINORS DNI! red dividers by @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune
pairing: dad!tattooartist!dean winchester x fem!ex-wife!reader
summary: Dean Winchester doesn't hunt monsters anymore. These days, he runs a tattoo shop in a town that remembers him too well, using ink to rewrite the parts of himself that still bleed. His body's a canvas of mistakes, old ghosts, and shaky beginnings, and now, so is his life. Between clients, crayon battles with his son, and run-ins with the woman who once wore his last name, Dean's trying to prove that people can change… even if they’re covered in old scars and new tattoos.
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, self-loathing dean winchester, exes to lovers, sloooooow burn, third person fic, dad dean (i feel it's a warning), sam is a lovely uncle, smut with all the feels (oral - both receiving, soft dom dean, unprotected and half-clothed sex), no use of y/n, no explicit physical description, canon divergent, dean's pov, mentions of 15x20, flirty dean, flirty reader???, one sexist line (it's dean c'mon), communication!!! these two talk, a lot!!! reader is a boss ass bitch if you ask me (esp when it comes to her worth).
word count: 13k+ (sorry about that), proofread (at least i tried to)
chye's corner: this is my first attempt at writing since 2021 and my first EVER dean story. pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
A stained rag looped lazily through his hand while Dean was wiping the chair with methodical care. He used the same concentration reserved for cleaning a sawed-off. Old habits die hard. Not that you could kill a ghost with disinfectant, but he needed to connect his past life to this new, quieter, version of himself. The scorching sun streamed through the tall front windows of his tattoo shop, the Hexproof Ink (Dean was quite proud when he came up with the name, Sam grimaced a little bit at the cheesiness of it), casting warm gold light over the polished floors. The old record player was humming one of his favorite songs somewhere in the background.
He liked that what he did with the shop. Every angle of it screamed Dean Winchester, from the rock music to the posters on the wall. Going back to Lawrence hadn’t been easy, and he had enjoyed the distraction. He bought it from some old gentleman who used it as storage, but Dean knew something more could have been done with the space. He first thought about opening his own car shop, but the memories of John and Bobby weaved together were too painful for him to bring himself to do that. He could still fix cars in his spare time whenever he wanted to. But, still, he did need to make money somehow.
Opening a tattoo shop was the next, most logical, choice. He was decent at drawing. Actually, he was fucking awesome at it. Did he know how to tattoo someone? Hell no. And that was exactly why his body, once pristine except for his anti-possession tattoo he got more than ten years ago, was now covered with his work. He needed the practice, and what better guinea pig than himself? For the record, the first tattoo had been an absolute disaster. A crooked bullet casing on his left thigh, done with a borrowed machine and a bottle of Jack Daniels just out of frame for when it got too painful. It scabbed badly and healed worse. He kept it anyway, as a token. The next one was a crude take on Impala, just on his forearm, lopsided and faint. He redid it three times before it looked half decent. He hated it now, he could serve his baby some more justice if he just waited, but it was honest. A reminder of who he was. He needed that sometimes, now that he was starting to forget. Then came a clock on his ribs that was supposed to display Sam’s time of birth, but it was an hour late. A colt on his bicep that he’d modified to look more like art than a weapon. Lyrics he never admitted mattered on his pecs of a lullaby Mary sang to him a long, long time ago. Burn, mark, heal. All over again.
And yeah, he wasn’t the best. But the word spread, and people started coming in. Quietly. First-time clients. Nervous rebels-wannabes. Couples, single frisky women, fathers, mothers, friends. Occasional hunters who never said it out loud, but Dean somehow always knew from the look in their eyes. And his Hexproof Ink took off, as much as it could in the town of Lawrence, anyway. Which was enough, at least for him. His days were busy, just like he wanted. No, needed. He spent his week going through calls (he was considering hiring someone to handle that), appointments, the remodel of his old house, and playdates with his son. Except for Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, he liked to relax. It was his off day. Or, better, it was her day. For the past three months she had walked into his shop unannounced. Sometimes it was to drop off Beau’s jacket. Sometimes to bring back the sketchpad he “forgot” on her porch. Once, it was to tell him their son had tried to salt the windows just like daddy taught me how.
The bell above the door jingled, soft and familiar. Dean didn’t look up right away. He didn’t have to, her perfume invading his senses. She walked in like she always did on Tuesdays, the door clicking shut behind her as she stepped into his world. Same easy sway to her walk, same threadbare confidence. She stopped near the counter, a few feet from him, and he dared look at her. She was holding up the necklace Dean gave her several Christmases ago, one of the few things she had kept from their marriage. It was beautiful, a charm full of dried herbs and salt that was meant to protect her from the supernatural with a stone of her favorite color. He had crafted that personally (with Rowena’s help) and he couldn’t forget the adoring look she had on her face when she first wore it. That was a long time ago now, and the necklace didn’t hold the same value it did before. Now, instead, the charm was broken. So much for protection.
“You got a minute?” she asked, voice dry, hiding some hints of warmness. “As you can see, your kid went full Hulk on my necklace.” she chuckled.
Dean tossed the dirty rag over his shoulder and stood up. There was a smudge of ink on the side of his hand and a crooked grin on his face. “Sounds like my son.” She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess,” Dean stepped forward. “Thought it was a monster egg again?”
She put the necklace in her pocket. “Yeah. He smashed it with a broom. Didn’t even know how he got it” she muttered under her breath. “Well, I guess it’s time if you’re free”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Time for what?”. He cleared his throat. “And for you I’m always free” he winced. “That was cheesy, ignore that”
She grinned. “Not a chance, but I’ll let it slide for now. I need that anti-possession tattoo, so I can stop hoping nothing breaks next time” or, Dean knew exactly what she meant by that, So I can stop wearing your necklace, you worthless piece of shit.
Dean smiled at her nervously and pointed at where she should get comfortable. “You know, you used to say you never wanted a tattoo. Said you didn’t want anything permanent on you... except me, of course”
“Wow,” she said, eyebrows arching. “You really sat on that line, didn’t you?”
“Had time to think. Not like I was busy being a decent husband anyway”
“Well, at least you’re self-aware now”.
Dean turned away to prep a new needle, hiding how this talk was affecting him. “Where do you want it?” A long time ago Dean would have said this sentence balls deep in her, enchanted by her moans, her mouth, her body, her eyes, her soul. But not anymore, or ever again.
“No pentagrams with skulls, Winchester,” she warned, peeling her jacket off and lifting her shirt just enough to reveal the skin above her hip. Dean felt himself stop breathing for a second, so much so that he had to turn away to regulate his thoughts. Still dangerous, even after all this time.
“Damn” he muttered, reaching for his sketchbook and flipping to the easier stencils. “You ruin all my fun”. He showed her the same anti-possession tattoo he had on him, but with a finer line that would match her aesthetic better. Once he got the green light, he started to take care of everything, while she laid behind him waiting for Dean to start.
He couldn’t stop his mind from going back to a time where he didn’t have to wait for a damn tattoo to touch her, he could just roll over and hug her frame from behind. He sighed and scrunched his nose. Now was not the time to think about that. Maybe later, once he got into his bed, alone, and pretended the last four years hadn’t happed, he could allow himself to stop feeling guilty and imagine how life would have turned out if he left hunting the countless times she asked him to.
He turned around. The hurt look on his face now gone, replaced with a cocky grin. Dean couldn’t fool her, she knew him too well. He was trying to fool himself. He pulled on his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he sat on the rolling stool beside her. He focused on everything but her, applying the stencil gently against her skin. His hands moved with practiced care, but, still, he couldn’t stop the flicker of memory. This skin, this closeness, this once-familiar intimacy now edged with unspoken words and tension.
“Beau good this week?” He had to stop the silence.
“Besides my necklace?” She said, trying not to squirm under his touch. “Mostly, he’s been trying to build a salt launcher out of Legos. Says you promised one.” She tried to meet his eyes, but Dean remained focused on the skin on her hip, trying to avoid another crooked tattoo.
He chuckled. “I said I’d think about it.”
“He says that’s your version of yes.”
