Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, forced proximity, fluff, smut (oral f and m receiving, p in v sex,), light angst, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Dean is your best friend, and nothing more, no matter how much you want that to be different.
But he's trying to tell you something. And when you get trapped together for a week, he finally gets the chance.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! I lost my goddamn mind.
Word Count: 17.7k
“Are you smelling this, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, wrinkling your nose as another blob of something drifts past your feet. “We’re standing next to each other, Dean.”
Dean points his flashlight up, enough for you to see his grin in the dark. “You remember when Sammy farted last month, then pretended it was my Baby leaking something?”
You snort, kicking away something strangely hard that you don’t want to think about. “Yeah?”
“Least this still isn’t that bad.”
You look up to give him a flat, amused look, and freeze.
“Dean-“
“C’mon, he’s not here-“
“No, Dean, fuck-“
You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot.
The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.
“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”
You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”
Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic.
He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand.
And it’s always driven you out of your mind.
Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind.
Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out.
Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share.
Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed.
When you share with Dean, it’s… different.
You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face.
Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change.
But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker.
Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass.
“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”
Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life.
Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful.
“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“
“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile.
He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”
“Maybe.”
Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger.
It had just made him laugh harder.
“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire.
He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and-
“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be.
And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for.
So you’d smiled at him, and nodded.
And nothing ever had to be different.
Friends.
You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that.
Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash.
Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever.
You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask.
“Don’t bother her, Dean
“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“
“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“
“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”
You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him.
Love him.
Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it.
That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change.
So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark.
When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up.
And you never want that to change either.
“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head.
“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”
Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”
You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”
“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“
“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”
“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”
You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend.
If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to.
It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.
But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car.
“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum.
“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”
You blink at him. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”
“Other-“
“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“
“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”
You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows.
“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”
“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”
Jesus.
That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head.
It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you.
But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.
Dean does love you.
As a best friend.
You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change.
Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”
“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”
“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”
“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“
“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”
You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it.
And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it.
He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you.
Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-
You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘
And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone.
You’re in the clear.
He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.
“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”
He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.
“Not saying bye?”
“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet.
“What did he do-“
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Or, you could tell me now.”
“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him.
“Dean-“
“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him.
You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on.
Nothing big.
Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean.
Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat.
There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with-
You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid.
“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”
“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.
“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”
“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come.
Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together.
It’s best if you go in the morning.
“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”
Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”
You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.
“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”
You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”
“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.
You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend.
And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.
You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on.
“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”
“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth.
He’s being so fucking weird.
“You can go yourself, Dean-“
“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”
“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”
“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.
“How-“
“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”
Fuck.
He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin.
And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s still happy.
It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end.
Or you thought you did.
But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around.
“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.
“My list.”
“Your bucket list.”
“I don’t have a bucket-“
“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”
He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I’m not the one being questioned.”
“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”
You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”
He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look.
“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”
“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”
You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”
“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”
“Sorry. Forgot.”
You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that.
Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”
“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”
“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”
That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.
“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”
He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”
“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”
It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face.
There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.
But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them.
He just keeps watching you.
“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him.
“Nah?”
“I got better things to do, sweetheart.”
You stare at him. “Like?”
Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that.
“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”
“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”
You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“
“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”
“Dean.”
“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”
“What, and you do?”
His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2 o’clock.”
You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow.
“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”
Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“It is. I don’t do… that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah-“
“So what do I do, sweetheart?”
He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.
“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever.
And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.
“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”
You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love.
Another thing he doesn’t need to know.
So you just nod.
“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“
“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.
“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”
He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat.
“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”
“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”
He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”
You’re lost. “What?”
He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”
“I know, Dean, we live together-“
“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”
You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait.
Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”
You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“
“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”
His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had.
Friend.
Best friend.
“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”
His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you.
You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear.
So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.
He frowns. “Where’re you-“
“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”
Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away.
But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep.
You’d like to run your hand through his hair.
That’s not a friend thing.
The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection.
It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier.
So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone-
“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze.
You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom.
“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl.
“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”
Dean. They’re talking about Dean.
Fuck.
You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.
These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight.
Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-
“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”
You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up.
“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”
You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-
“Why not?”
“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”
The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does.
“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”
“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”
That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues.
“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“
“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“
“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“
“That was really cute-“
“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”
“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”
“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”
“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”
You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”
They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together.
Dean looks at you like he loves you.
It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown.
It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest.
“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”
You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”
“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar.