“Smart kid.” He murmured. “Definitely gets that from you.”
The hum of the machine filled the room as he powered it up. Ah, that’s exactly what he started tattooing. The buzz was grounding, the only thing that felt normal these days. “It’s gonna hurt a little bit”
She nodded, closing her eyes. “You were right, I never wanted to get tattooed,” she said over the sound, her voice steady.
“Yeah, I know.” The needle danced carefully over her skin. “The only thing you ever wanted was out. A house. Stability. If you ask me, nothing more stable than a tattoo.” He tried to lighten up the mood.
“And I got it,” she said, opening her eyes. “Stability, I mean. Eventually I did get it.” She looked at the wall across from her.
Dean paused. “Took you a while.”
She nodded. “Took you longer.”
He went quiet, still working. This was not a safe territory, he didn’t want to talk about that today. He was not ready. “I thought hunting was the only thing I was good at,” he then said. “Didn’t realize being a dad required the same instincts. Well, maybe with fewer shotguns.”
She let out a small laugh. He would think about this moment later. “You left the life one day too late. You had to almost die to finally open your eyes”
“I know,” Dean said. “I was late. But I am here now.” I am here for you if you want me.
The scent of antiseptic and ink settled between them. “Beau’s happy here,” she let out. “He likes knowing his dad’s close”
Dean didn’t look up. “I like being where he is”
She sighed like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good”
He dared to ask. “What about you?”
“I like stability, Dean. I like this life. I like knowing my son isn’t going to grow up like a soldier and sleeping with a knife under his pillow.”
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t want that for him either”
She turned her head slightly to meet his eyes. “I know that now.” She reassured him. “I know you want this life too.” She saw the look on Dean’s face and before he could say anything, she promptly stopped him. “Don’t do that thing where you flirt and look guilty at the same time.”
Dean nodded, keeping down whatever it was he wanted to say, and grinned. “What if I just flirt? No guilt involved”
She gave him a look that could hut a man if he weren’t already bleeding. “Then I ignore you and get a nice tattoo out of it.”
He chuckled under his breath. “That sounds fair. You gonna ignore me forever?”
“I’ve got stamina.” Doesn’t he know that.
Dean didn’t press any further. He just finished the tattoo slowly and carefully. He wanted to touch her as long as he possibly could. The record player was still carrying out his favorite tunes. He wiped the last bit of ink away with a steady hand.
“There,” he said, secretly proud of how the lines didn’t have any bump or curves to them. “You’re officially protected. Again”
“Until Beau tries to draw over it with a permanent marker.”
“I can add flames if you want, you know he’ll love that.”
She stood, shirt falling back into place as she twisted to check the ink in the mirror. “Looks great, Dean.”
He stood too, perhaps a little too quickly. She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh at her eagerness. “I, uh- I know that you didn’t want tattoos. But,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, I drew up a design for you last night. Just something I thought you might like. I could show it to you. No strings, I swear”.
She turned, met his eyes. Dean knew exactly what she was thinking. Fifteen years knowing each other would do that to you.
“No, no, wait. You don’t,” he sighed. “I’m not trynna win you back, alright?” He wanted to. “You don’t have to want me back, at all.” Please save me from myself. “But I still want to be someone you don’t regret.” Wooooow, Winchester, what the hell was that? “It’s just a drawing, scout’s honor” he crossed over his heart.
There was a beat of silence, then two. And then she turned toward the door, voice tossed over her shoulder like a lifeline she didn’t want him to grab too tightly. “You were never a scout, Dean, but you can drop the drawing in the mailbox, Beau likes mail.”
The door closed behind her. All that was left was the quietness and the echo of her words still humming around him.
He didn’t follow her, not today.
But tomorrow was Wednesday. And Beau always came by his shop on Wednesday to learn how to draw. Which meant she’d come too.
Dean was sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot and ink-smeared from his last session, with Beau beside him, both of them hunched over their own piece of paper. Crayons and marker caps scattered around them. The man was reeeeally glad his appointment for 3PM cancelled on him. Beau’s tiny pink tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbled furiously like he was casting a spell, his long warm blonde hair all over his flustered face, which he refused to push back or let someone cut. He was a stubborn piece of work, just like his dad. His oversized t-shirt read MONSTERS ARE SCARED OF ME (curtesy of his uncle Castiel for his fourth birthday. Dean had rolled his eyes and, “Real subtle, Cass.”), the words cracked from too many washes. His socks didn’t match, one had tiny bats, the other had a faded Iron Man logo. His pants, which has started the day as a soft gray, now looked like someone had dropped an entire bottle of cerulean ink across his lap. Which, technically, they had. Beau had tried to help his dad, he did!, but tiny hands and glass didn’t work together. So, he ended up baptizing himself with a full bottle of Pilot Iroshizuku Kon-Peki, cerulean glory and all. Dean didn’t even get mad. He just handed him a wet rag, sighed like a martyr, and said, “Now you’re officially a Winchester, bud.”
He now stole glances at him between pencil strokes, trying not to beam at his son, which was proving harder to do by the minute. “That claw’s looking awesome, buddy,” he complimented Beau. “But maybe you can make it scarier?”
Beau gasped like Dean had shown him the truth about the world. “Maybe I can make a fire claw!”
Dean nodded solemnly, hiding a smile. “Obviously, fire’s always the answer.”
“I sure hope not.” He didn’t hear the door jingle open and was surprised when he saw her there. He wasn’t expecting her for another two hours. He had told her to enjoy her Beau-free early afternoon and rest. Clearly, his ex-wife had other plans. She walked in with her keys in one hand and exhaustion riding her shoulders like an old coat. Dean knew she was stressed from that damn awful and stupid corporate job she got roped into, but he didn’t pry. It wasn’t his place anymore.
There was a faint crease between her brows, but her face softened the moment she saw them on the floor. Oh, well, the moment she saw Beau, at least. She took them in, Dean barefoot and grinning and Beau with crayon on his cheek and joy written all over him. The man stood up as she stepped further into is shop.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his palms over his sweatpants, staining them even more. “I don’t know why you’re here so soon,” He spoke like he was scolding her. “But he’s alive, I swear. Minimal glitter and loads of fun”
Beau popped up from the floor and ran towards his mom with a wrinkled piece of paper where crayon flames were licking the sky. “Mommy, look! This monster breaths green fire because he eats radioactive garbage!”
She crouched beside him, taking the drawing like it was treasure. “Impressive,” she said, giving Dean a sideways glance. He was grinning. “And biologically implausible.”
Beau smiled like he’d just been knighted. With that look on his face he definitely was his father’s son. “That means cool, right?”.
“It means super cool!” She ruffed his hair and brushing a rogue curl out of his eye. She stood to full height a moment later, letting her son continue with his masterpiece... or whatever he came up with next. “Did he eat something?”
“He had a snack. Buddy refused to eat anything that wasn’t shaped like a dinosaur, had to cut the lettuce like a t-rex to try and persuade him,” he chuckled. “The lettuce didn’t make it too far, tho”.
They both looked at Beau, who was now battling a dragon against a flying octopus made of pipe cleaners, complete with sounds and explosions. They had a soft look in their eyes, the one of two loving parents who were trying their best despite the situation they found themselves in. And anyone who would look at Beau would see a happy, average, kid, and that was perfect.
Dean leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. His voice dropped just slightly so his son couldn’t hear him. “He asked me why we don’t all live in the same house.”
Her smile faltered. Dean instantly felt guilt eating at him for even bringing that little comment up, but he knew he had to check in with her on this. “I told him that we both love him. That sometimes grown-ups work better in separate spaces”
Her arms crossed too, almost like she needed a shield. “Good. That’s, huh, a good answer.”
“I wanted to say more.” Dean hesitated.
“Mh-mh”
Silence settled between them. Full of something, of too many years and not enough chances. Of something familiar. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it called for one of them to say something more. So, Dean answered. “He’s happy,” he muttered. “I see it. But I keep wondering what would’ve been like if I’d gotten out when you asked me to.”
She didn’t look at him when she answered. “But you did not.” Her voice was calm, but it struck him. “You picked the life. You picked Sam,” she continued. “And I picked leaving before it killed you... and Beau and I in the process.”
Dean exhaled slowly. “You always knew what to do.”
“No, Dean.” She finally met his eyes. “I just accepted it first.”
“You’re good at this mom stuff”
Her expression softened. “I’m trying.”
“You’re better at it than I was at being yours.”
The softness vanished. Her spine straightened, her arms pulled in just a bit tighter. Reflexive. “You’re doing better now, Dean,” she said, her voice smooth but cool. “That’s what matters to him.”
Dean swallowed. “And to you?”
She offered a small smile, but it wasn’t real. It was polite, practiced. “I’m not the one you need to win back.”
He didn’t say anything after that. He knew she was right from the start. But he was not strong enough to leave Sammy behind. He had to protect him. Dammit, it was engraved in his mind from the start and Sammy... Sammy needed someone. Dean used to think that someone could be him, but then came Beau, and Beau came above everything and everyone else. It took some time for him to accept he could not live a double life. Hunt monsters during the day and read his son to sleep at night. Those two things were never compatible in the first place. His father was the striking example of that. But he was so so so stubborn. Damn him, if he just understood it faster. If he just... he wouldn’t have lost them, lost her.
When she walked out of the bunker that night four years ago, with their tiny son in her arms, he should’ve done something. Anything. But he just looked at Sammy, waiting for some words of comfort that never came. Or he just didn’t hear them. He still didn’t know. She didn’t cut him off completely, she let Dean witness his son’s milestones as much as he could, but it was not the same. He worked for weeks on end trying to crack a case and, in the process, missed Beau’s first steps, his first solid food, and his first words (Da-da). And then, just when he’d decided to finally retire, a damn nail in his back almost took him away from a future with his son. He was lucky enough to survive, a sign of something from above. A sign he embraced and moved to where he swore he would never go again, Lawrence. That was two years ago.
“LOOK! I draw Mommy fighting a troll with a spoon.” Dean was pulled back from his thought from Beau’s loud voice.
He grinned. “Accurate enough.”
Her front porch. Lawrence, Kansas. Saturday, 7.23 PM.
Dean jogged up the walkway, boots crunching on gravel, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with being out of breath. He was twenty-three minutes late; he didn’t even have to check his watch to know. He hated that he knew the exact number. Beau was supposed to be ready by seven. He imagined him with his backpack already zipped, paper dragon in hand, bouncing at the front door waiting for his dad. Dean hoped his son was still having trouble with reading the time, or he was screwed.
It wasn’t on anyone but him. A walk-in at the shop had passed out halfway through her first ever tattoo. The girl was nineteen and trying so hard not to cry that Dean had ended up sitting with her for forty-five minutes after, cleaning blood of the chair and offering lukewarm Sprite from the back fridge. By the time he looked up, it was 7:18. He hit every red light on 12th, texted her on my way and nothing else, and cursed himself the whole drive.
He stood on her porch now, one hand shoved deep in his jacket pocket, the other fidgeting with a cracked zippo. His boots felt too loud on the worn floorboards. Dean barely knocked. Just one of those guilty, half-hearted taps on the door, the kind that said I know. I messed up. Again. The porch light flicked on fast. So fast she must have been waiting impatiently for him to show up. Dean pursed his lips and let out a smacking sound. Yeah, he was screwed. He looked at the mailbox behind him, where yesterday he had left the drawing he made for her. It looked like it was still there, maybe she hadn't checked it yet.
Once he turned to the front door, she stood there. One of her hands was resting lightly against the frame, as if it grounded her. Her black dress wasn’t fancy or flashy, but it hugged her like memory. The neckline dipped just enough. Her hair was done beautifully, not too much, just... intentional. Her makeup looked as good as ever, enough to make Dean feel like he should’ve changed out of the shirt that smelled like ink and pine soap. She looked like someone who was going somewhere. Somewhere good, and clean, and grow-up. Somewhere Dean Winchester had no place. His throat tightened, catching up to what was happening in front of him.
“Hey,” he said, too casual to be truthful. “I know I am late, I didn’t mean to, I swear –”
She smiled. “It’s okay Dean, come in. Beau’s grabbing his shoes, he’ll be out in a minute.” She moved, giving him enough space to go in. When he was close enough to her body, he smelled coconut on her skin and red wine on her breath. Ah, that’s why she’s not mad at me right now. “What happened?” She then asked.
“Shop ran over. Had a situation. Nothing dangerous, just... messy as hell.” He tried so hard not to ask the question. The dress, the makeup, drinking before dinner. Everything was screaming at him not to go there, to confirm something that would’ve just hurt him. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “Big night?”
Her lips curved. “Dinner”
“Anyone I know?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Nope.”
Dean offered a nod like someone swallowing glass. “Right. Cool. Good. Hope he likes overpriced wine and pretending he’s not intimidated by you.”
That got him a look with one eyebrow raised, guarded. “Dean.”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugged, trying to mask the ache in his chest with bravado. “Not everyone can handle sarcasm, and a kill shot stare.”
“You used to like it.”
He looked at her, really looked. “I still do.”
The words settled between them like heat from a long-dead fire. Not hot. Not burning. But there, still. Still warm if you reached for it. She didn’t roll her eyes this time. Didn’t scoff, didn’t shut him down. Instead, she looked at him the way someone might look at a memory they weren’t sure they could trust. She stood with her arms crossed, half-leaning against the edge of the entryway table.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“I know,” she replied this time, not a challenge.
They both smiled. His, soft. Hers, if he didn't know better, almost shy.
Dean stepped a little closer. “Can I tell you something without you kicking me out of this home?”
“That depends,” she said. Her voice didn’t quite hide the way her fingers gripped her elbow, like she was keeping herself in place.
“I still think about you,” he said. “Not like... some creep or some sad song or anything. I just do. Like when I’m driving. Or when I’m cutting stencils and Beau’s drawing monsters next to me. When I am eating pie and it doesn’t quite taste right like the one you make. You just... show up in my head. Like muscle memory.”
She looked down. Her thumb dragged along the seam of her dress. “Dean.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said quickly. “Not now. Not more than this. Just, I needed to say it out loud, alright?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Beau’s voice echoed from the hallway, singing some nonsense song about dragons and meatballs, getting louder with each step.
Dean looked toward the sound, then back at her.
“Your drawing,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“The one you left in the mailbox.”
“Oh.” Dean scratched behind his ear, suddenly boyish. He was wrong before, then. “Yeah. I didn’t know if you’d–”
“It’s on the fridge,” she said.
Dean froze. His mouth opened, then shut again. She gave him the smallest smile. The kind you only give to someone who used to know you like a favorite book. The kind that held maybe.
And Dean, fool that he was, smiled back.
Dean's backyard. Lawrence, Kansas. The next Saturday, 4.09 PM.
Cheap burgers slapped onto a charcoal grill, a bear-up metal cooler full of beer and Capri Suns, lawn chairs dragged into a loose circle around a fire pit he’d built last fall. The barbecue was Dean’s idea, he’d insisted on doing everything himself, something about community thing. Really, it was because Beau had asked for s’mores, and s’mores had to be made on special occasions. The man never turned down a chance to play dad with a spatula and a six-pack.
Beau was running wild across the patchy grass, barefoot, shirt half untucked, one knee bloodied and already forming a thin scab from some dumb, glorious adventure with a stick and a hose. His cheeks were red from the sun. There was a marshmallow stuck to his chin. Dean stood at the grill, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, wearing a black apron that read MASTER OF THE MEAT in red letters so faded they looked like claw marks. His hair was messy. His cheeks reddish from the alcohol in his system. His smile hadn’t left his face since around the time she’d texted "maybe I’ll stop by."