The cowgirls are watching you.
Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.
And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-
“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”
You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”
“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”
“Dean-“
“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”
You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.
But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at.
And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop.
You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV.
“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”
He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”
“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”
He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.
Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend.
You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow.
Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first.
He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it.
He lingers.
Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair.
He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.
He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces.
But-
“Son of a bitch?”
Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window.
You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.
“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.
“Yep.”
You didn’t beat the storm.
The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world.
So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean
———
“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.
It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation.
And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this.
Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.
Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car.
He’s improvised.
And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this.
You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.
You mouth what back at him.
He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”
You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.
“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“
Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look.
He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”
“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room.
You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.
But you really don’t think he does.
He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other.
“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”
You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.
“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head.
“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”
“No.”
“That’s pretty damn rude-“
“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change.
He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you.
It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes.
That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning.
“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”
“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded.
That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything.
He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off.
It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off.
But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much.
You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five.
Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.
You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.
“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”
There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again.
“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”
Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.
“Not talking about what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”
That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot.
“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.
“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you.
He’s thinking. That’s all it means.
“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”
“Only a quarter.”
Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.
Which still probably means nothing.
“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”
Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain.
Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder.
That’s your quarter fucked.
But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead.
“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan.
“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“
“Yeah, it is.”
“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”
You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”
He scoffs. “Sure-“
“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“
“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”
You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”
“Fifteen.”
You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.
“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”
———
“Checkmate.”
Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”
You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”
He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”
“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”
“So you have been-“
“Do you have proof?”
Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”
You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Or until you admit it.”
“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”
Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”
You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“
“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“
“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“
“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”
He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.
This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games.
He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland.
Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.
You’d pulled out the chess, after that.
This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating.
But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.
In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.
It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body.
You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed.
You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.
It’s all just fine.
“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”
You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”
He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh.
“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”
Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”
“And I don’t?”
“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown.
There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on.
“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”
“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”
“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”
“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”
You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful.
Again. Trying not to think about it.
“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.
And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin-
“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink.
Right.
The game.
“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping.
You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you.
But if he does, this is downright cruel.
“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”
You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.
It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh.
You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this.
The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet.
“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”
You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“
“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”
“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”
Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”
“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”
“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”
“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“
“So you gotta kill it.”
You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”
“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”
“Do I get a gun?”
“If you can take his.”
“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”
“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”
You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”
He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“
“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”
He scoffs. “So?”
“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale.
“Good point. No hippos.”
You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”
Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”
You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.
“Underwater.”
You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”
“Because you think space is scary.”
“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”
“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”
“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”
“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”
“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”
You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.
“Was that right?”
“I don’t know, you’re the King.”
“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”
You snort. “Lady Advisor?”
“The- Guinevere lady-“
“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”
Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”
You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”
“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”
You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-
“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”
He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.
Don’t think too much into it.
“Awesome.”
———
It’s only been three days.
You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern.
Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.
“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.
“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”
“For organizing. Duh.”
“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand.
Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.
It’s probably because there are no threats.
It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.
“Can you pass me my book?”
“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”
“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”
Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”
You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking.
You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about.
“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”
“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit.
Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”
He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped.
You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-
No.
You’re not doing that.
“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.
“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”
You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly.
“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle.
“Bet you’re proud of that one.”
“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.
“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”
You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“
“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”
He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.
“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”
“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Not me.”
He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard.
But you’ve never seen it in the light before.
And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue.
“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.
You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.”
He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”
“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”
He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”
———
Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book.
“What-“
“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”
“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”
“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”
“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”
“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”
You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”
“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.
But he read it for you.
And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like.
It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe.
It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you.
And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said.
If he really was never going to go home with them.
What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.
If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams.
Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you.
Couldn’t hear you.
Didn’t hear you.
Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours.
Best friend.
He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that.
But he’s really not making it easy.
“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”
“Like- Emotionally?”
“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?”
You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep.
“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”
“The dream?”
You nod, and he frowns.
“I thought you didn’t want things.”
“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.
“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”
Fuck.
“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”
“Nah. You’re never dumb.”
Fuck. “Dean-“
“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“
“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.”
You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried.
And you want to.
But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down.
“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer.
“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches.
He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean.
But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends.
The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.
“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse.
“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”
That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“
“You want dinner?”
You frown. “It’s my night-“
“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”
“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“
“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”
You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all.
Baby.
Dean called you baby.
———
He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast.
Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that.