A few neighbors had wandered over, lured by the smell and Dean’s easy charisma, the kind that didn’t try too hard but still landed. He secretly loved that, he needed to expand his circle a little bit. His neighbor from two doors down, Angela or Amanda or Amelia, was lingering near the grill now, red solo cup in one hand, her other arm brushing against Dean’s a little too deliberately every time she laughed. Angela, Amanda or Amelia was in a sundress, floral and flirty, her blonde hair curled into perfect spirals and her lipstick a high-gloss cherry red. She was doing that thing Dean knew too well. The head tilt, fake laugh, too many compliments about his “grill technique” and how “rare it is to find a man who can cook and fix things.”
Dean, to his credit, was polite. Awkwardly so. “You sure you don’t want a veggie burger?” he asked, flipping a patty and trying not to look at her too long. “Got one in there. Purely decorative.”
Angela (Amanda or Amelia) leaned in a little closer, tapping her acrylic nail against her cup. “Oh, I like meat.” Aaaand, right there, she lost all the appeal Dean might have found in her. There was a time when he would’ve loved the attention; he had thrived off it for years. But now it just seemed all so... bland. Angela (Amanda or Amelia) was definitely one hell of a woman (if you asked anyone else).
Dean blinked. “Right. Uh. Great.”
And then, like a perfect, inconvenient miracle, the gate creaked open.
She stepped in, in one hand she held Beau’s backpack, the other holding a glass Tupperware dish covered in foil. Black tank top. Worn jeans and cowboy boots. Dark sunglasses. Hair up in a loose knot. She looked effortlessly stunning. He knew comparing people was of bad taste, she had taught him that much one time when he dared compare her and Jo’s butt (they were not together then), but he couldn’t help himself: she was a vision compared to the woman next to him, who was still battling her long eyelashes. Dean’s breath caught for a second. She always did that. Walked in like she wasn’t part of his world anymore and somehow still belonged more than anyone else.
Beau saw her first, his whole face lighting up like someone had lit a match behind his eyes. He really looked like his mom when he got excited, Dean noted. “MAMA!” he shouted, running towards her at full speed “YOU MADE THE POTATO SALAD!”
She caught him one-armed, grinning. “You think I was gonna let your dad serve people that store-bought thing he likes to call a salad?”
Dean leaned over the grill, smirking. Since their last encounter last week, he felt better about their relationship. She was not his, not yet. A man can only hope. “Wow. Not even a hello first?”
She raised an eyebrow as she walked up to him, holding out the dish. “I said your dad. That’s basically a compliment.”
Dean chuckled, taking the Tupperware from her hands. “You even brought the good one. Damn. You really couldn’t stay away.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but Angela (Amanda or Amelia) stepped closer, heels tapping faintly on the uneven brick patio. “Oh, this your sister?” she asked, blinking between them.
Dean nearly dropped the spatula from the amusement he was getting from the whole situation. “Nope,” he said. “This is my ex-wife.” And the woman of my life and dreams. Except I fucked up so now I’m grilling burgers alone.
The woman’s entire posture shifted. Just a little too stiff to be comfortable. “Oh.” she muttered.
“Hi,” his woman said sweetly, half-smiling. “Nice dress.”
“Yeah- thanks, it’s vintage. I’m going to get some more- more beer.” Angela (Amanda or Amelia) blinked again and faltered, then slipped off towards the drinks table to avoid the confrontation.
Dean turned back to her, his grin lazy and amused. “You couldn’t resist,” he repeated himself like nothing happened.
“Beau wanted to come,” she said, scooping some potato salad onto a paper plate. She really was obsessed with it. “I’m his emotional support adult.”
“Uh-huh. You came just in time too. Thought I was about to be seduced over the coleslaw.” he teased, flipping another burger. She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corner. He thought he was finally getting somewhere with her.
“She asked if I live alone,” Dean said casually.
“Did you say you like to change your sheets once a month?”
“She said she likes meat.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I don’t get jealous”
Dean just looked at her. “You really do.”
She didn’t answer, which, for her, was basically an admission. Dean decided that was enough for him to understand that there was at least a small part of her that still cared for him. He could work with that.
Dean handed her a cold bottle of wine from the cooler. “I saved you one. Figured maybe you’d show.”
She stared at him a moment too long, then took it, the glass sweating between her fingers. “You hoping I’d get territorial?”
“I was hoping you’d let yourself belong to something again.”
That stopped her cold. She didn’t have a sharp retort for that, just the sound of her bottle cap hitting the side table and her eyes shifting toward Beau, who was now trying to launch a marshmallow across the yard with a stick, once again proving his Winchester blood.
Dean’s voice softened. “You belong here, you know.”
“Don’t,” she said quickly. Not cruel. Just afraid of the ground shifting under her feet. Dean nodded, accepting it. For now.
Beau ran over again, arms full of tiny sticks and graham crackers. They both welcomed the distraction. “Can we make more s’mores?!”
Dean crouched beside him. “Absolutely. But first, you eat half a burger or I’m telling the marshmallows on you.” Beau giggled and ran off from Dean with renewed purpose. He was a little devil, pun not intended.
She watched them together, the two of them were like puzzle pieces that made more sense than she was willing to admit.
The blonde woman reappeared then, lips touched up, a new cup of beer in hand. She scanned the yard, spotted her again, and, to her credit, walked directly over. “Hey,” she said, chipper and determined.
She looked up, chewing slowly. “Hey.”
“I’m Annie.” The blonde stood straighter. “Didn’t realize you and Dean were...?”
“Co-parenting,” she said smoothly. “Successfully. Most days.”
Annie sipped her beer. “That’s great. He’s really... settled. I wasn’t sure what his deal was.”
She raised a brow. “His deal?”
“You know,” Annie shrugged. “That whole rugged, broody thing. Hot guy with a past. You don’t want to assume anything.”
She smiled slowly. “Right. Because it’s hard to tell if the guy running a tattoo shop and making s’mores is secretly a flight risk.”
Annie laughed, a little nervous now. “Exactly.”
She let the pause linger. Just long enough. “You seem nice.”
Annie blinked. “Thanks?”
“And I’m sure you’re used to getting a lot of attention.”
Annie’s smile froze. “I’m sorry, are you...?”
“No,” she cut in gently. “Dean’s single. He can talk to whoever he wants.” Annie relaxed. Almost. “But if you’re gonna flirt with him in front of our son or come around thinking this is just some tattooed bachelor with a tragic backstory, you should know what you’re walking into.”
Annie shifted, defensive now. “And what’s that?”
“A man who still sets an extra plate when he makes pancakes, for me. Who once spent an entire night rewatching cartoons just so our kid wouldn’t be afraid to sleep.” Annie’s eyes looked everywhere but at her. She leaned in, voice low. “Dean’s a lot of things. But he’s not easy. And if you can’t carry that weight, don’t pretend you can.”
Annie stared. “Do you still love him?”
She didn’t blink. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still mine.”
Annie backed up slowly. “Right. Well. Thanks for the clarity.”
“Enjoy the salad.”
Her kitchen. Lawrence, Kansas. Sunday, 11.08 AM.
His brother sat awkwardly at the small kitchen table, knees practically tucked to his chest, surrounded by crumpled white printer paper and half-finished prototypes of what might one day resemble paper airplanes. Glue sticks, safety scissors, and a ruler with bite marks (Dean hoped they were Beau’s) were spread like a war zone across the table. Sammy sported a man-bun, which, if you asked his older brother, looked ridiculous for his age, and had a calm look on his face. Retiring did wonders for him. He didn’t have a problematic relationship with an ex-wife or a son that could ruin his beauty sleep, so he was just cruising through life. The last Dean heard of was that he was seeing a redhead with the nicest eyes (Sam’s words). They didn’t talk much these days, but they always texted. Their relationship had shifted once Dean made the big decision to move back home and stay with his little dysfunctional family, but not in a bad way. Things were just weird now. No more life-or-death situations, no more hunts, no more shitty motels. When they took all that away, the painful truth that the two brothers had grown up to be very different people was obvious to their eyes. They needed to be apart from each other. That was healthy, normal, safer.
Beau leaned over his latest creation, little brows furrowed in concentration, glue on his fingertips and the tip of his nose. Sammy guided him gently, holding the paper flat while Beau creased the wings. “This one is flying!” his son said with absolute conviction. Dean thought maybe he was going to become a pilot. That would make him proud.
Sam grinned. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
Dean stood across the room, leaning casually against the counter like he owned the place. He had spent the morning there after they agreed to meet up to have breakfast together. Beau had begged for both of them to be there while he ate his pancakes. Dean had given a mental high-five to his son for using his puppy eyes with his mother and allowing him to spend some time with them. As soon as he entered the warm kitchen, his eyes flickered to the fridge where his drawing still stood proud. He had thrown a smug smile at her, and she had rolled her eyes with a blush on her cheek. Half sunflower, half sun. It wasn’t the most challenging design, but it perfectly encompassed their love. She was the sun and he was the sunflower, always turning toward her light.
Coffee mug in his right hand, he was just observing his brother and son with an adoring look on his face. He hadn’t said much. He was loving how caring Sammy appeared to be with his nephew. He looked... happy. Like something in him settled when he was around Beau. Like maybe he needed it more than he realized.
The kitchen door opened, and she walked in, rubbing a towel through her damp hair. Her cheeks flushed from the warm shower, bare feet, loose shorts, and an old navy-blue tee that Dean instantly recognized as his. Or at least, one that used to be. He didn’t say anything, but his heart was swelling in his chest. This all felt so domestic. But the look in her eyes stopped him from imagining the perfect life with all of them.
Her eyes moved to the unexpected guest in her house. She didn’t freeze. She recalibrated, like a soldier squaring up the threat and realizing everything was ok. “Hey, Sam,” she said, voice even.
Sam smiled, warm and genuine. “Hey. Hope it’s okay I stopped by.”
“Of course,” she said, crossing to the table without hesitation. “Beau’s been talking about your last visit all week. You guys starting a militia made of paper and glue, or...?”
“Prototype phase,” Sam said, deadpan.
Beau beamed. “This one’s gonna go into space.”
She leaned over to ruffle his hair, lips twitching. “As long as it doesn’t go into the ceiling fan like last time.”
Beau giggled. “That was awesome!”
Dean sipped his coffee. “Not for the fan.”
The sunlight slanted through the windows, catching particles in the air. For a second, the scene looked like something from another life. Almost like a real family. Almost. What demon did he have to summon to have that? No, Dean, we know how that went down the first time.
Beau suddenly shot to his feet, gripping his paper plane. “Gonna test it outside!” He barreled out the screen door before anyone could stop him, the door slapping shut behind him.
Silence followed, a long breath of it. The kind that makes you notice the sound of your own heartbeat. Sam straightened in the chair, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his jeans. “He’s getting big.”
“Six going on sixteen,” Dean muttered, still sipping on his cup of coffee. It was really pretty. He didn’t have anything this nice in his house, maybe he should move in. Huh, as if she would let him.
She gave Sammy a small smile. “He loves when you visit.”
“I love being here,” Sam said, glancing toward the door. “He’s... he’s bright. He’s kind. You both did a great job.”
She nodded, one shoulder rising slightly like she was bracing for a wave. “Thanks.”
Sam shifted again. “I know I haven’t been around as much as I wanted to be. Life’s... complicated.”
She crossed to lean against the counter beside Dean, close but not touching. She tilted her head. Dean froze. He wasn’t expecting her to be this close. She probably noticed how her presence had made him stiff, so he tried to relax and act like this was a daily occurrence. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I kind of do,” Sam said, quieter now. “At least to you.”
Her mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t look away. The air changed, thinner, like too many truths were trying to live in the same space. Dean stayed quiet once again, sipping his coffee like it could distract him from the tension he knew was coming. This wasn’t his moment to talk.
“I never wanted to take Dean away from you,” Sam said carefully. “I know what it cost.”
Her jaw didn’t move, but Dean saw it from how close they were standing, the way she held it tighter. “You didn’t take him,” she said. “He went.” Punch right to the gut. He took that jab like a man (trying not to cry his eyes out).
“I know,” Sam murmured. And the weight of that knowing hung heavy in the space between them.
Dean set down his mug, finally speaking. “Sam’s part of Beau’s life now. So are you. I don’t need either of you dancing around old scars.”
“I’m not,” she said softly.
Dean looked at her. “You are. You smile at him like you’re trying not to kill him right there.”
She didn’t deny it. Sam looked down for a moment, then stepped forward, not too close. “I left the life too, you know. For myself. But also because I saw what it was doing to Dean. I couldn’t watch it destroy both of you.”
She studied him. “I believe you. And I appreciate you loving Beau.”
“But,” Sam said gently, “you still look at me like I’m what you lost.”
She paused. Her expression didn’t crack. But her voice did. “Because you are.” Dean didn’t move. Just let her words hang there, raw and blunt like a confession dropped mid-battle. He looked in her eyes, searching for something. He didn’t even know what he wanted from her. Forgiveness, understanding, maybe. What he found was desperation, but also a warm flicker of hope. A sign that it wasn’t too late. Her wounds were healing, little by little.
Beau’s voice echoed from the yard, laughing at something only he understood. “I don’t blame you, Sam,” she said finally. “But I can’t forget that I asked him to leave a hundred times, and he didn’t, not until you didn’t need him anymore.”
Sam nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“Doesn’t mean I hate you,” she added, a little softer. “Just means I have boundaries.”
Sam gave a sad smile. “I’d rather that than polite lies.”
“I don’t do polite lies.”
Dean looked between them, exhaling hard. “Well... this is wildly uncomfortable.”
She snorted, not a laugh, exactly, but something close. Sam chuckled too, easing the tension slightly as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should go,” he said. “Three-hour drive, stack of books, and probably a paper cut waiting for me.” He paused in the doorway. The light caught his profile, older and a little worn, but somehow lighter than he used to be. “I care about you. Both of you. And I’m not trying to fix anything. Just... show up when it counts.”
“You do,” she said. Quiet. Honest.
Sam glanced at Dean. “See you soon?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
And from the yard: “UNCLE SAM! COME THROW IT WITH ME!”
Sam smiled. “One more flight.”
He stepped outside. The door clattered shut behind him. She and Dean stood in silence, the aftershocks of old wounds still lingering. “I’m glad he came,” she said after a long pause, arms folded.
“Even if you want to strangle him a little?” Dean asked, glancing sideways.
She tilted her head. “I want to strangle you more.”
Dean grinned. “Still hot.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away.
Beau’s Room. Lawrence, Kansas. Thursday, 8.02 PM.
The paint roller made a low, rhythmic sound as it glided over the wall. Dean stood on one side of the room, wrist flicking in practiced arcs as he worked a stubborn patch near the window. His t-shirt clung to his back in the summer warmth, the sleeves speckled with blue like he’d been caught in a powder-colored explosion. She stood opposite him, barefoot and focused, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she cut in along the trim with a smaller brush. She’d tucked her hair up into a ponytail hours ago, but strands had started to fall, streaked with dust and sweat and a smudge of paint she hadn’t noticed on her jaw. Beau had lasted about an hour before declaring himself “art director” and disappearing.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Dean said without looking. His voice low and lazy. He could feel her eyes narrow like heat behind him.
She scoffed, standing on tiptoe to reach the top corner with her brush. “I’m literally doing the exact thing you showed me.”
“Yeah, but my version has finesse.” Dean stepped back a little to examine his own work, pushing his hand through his hair and leaving a smear of blue paint above his temple. “You’re more... chaotic.”
“Is that right?” she asked, leaning just enough to get a better angle, the curve of her hip knocking against the stepladder.
Dean finally turned, and when he did, he grinned, wide and crooked, the kind of grin that once meant trouble and now meant he was enjoying himself too much. “You're getting paint on the trim.”
She looked down, lifting one foot out of the way of a nearly upturned paint tray. “I am not.”
He pointed with the end of his roller. “Right there. That corner. Shameful.”
She stepped back to assess it, hands on her hips. Her brush dripped onto the tarp as she tilted her head.
“That's not the trim. That’s... artistic bleed.”
Dean laughed, full and unfiltered, a sound that filled the room like music from an old favorite record. “Artistic bleed? That’s a war crime in painter terms.”