You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.
So the heat doesn’t die.
Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.
Stops all together.
And everything starts to freeze.
For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering.
Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten.
But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm-
You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.
And this isn’t about that.
It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything.
So it’s just about heat.
You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”
He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again.
“Dean.”
He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen.
It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you.
But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice.
“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes.
“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“
“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”
“I- I know.”
“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare.
You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.
Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”
“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“
“You’re already not fine-“
“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”
Please.
He did say please.
You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean.
Hot.
So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam.
“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”
You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath.
“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”
He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you.
That’s about you.
And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks.
You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.
You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight.
You can hear his heartbeat.
It’s faster than you thought it would be.
And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter.
“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”
He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat.
Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it.
Because you feel it, first.
His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy.
You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch.
His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything.
Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee.
“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“
You can’t remember how to speak.
But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.
You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands.
He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more.
“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“
“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“
You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face.
“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”
You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning.
All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.
So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.
And Dean grins.
A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds.
“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”
He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear.
“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss.
“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving.
Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.
He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next.
Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress.
You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt.
And Dean doesn’t move right away.
His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake-
Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed.
You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“
He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm.
Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body.
You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean.
“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“
He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more.
You need to taste him.
Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin.
“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”
You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”
He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.”
You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of.
“You’re really good at that.”
He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear.
“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”
You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together.
You really wouldn’t mind that.
But you have something else to do first.
“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression.
“What’s-“
“I wanna put it in my mouth.”
You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it.
“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“
“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“
He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever.
“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”
You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after.
“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“
You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss.
“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”
Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.
You want to choke on him.
Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”
Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard.
His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back.
You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and-
Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression.
“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding.
His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat.
“You want to fuck you?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums.
“Gonna be a good girl for me?”
You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest.
“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”
A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.
“Yeah. You can take it.”
He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.
Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands.
Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off.
“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“
You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you.
And this doesn’t feel real.
It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream.
You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed.
Warm.
You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.
———
The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers.
Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest.
You still.
His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him.
You fucking slept with him.
And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him.
You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.
It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you.
So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths.
But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed.
Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee.
Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself.
And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing.
You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night.
You and Dean can leave.
Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him.
“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts.
His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock-
“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.
He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.
“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”
Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up.
You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.
“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“
“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”
He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”
You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”
“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”
You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out.
But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold.
Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once.
There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.
Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.
He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-
“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”
“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”
“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Oh.
You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode.
But you don’t want things to change.
“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh.
“Yeah. Alright.”
It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-
“Is that what you want?”
You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you.
Stare at you.
With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken.
Almost as cold as you feel.
And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current.
But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him.
So you take the leap.
“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“
“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink.
“What?”
“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”
Oh. “Oh.”
Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”
He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright.
Maybe guiding you to something really, really good.
“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”
“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”
“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”
You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk.
But he doesn’t.
Dean just grins at you.
The exact way he always has.
“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”
He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose.
Obvious.
It’s been obvious.
And he’s- He’s not say-
“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“
“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”
You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you.
And things have changed.
But you’re never going to go back.
End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
18+ mdni simon riley is a horrible lay, everyone says.
that’s what you’ve heard around base, from men and women alike. he’s too fucking big, apparently, fucks like the mean bastard that he is. hurts. apparently, he’s so cold he doesn’t even care for his partner. and apparently, every time anyone’s tried to sleep with him, they’ve always stormed out of his room, pissed off at him because his room is a hellhole.
apparently. it’s all word of mouth, but you believe it.
but after the end of the month drinks at the local spoons, you can barely get simon off you, he’s pawing at you with his big hands. the two of you split a cider in two, and he looks at you with his big brown eyes, “y- you’re really fucking hot.” he blurts out, kissing your nose with chapped lips.
his face is red, blushing deeply as you try your best to not flush the same. “and johnny told me you can’t ever think about the pretty lass on floor 3 with the filing cabinet, but guess what, i can.” he kisses you on the side of your head this time, and you’re enjoying his affections.
it’s only back in his room on base that he fumbles with his belt, before he looks at you again, “s-sorry, it’s just, i don’t really get to spend the night with pretty women like you-“
you want to hide your face in his pillows, his room is really fucking nice. he has plants, actual plants growing from gaz, sketch drawings from johnny, photographs of him and the captain.
his cock is huge, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach, but he still looks at you with his sweet brown eyes, “love, it’s okay if it’s too big…” he sounds dejected already, but you just shake your head, it’s nowhere near as big what the word around base was.
“it’s fine simon-“ you whisper, licking your lips and placing kitten licks on his length, feeling the taste of him coat your tongue.
“no no no-“ he shakes his head, pulling away before his hands touch your wet panties, “fuck, you’re so wet love.”
and then he dives in, tugging them off, before licking at your cunt with a sloppy tongue, he doesn’t have a technique down but whatever the fuck he’s doing it’s good, your legs are shaking as his tongue dips inside you.
“gotta make sure it’s good for you-“ okay, what the fuck was anyone talking about?
he slides into you with ease, and thrusts into you? his hands above your head, his eyes still looking at you. “you’re very fuckin’… mmmph… hot.” he says, with a grin on his scarred face that would look terrifying if it wasn’t for the way his brown eyes shone with sweetness.
it wasn’t long before his cock twitches inside of you, and his eyes roll back, “oh fuck love, right there— fuck!” he was filling you deep, his cum thick in your stomach.
“love?” he asks, whimpering, his head on your chest, “love, did you find it good?” he’s desperate for your fucking approval.
you kiss his head, his soft curls growing out of army regs.
“yes darling.” fuck the word of mouth, did anyone even try this with him?
“th-thank you dove-“ he pants, his cock deep inside you as you keep stroking his hair, feeling his breath even out.
Firefighter Steve Harrington is called in with his team to help out a guy who cuffed himself to his bed and now can't free himself.
It's not the first time they get a call like that, but Steve gets the air knocked out of his lungs once they arrive at the guy's room because, Jesus Christ, that's his high school crush, Eddie Munson, right there, cuffed to the bed.
No, but you don't understand. I keep thinking about this scenario and like, Steve recognizes Eddie right away, and of course Eddie also recognizes Steve too. But Steve's team doesn't know about Eddie, or that he was Steve's crush all through high school.
So Hopper, Steve's captain, asks him to take the vibrator out of Eddie so they can turn that thing off because otherwise they'd have to do their work while it's still inside and buzzing and making everything even more awkward than it already is.
And Steve can't say no because what the hell is he even going to say? "Sorry, cap, but I've been crushing on this man since I was a teenager, so can't you ask someone else?"
Yeah, that won't do.
So Steve swallows dryly around the lump lodged in his throat, and positions himself between Eddie's legs, apologizes profusely as he parts his legs apart a little further so he can grip the base of the vibrator and pull it out.
Eddie's red all the way down to his chest, from mortification but also arousal because, holy shit, Steve Harrington is in full firefighter gear and it feels like a fucking wet dream and a horrible nightmare were mixed together into a single surreal experience Eddie never thought he would go through.
The nightmare side of it all ends up being greater than the rest when Steve finally pulls the vibrator out and Eddie shivers and cums with a strangled, pained moan.
Sam is heartbroken to leave his pregnant wife home when he’s deployed - but he doesn’t expect things to go quite so wrong.
Warnings:
Smut (18+), unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (m receiving), movie spoilers, pregnancy, war, gore!, death, serious injuries
Word Count: 6.1k
A/N:
I’m really excited to write my first Sam fic! I hope you guys like it. If details are wrong, I’m so sorry, I know nothing about the navy but I did rewatch the movie and research as best as I could. His last name is O’Brien in this. Endless thanks to @glassbxttless and @peachyproserpina for answering a million questions, reading over this, and hyping me up, and @getaapologist for feeding us with screenshots!! Also ignore that I hit the image limit so the dividers stop :))
The night before Sam shipped out, he spent it in bed with you, holding you close. You couldn’t let go of him, scared it would be the last time you ever held him. He held you just as tightly, his hand stroking through your hair, rubbing your back, breathing in the smell of your soap and shampoo and committing it to memory.
As you drifted off to sleep, head rested on Sam’s shirtless chest, he lay awake. Thinking. He wanted to savor every moment he had with you, even if it meant he slept the whole flight tomorrow. His hand drifted down to press against your stomach, still as it always was. You were days from the positive pregnancy test, barely 6 weeks. Still so new, still made Sam’s heart beat wildly in his chest when he thought too hard about it. Especially when he thought about how he wouldn’t be there for the birth, or even the beginning of their life.