“Well, next time hire a professional,” she shot back. She brandished her brush at him like a sword, one brow raised. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and the effort, a streak of blue paint running just under her collarbone like it belonged there. “Watch it, Winchester. I’m armed.” They both let out a soft laugh before she sat down to paint a little lower.
She sat cross-legged across from him, brushing a smudge off her knee with the edge of a napkin, which only spread the blue into a larger, cloud-shaped stain. Her ponytail had slipped sideways. A thin stripe of paint crossed her jawbone (he now remembered was a gift from earlier, when Beau had gotten too excited near the roller tray and unknowingly impersonated Jackson Pollock). She nudged an empty paint tray with her bare foot. “You missed a spot.”
Dean didn’t even lift his head to check. Cocky. “Impossible.”
“Right above the closet,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the wall behind her. “Little patch. Very obvious. Honestly, kind of embarrassing.”
Dean gave a long, exaggerated sigh and leaned farther back. “I left it on purpose. It’s artistic,” He mimicked her words from earlier.
She snorted, tapping her soda bottle against her thigh. “You just didn’t want to move the step stool again.”
“I’m preserving realism,” he said, voice lazy. “In real life, nothing’s perfect.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wow. Did you get that off a coffee mug?”
Dean smirked. “I think it was a fortune cookie. One of those serious ones, though. You know, like it’s really trying to teach you something about yourself in between the lo mein.”
She laughed, a real one, surprised and sharp and bright. Her hand went up to cover her mouth, as if she didn’t trust the sound yet, as if it had escaped before she could smooth it out. Dean cracked one eye open, catching it. That laugh. That sound. It hit him like it always did, sudden and quiet and loud all at once. It was a sound she rarely let slip. She smiled often, sure, but laughter? That was something she protected. Something she gave away cautiously, like it cost her something.
He smiled too, without thinking. Without control.
She caught him watching. Her brow rose. “You’re staring.”
Dean didn’t look away. “Can you blame me?”
She rolled her eyes, but it didn’t sting like it used to. It wasn’t an eye-roll to shut him down. It was softer, tinted with something that looked suspiciously like... deflection. Her cheeks flushed, just a hint of pink across the tops. “Don’t start,” she warned, voice lighter than before.
Dean tilted his head toward her, grin curling wider. “I’ve been good. Haven’t flirted once today.”
She gave him a look. “You said my tank top was ‘ruining the barbecue.’”
“That was an observation,” he said, lifting his chin. “Science.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I also said this color blue made your eyes look illegal, which, if anything, is just factual reporting.”
She huffed a laugh and looked away, not too far, just under her lashes. He watched her like he might memorize it. The way her mouth tugged at the corners. The way the paint on her skin made her look like she belonged to the room. Like she was part of it. Part of this life.
“And,” Dean added, softer now, “I didn’t say anything about how you look right now. Which is impressive, because... this is definitely a look.”
She raised an eyebrow, smiling despite herself. “Covered in paint and drinking flat soda?”
“Hot,” Dean said instantly. “Peak hot. Like, cover-of-a-catalog hot. ‘Messy domesticity,’ page twelve.” She smirked. It was small. But it was real.
She leaned forward just a little, elbows on her knees, her eyes locked on his. “Are you trying to impress me?”
Dean blinked, caught, but not backing off. “Maybe.”
There was a beat. Just long enough to shift the air. Then she tilted her head, eyes sparkling for the first time in a long time, and said, “Well... I do like a man who can cut in around baseboards.”
Dean stared. His roller hit the floor with a soft thump. “Hold up,” he said slowly. “Was that flirting?” She took a long, measured sip of her soda, not breaking eye contact. Dean’s mouth dropped open slightly. “That was flirting. That was flirting.”
She gave the tiniest shrug. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Dean grinned so wide it could’ve lit the room on its own.
“Too late.”
Her house. Lawrence, Kansas. Monday, 1.09 AM.
The knock on the door was soft. Just two quiet taps. She was already awake.
Beau had started burning up around ten, tossing in his sheets and calling for water, then Dean, then both again. His cheeks were hot to the touch, his body curled in a shiver under two blankets. She’d tried everything, cool cloths, medicine, lullabies. But when he whispered, voice hoarse and eyes glassy, “I want Daddy,” she’d called without hesitation. Now, she opened the door and found Dean standing there in jeans and a worn flannel, hair messy from sleep, and keys still in hand.
“I came as fast as I could,” he said, voice low, trying not to startle his baby.
She stepped back without a word to let him in. Worry was written all over her perfect face, but it seemed to ease a little bit once he saw him.
Beau’s room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow nightlight shaped like a moon. Dean crouched at the edge of the bed instantly, brushing back sweaty hair from his son’s forehead. Beau stirred, eyes blinking half-open, smile curling weakly when he saw him. “Hey, buddy,” Dean whispered. “Heard you weren’t feeling so good.”
Beau nodded, then sniffled. “Hurts.”
“I know, kiddo. I got you.”
Dean stretched out on the edge of the bed, one hand on Beau’s back as the boy curled into him like instinct. His breathing slowed. His fingers curled into Dean’s shirt. He was asleep in minutes, he really needed his dad. She stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching the two of them. There was something about it, about the quiet devotion on Dean’s face, the calm that always came when Beau felt him near, that made her chest ache in places she'd convinced herself had long gone numb.
Beau was sound asleep, finally, having found his peace. He was still warm, but at least now he was calm enough to get some rest. On the corner of his bed, the man noticed a baby monitor she must have whipped out of storage for this moment. She was really worried about her baby boy. Dean eased himself up carefully. He followed her out into the hallway, then down into the kitchen, where a dim bulb above the sink cast everything in warm gold.
She poured him a glass of water without asking. He leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes and muttering some sort of thanks. The words didn’t quite come out, but she understood anyway. “He asked for you,” she said.
Dean looked up. “I’m glad you called.”
“I didn’t want to. You were probably asleep.”
“I’d rather be tired than miss that.”
She nodded, arms crossed, leaning against the fridge. Her oversized sleep shirt hung off one shoulder. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “You’re good with him.”
“He’s my whole world,” Dean said simply.
A silence settled between them. Soft. Familiar. Then her eyes dropped, just for a second, to the gap in his flannel where the buttons hadn’t been done all the way. She caught a glimpse of something new, bold lines inked just above his heart, something floral, geometric. Familiar.
Her brows pulled slightly. “That’s new.” Dean followed her gaze, then tugged the fabric aside slightly to show more of it.
It was a tattoo. Her design. Or at least, the one he’d sketched for her weeks ago, the one she’d never claimed, never acknowledged fully beyond a quiet smile.
Her breath caught. “You got it?”
“Yeah.” Dean let the shirt fall back into place. “Did it the day I finished the shading. Didn’t really think about it. Just… felt like I should.”
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes stayed on the fabric.
Dean looked down, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There’s a few, actually. Ones that remind me of you.”
Her eyes met his again, curious, hesitant. “A few?”
Dean shrugged like it was nothing. “Song lyrics you liked. Your handwriting. I’ve got the coordinates of the cabin you wanted to buy in Montana.”
“You never even liked Montana.”
“I liked you.”
That landed like a thud in the quiet kitchen. She looked away, not because she wanted to, but because his honesty always hit too square in the chest when she wasn’t expecting it.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.
“You’re beautiful,” he replied, just as soft.
“Dean...”
“You haven’t seen me shirtless in a while,” he said, half-teasing. “I’ve got half a gallery dedicated to you.”
She laughed quietly, shaking her head, but her smile was soft now. Open. Like an old book creaking at the spine. “You’re ridiculous,” she said again.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m here.”
She moved to the sink, turning the faucet on just enough to rinse her hands. Anything to avoid looking at his stupid, perfect eyes. He came to stand behind her, not touching, but close enough for the air to shift between them. His chest brushed against her back.
Neither moved away.
“I hate that we’re good at this,” she said suddenly.
Dean blinked. “At what?”
“Being apart,” she said. “Missing each other quietly. Pretending like we’re okay with it.” She turned around, her face still painfully distant from his.