He knew that, god willing, he’d be coming home to a son or daughter, already a year old. A child who would be too young to understand, who he would be a stranger to. That scared the shit out of him, even more than going overseas. He didn’t know the first thing about being a father. His own father was fine, a little strict, but being a father himself was something else entirely. There was no preparing for it, and he would be thrown right into it when he returned.
You still hadn’t told anyone yet. When you came running to Sam, tears in your eyes and a positive pregnancy test in your hand, Tommy and Erik had been the first people Sam wanted to call. He was ecstatic, although terrified, and wanted to share the news with his brothers right away. But you stopped him, a huge smile on your face and your hand on his chest.
“Not yet,” you’d said, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. “Let’s keep this our little secret just a little bit longer.”
It had been hard for Sam to keep his mouth shut, but he enjoyed having that private thing to share between you. When you were around the guys, he felt so giddy, like it could spill out at any moment. When you’d decline a beer, you’d meet eyes for only a moment, a huge smile on Sam’s face.
But now it was time to leave, and the reality was setting in. His stomach was in knots. He’d never been so nervous to ship off, not even his first time. He didn’t want to miss any of this. He wanted to see your belly grow, to go to doctors appointments, to hold your hand when your baby was born. He wouldn’t get any of that. He had always been sad to leave you for tours, but this was worse. Now he was leaving two people he loved more than anything.
He couldn’t remember when he finally fell asleep. But the next thing he knew, his alarm was going off, and he startled awake. The sun had barely risen, the sky barely turning blue through the bedroom window. You were still tangled up around him, sleeping soundly. He carefully, reluctantly, untangled your limbs from around his own and lifted himself from the bed, the springs creaking slightly. He turned back in time to see you snuggling into his pillow, holding it much like you’d held him.
He dressed in his uniform, grabbing his bag that had already been packed. He slung the heavy pack over his shoulders, looking back at you sleeping peacefully in your shared bed. He walked over, smoothing his hand over your hair. You stirred slightly but remained asleep. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
Your eyes fluttered open, barely awake. “Leaving?” you asked, your voice still weak with sleep.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, baby. I’ve gotta go.”
You frowned, sitting up in the bed and wiping at your eyes. “Okay,” you croaked. You placed your hands on either side of his face, pulling him in for a long, passionate kiss. He returned it, the kiss stirring something in his chest that he had to push away for now. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said. “So much.” He rubbed a hand over your abdomen. “Both of you. Take care of yourselves. I’ll write you every week.”
“I know you will.” You kissed him again, shorter this time. “Bye, Sammy.”
He grinned at the nickname. “Bye, sweetheart.”
You laid back down, falling back into your slumber quickly. Sam stood, walking towards the bedroom door. He stopped by the dresser. He looked down at his hands, smoothing his thumb over his gold wedding band. Then he reluctantly slipped it off his finger, laying it gently on the table next to your jewelry. He knew it would be waiting right there for him when he got back.
He took one last look at you, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed and kiss you breathless. But instead he opened the door, heading out into the rest of the house before slipping out the front door and locking it behind him, leaving you alone.
You wrote to Sam every week. Every letter included a whole breakdown from your pregnancy books, the fruit size comparison and a breakdown of how you’d been feeling, what the doctor had said, ultrasound photos and bump pictures you took in the mirror. Sometimes a private photo just for Sam’s eyes, ones he’d hide in his belongings and pull out only when he was alone. It was what kept him going.
Waiting to go home to you felt like a lifetime, although he kept busy with OP1. He felt a lump in his throat every time he pulled out a photo to see you having grown bigger. He felt like he was missing the most important event of his life.
He was sitting in the barracks, laughing with Erik, Tommy, and Elliott, when the mail was brought in for the week. He sat up straighter, eyeing the bag of mail as it was distributed, impatiently waiting his turn.
“Excited to hear from your girl, O’Brien?” Elliott teased, sly grin on his face. “Let me know if she sent any good photos this time.”
Sam shoved his friend hard in the shoulder, but they both laughed. He knew those photos were for his eyes only, anyway, although the guys liked to tease him about his hot wife back home. He knew his wife was hot, but still.
When Sam was handed his mail, he found the one with your name on it and immediately tore into it. He pulled out the letter and watched as a couple photos fell out, landing facedown on the table. He would look at those after.
He immediately began reading the letter, his heart thudding faster when he saw the “20 weeks” scribbled at the top in your handwriting. He knew what that meant. You had been talking about how excited you were for this appointment in your letters for weeks. This was it.