He stared at her, really stared. “I’m not pretending,” he said. “Her eyes flicked up to his. “I miss you all the time. I thought I told you”
The silence that followed was full, not heavy, not sharp. Just full. With breath and warmth and the kind of history that never really faded, no matter how much space she'd tried to put between them. The water had stopped running minutes ago, but neither of them had completely turned it off. The tap dripped once. Then again. She turned the handle absently, shutting it off. Dean exhaled through his nose.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “This is just… a lot.”
Dean nodded. “I know.”
“You come in with your soft voice and tired eyes and that shirt that’s barely buttoned and act like this is fine. Like we’re fine.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. “We’re not.”
“Exactly.” Her voice cracked at the edge. “But I still want...” She stopped. Bit the rest back. Looked down at the counter like it might give her an exit.
Dean’s voice was quiet. “You still want what?”
She shook her head, frustrated at herself. “I don’t know. You. This. Us. The version that could’ve worked.”
Dean was close, but still careful. He’d never been good at careful, but with her? He’d learned. “There’s still time for something,” he said, like a suggestion. Not a promise. “Doesn’t have to be what we had.”
She didn’t answer, just stared at him. His shirt had slid slightly to one side again, collar loose, neckline gaping just enough to show part of the tattoo he’d designed for her, now inked into his skin instead. It was healing well. The linework was clean. It belonged to him now, and still, somehow, it felt like it was hers. “I didn’t think you’d actually get that one,” she said softly.
Dean’s gaze followed hers down to the edge of his chest. He shrugged. “I wanted to carry it, even if you didn’t.”
She looked away again, but slower this time. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
She crossed her arms, jaw tight. Her eyes were shiny but dry. “You don’t get to be the poetic one. That was my role.”
“I think we both are kinda sappy.” He paused, waiting. Then added, “And we’re both still here.”
She blinked. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
The house had gone quiet again, the kind of silence that feels heavy. Saturated with all the things that hadn’t been said, all the years they hadn’t touched, and the inches they’d pretended weren’t still charged between them. Dean’s hand was near hers, his thumb brushing the edge of her wrist like a question. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But her eyes had gone soft in a way he hadn’t seen in years. Soft, but stormed over, like she was fighting something back.
He swallowed. “Tell me to stop.” Time to be brave, now.
She didn’t. He stepped closer, slow, steady. No swagger. No games. Just the quiet magnetism of a man who had waited too long to be this close again. His flannel brushed against her arm now. Her breath caught, not loudly, but enough that he felt it.
“You don’t have to mean it,” Dean said softly. “But if you say it, I’ll back off.”
Still, she said nothing. She looked up at him instead, not away. Not down. But at him. And Dean saw it, clear as day: the wanting, the hesitation, the ache beneath her ribs.
So he leaned in. Just slightly. And then she kissed him first.
It was small, barely there, a brushing of mouths more than anything else. But it stopped the whole world. Dean’s hand moved automatically to her waist, not pulling her in, just anchoring. As if to make sure she was real.
She pulled back a fraction, eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have...”
Dean kissed her. This time, there was no hesitation. His mouth caught hers with a quiet hunger, years of restraint unraveling in one press of lips that still knew each other. His other hand cradled the back of her neck, fingertips threading into her hair. She gasped softly against him, and he felt it, not just heard it, but felt it. The way her whole body pressed in before she could stop herself. She tasted like lemon soda and something sharp, want, maybe. Or memory.
Her hands were on his chest now, fingers splaying across his flannel, clinging like she didn’t trust herself to let go. Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were swollen, eyes glassy. One hand still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Still time to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered, not quite a confession, more like a truth that had waited too long in the dark.
Dean kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission anymore, the kind that remembered. Their bodies pressed together without needing instruction. His flannel slid from his shoulders as her hands found the ink beneath, fingertips grazing over familiar muscles and new tattoos, things she hadn’t touched in years, things she never stopped imagining.
She whispered against his throat, “This is a mistake.”
Dean’s voice was rough against her skin. “Maybe. But it’s ours.”
Dean’s mouth was on her collarbone, her throat, then her shoulder. She felt her shirt slip, one side dragging down her arm. His lips followed the fabric’s trail, slow and burning. His hand slid up her side, fingertips barely skimming the underside of her breast. It was hesitant, almost shy, a man relearning a body he never truly forgot. Her head tipped back with a shaky exhale, hands sliding down to tug at the hem of his jeans, fingers bold now. Needing.
He groaned quietly when her hands slid higher, thumbs brushing the edge of his ribs. “Jesus, sweetheart.”
“You okay?” she whispered, teasing, breathless.
“I will be if you keep touching me like that.”
She smiled against his mouth and chuckled slightly, probably remembering the countless times they had been in that exact same situation. Dean, on the other hand, was burning from the inside out. It was like heaven had answered all of his prayers. It was lust, and memory, and grief all wrapped up together. Four years of not having each other. Four years of waking up at night thinking she was still lying at his side. Four years of darkness. And then, light. Bright, warm, full. Dean knew he still loved her, but the feeling of her lips on his, her hands tracing every muscle of his body, was a confirmation. He never stopped feeling hers.
She kissed down his jaw, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize again every inch of him from the mouth down. Her lips brushed the edge of his throat, and he shuddered, hands gripping the counter behind her like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
Her voice was low, teasing. “You gonna survive this?”
“Not cleanly,” Dean muttered, rough with need. “But what a way to go, sweetheart.”
She didn’t answer, not with words, but what happened after told Dean she was pleased. Their bodies were flush, warm from touch and wanting, breath soft and shallow between them. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure this was real, like if he blinked, he would wake up once again in his bed alone. She brushed her hands on his shoulders and prompted him to move back and follow her lead. He took a couple of steps back and met the wall behind him. She leaned forward for another feather kiss, her eyes looking right into his soul. She swept the line of stubble on his jaw with her thumb. He was mesmerized by her every move and almost forgot how to breathe.
Her hands moved down, unhurried, curling around his hips, pulling him closer and closer until there was no more room between them, only heat and the tension that had been simmering for years. And then Dean felt like he had just won a million bucks. She began to lower herself, knees brushing the cool tile, lips still teasing the line of his stomach where the flannel was undone. Dean’s hands cradled her face and met her eyes. He asked a silent question; there were no words needed for now. She nudged closer to his boner, which he had begun to sport minutes ago, and gave a small kiss on his jeans. That undid him. He sank back against the wall, one hand slipping into her hair while she undid his belt and pants. Calm down, Winchester. The air thickened.
Once his boxers were completely off, she gave him a toothy smile. “As pretty as I remember,” she whispered. Oh shit, fuck fuck fuck. Her hands wrapped around his shaft, soft and firm. She gave a squeeze, asking Dean to look at her. Could he? Yes, he was strong, that wouldn’t make him come on the spot. Definitely not. “I want you to ruin me, Dean.” His eyes widened, his woman was a devil. It wasn’t just the phrasing. It was her voice. The way she said it, low, reverent, like a dare and a vow all at once.
He stared down at her, every inch of him tense and undone. Her hands still moving lazily on his cock, her eyes locked on his like she was pulling him apart with nothing but her gaze. “You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-wrecked. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I swear to God.” She smiled, slow and shameless, and leaned forward, licking Dean’s finger, mimicking what she wanted to do with his cock. “Okay, okay, sweetheart. There you go, no need to beg for it.” He brought his hand back into her hair into a makeshift ponytail and teased her mouth with the tip of his dick. “Open. No hands”.
She did what he asked, what a good girl. Obedience wrapped in fire. She looked beautiful like this. Not just because of the heat in her cheeks or the way her lips curved around unspoken hunger, but because she trusted him. Completely. Even now. After everything. When her lips finally wrapped around him, Dean felt his heart slamming into his chest. It was gravity pulling him back to her with every breath he took. She remembered what he liked, the little flick of her tongue on his tip, the sound of her choking on his girth. Tongue swirling and curving against every vein. She let him guide her, and Dean began to thrust into her mouth. He was trying to not be loud, his son was asleep and feverish upstairs, but he couldn’t stop himself from groaning each time he hit the back of her throat.
Her eyes were looking straight at him, begging him for something more, and he answered her prayers. He buried himself in her mouth and stayed there for a second too long. His mouth was open in a silent scream. She tapped on his leg one time before he let her take a deserved breath. “Look at you,” he whispered, a string of saliva connecting them. “Every damn dream I ever had, and still better than I remembered.” She blushed, something so innocent despite her currently sucking the life out of him. Without being prompted, she moved a little down and took one of his balls into his mouth. His hands tightened in her hair. “Holy shit, sweetheart”.
Her tongue circled the base of his dick, her hands still obediently crossed behind her back. She kissed her way over to the tip and buried his cock once again in her wet mouth. She moved fast, back and forward, with precise strokes, engulfing him once again. Dean felt his leg shake and his muscles tighten. No, not yet. He pushed her head away, but she stole another kitten lick, making him shudder at her eagerness. She stood up shakily, breath ragged, lips swollen, and her eyes, God, her eyes, were glassy with something between satisfaction and surrender. Her chest rose and fell in unsteady rhythm, and there was color in her cheeks that made Dean feel like the floor might drop out from under him. He was overwhelmed by her, by the softness in her expression, by the heat still coiling through his body.
He took a step forward, pushing her toward the kitchen counter once again. He leaned closer to her lips, and she closed her eyes out of instinct, but he grinned and turned her around. She let out a loud yelp at the sudden movement, and Dean covered her plump mouth with his hand. He smiled on her neck, leaving wet kisses all over it. “Shh, sweetheart. Can you keep quiet for me, huh?” He removed his hand and focused on her neck. Each kiss was softer than the last, a whisper of heat pressed against skin that had memorized him long ago. She tilted her head instinctively, breath catching, giving him more space and permission. Dean’s hand slipped around her waist, grounding them both. His thumb moved in slow circles along her side, but his mouth... his mouth was hungry. When he found the spot just below her jaw, the one that made her breath stutter, he paused. Smiled against her skin like he’d found treasure. “This one’s mine,” he murmured, voice low and warm. Then he kissed it. Not sweet. Not fleeting. A pull of lips, a graze of teeth, just enough pressure to make her back arch and her hands curl into his shirt. He sucked, slow and deliberate, leaving behind something she could feel. Something she wouldn’t forget.
She chuckled. “Really? We’re not twenty anymore”
Dean just shrugged, smug and flushed. “If you’re gonna haunt me, sweetheart... might as well return the favor.” he bit over the sore area and she hissed, from pain and pleasure. His hands reached under her shirt, grabbing her breasts. He teased her nipples with slow circles while still peppering her neck with small kisses. He cupped her breasts gently, reverently, like he was relearning her shape by heart. Her back arched towards him and Dean took a moment to compose himself once his cock rubbed her panty-covered pussy. The slight pressure made his breath hitch. She wasn’t speaking, but her body was. She was giving herself to him, and Dean was a weak man, he would never say no. Don’t rush this, Winchester.
Her body was giving away more truth than her words ever dared. Dean’s lips moved from her neck to her shoulders, then down her spine, still covered by fabric, slow and reverent, every kiss pressed like a vow he never stopped dreaming about. She trembled under his mouth, not from fear, not from cold, but from the unbearable closeness of it all.
Then, without a word, he sank to his knees behind her. The motion was instinct. Pure and unfiltered worship. She turned around, eyes wide. He grinned and gently bit one ass-cheek. “Let me,” he said, his voice low and full of that rough, unguarded tenderness he only ever used with her. He moved her panties to the side and was met with the sight of a lifetime. She was glistening, puffy, closing around nothing, waiting for him to make a move.
She bent over slightly, presenting herself to him. “Dean...” she moaned.
“You need to be quiet now,” another bite. “If you make a sound I’ll stop.” Her hand slid into his hair, slow and tentative, like she wasn’t just allowing this, but anchoring herself to it. To him. One hand smoothed over the back of her thigh, the other resting gently at her hip, holding her steady, holding her still. He could feel the tension in her. God, she’s letting me do this, he thought, head bowed, breath brushing warm across her skin. She still trusts me enough to be this close.
He massaged her inner thighs, teasing her, making her body beg for him. The muscles under his hands trembled. She thightened her grip onto his hair and he chuckled. He was being a little shit, but he wanted to make this moment last forever because he wasn’t sure about what would come next. And then, finally, he licked her center. He felt her body twitch under his mouth. The taste of her was salt and heat and everything that had haunted him in dreams, every silent night in his home when he swore he could remember what she felt like around his tongue. Dean licked her slowly, deliberately, a long, open-mouthed drag that made her knees buckle. One of her hands fisted in his hair, the other braced against the counter. He could hear her trying not to moan. Trying to follow his rule. It made him grin against her. She whimpered, hips rolling involuntarily as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting her like she was a prayer and a punishment. His nose pressed against her, breathing her in. His hands tightened around her thighs, grounding her, dragging her open.
She was panting now, chest heaving with the effort not to fall apart. Dean could feel how close she was, how her body trembled with every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift of pressure. She was dripping, wetness smearing across his chin, and she didn’t even care. “You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against her. “No hands, sweetheart. Just my mouth.”
She made a choked sound, the closest thing to a cry she could manage without breaking the rule. He slid one hand up to press between her shoulder blades, guiding her lower, keeping her open, on display. His other hand stayed on her hip, anchoring her as he worked her apart with his mouth, relentless, skilled, worshipful. Every motion said what he wouldn’t. I’m yours. I never stopped being yours. He flicked his tongue on her clit, drinking everything she was willing to share with him. And when she came, shaking, lips bitten closed to stop herself from screaming. Dean didn’t stop. He held her through it, licking her softly, gently, until her legs gave and he had to pull her into his arms before she fell, standing up. She collapsed with her back against his chest, still shaking, still panting. His hand slid into her hair, holding her there, grounding her. He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”
Her body was warm in his arms, breath shallow against his chest, skin damp with sweat and the echo of release. Dean held her for a moment longer, fingers tangled in her hair, breathing her in like he was trying to anchor himself. But his need hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, the taste of her, the way she shattered for him without a sound, had only pushed him closer to the edge. He shifted behind her again, guiding her gently to lean against the counter once more. She didn’t resist, in fact, she arched her back slightly, offering herself like it was instinct. Like her body knew his. Dean groaned softly, hands sliding down her back, appreciating the curve of her, the trust in her.
“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he rasped.
She smiled into her arm, teasing. “You promised to ruin me, remember?”
That broke something in him. He reached between her legs, fingers brushing her slick heat again, just to tease, just to make her squirm. She gasped at the sensitivity, and he kissed her shoulder in apology. Then, slowly, he lined himself up and pushed forward. The heat of her made him hiss. Her body took him like it was meant to, soft and tight, still fluttering from before. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring them both, as he buried himself to the hilt.
He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there. Inside her. Breathing.
She tilted her head back, eyes closed. Her lips parted around a sound she didn’t let slip. Dean leaned over her, chest to her back, mouth brushing her ear. “Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s mine.” She nodded, breathless.
He started to move, slow at first, deep, each thrust dragging across the places that made her tremble. She pushed back to meet him, her body answering his rhythm like a question already solved. The sound of skin on skin filled the kitchen. The pace quickened. His hands slid up to her waist, her ribs, cupping her chest again, grounding himself in her.
“You feel so damn good,” he growled, lips pressed to her spine. “Don’t wanna stop.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Please.”
That did it. He snapped his hips harder, faster, the edge creeping up his spine like fire. She gasped, clinging to the counter, letting him have her, all of her, as he rutted into her with all the hunger he’d buried for too long. He reached down to touch her again, wanting her to come with him, to feel it together. She broke first, a trembling, near-silent cry, her whole body tightening. Dean followed, burying himself deep one last time, his jaw clenched, his breath broken against her shoulder.
He didn’t tell her he loved her, that was too soon.
But he stayed inside her like he couldn’t survive anywhere else.