He read your letter, talking about how things had been on the base with the other wives, how you’d been feeling, what you’d been up to. Baby the size of a mango. How your mom had come for a visit and drove you crazy for a week. He loved hearing all the mundane things happening back home, but his heart was thudding in anticipation for the news he was waiting for.
The letter ended with your usual - Hope you enjoy the pictures! All my love. - and your name signed in swirling script. His gaze dropped down to the photos. One was very clearly an ultrasound photo - he was familiar with them by now. He reached for the other first.
One of you in the mirror like you sent every week. You had really popped, he thought as his eyes widened. Your belly was perfectly rounded, your hand resting at the bottom as you posed for the photo in the mirror that hung on the back of your closet door. You had a bright smile on your face. You looked beautiful.
His eyes dropped down to the upside down ultrasound photo. He reached for it slowly, as if he were scared. He lifted it with a shaking hand, then finally, finally turned it over.
He had yet to see an ultrasound where the baby looked so much like a baby. It nearly took his breath away - and that was before he noticed the writing typed onto the photo.
It’s a girl!
“Holy fuck,” Sam muttered, in total disbelief. “Holy shit!”
“What?” Erik asked, looking over at Sam’s shocked yet elated expression.
Sam looked up, seeing the whole room of his brothers looking at him. “It’s a girl,” he said. “It’s a girl!”
The whole room erupted into cheers, patting him on the back and congratulating him, pushing him around playfully and making comments about how he’d have his work cut out for him as he smiled bigger than he had since he’d left home. He couldn’t believe it. He was having a daughter.
As your pregnancy progressed towards the end, Sam grew weary. He missed you. Seeing the photos you sent made him long for you like he never had before. He wanted to take care of you - something about seeing you pregnant made him extra protective, and here he was, overseas and only able to communicate with you through letters. He longed to feel the baby kick, to help you set up the nursery, to tell you to go sit down and rest while he took care of things.
As you reached the last couple weeks, his anxiety was at an all time high. He was on a mission from weeks 35-38, and every day he worried the baby would come and he wouldn’t know. So when they returned to the base and he caught up on your letters, seeing the babe was still safely growing, he felt immense relief.
It was a week after they had returned when he got a letter that was thicker than usual. His chest tightened - he knew before he even opened it. He stared at the unopened letter, frozen and face pale.
“What’s wrong, man?” Erik had asked, but then he looked at the letter the other man’s eyes were locked onto. His eyebrows raised. “Is that-?”
“I think so,” Sam muttered.
“Well, open it!” Elliott said, the guys all crowding around, waiting to see.
With the courage of his brothers surrounding him, he ripped open the letter. He pulled out the letter itself and a large stack of photos - the one on top featuring the most beautiful baby he had ever seen.
A birth announcement. A newborn baby girl laid wrapped in a blanket, her eyes closed, a head full of brown hair. She had your nose and lips, Sam’s hair and eye shape. He swore his heart stopped beating. At the bottom - Olivia Claire O’Brien. The name you had decided on after a long back and forth in letters, the name that somehow fit her so well.
Sam stared at the photo in shock, barely able to hear the cheers and commotion around him. He couldn’t believe it. He had a daughter waiting for him back home now - a real, living, breathing daughter. His daughter.
“She’s beautiful, man,” Tommy said, flashing a genuine smile as he clapped Sam on the shoulder. Sam somehow pulled himself together, muttering a bashful thank you to his brothers.
“Congrats dude,” Elliott contributed, rubbing the top of Sam’s bald head.
“You’re gonna be a great dad,” Erik said, and that made him feel better than anything he’d ever heard. Now, he just had to get through the rest of this tour so he could get home to his girls.
It was supposed to be a standard surveillance mission.
Things had never gone so horribly wrong.
Elliott had gotten hit by shrapnel from a grenade, and he needed a CASEVAC. They were supposed to just escort him out to the tank then get back into the house - but an IED had gone off.
Sam had woken up disoriented, his head pounding, ears ringing. He didn’t know what the fuck had happened. Then, the pain crept in. He looked down and saw his right leg twisted the wrong direction, small fires burning his pants and skin.
“Oh my god,” he said, his voice trembling. “Oh my god, fuck! Fuck! Oh my god!”
He didn’t know what the fuck had happened but the next thing he knew Erik was stumbling over, patting his leg to put out the flames. “Ow, ow, ow,” he said, still coming back to himself, nausea and fear roiling in his stomach.
He looked over to his left, seeing a body completely blown in half. Panic rose in his chest, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
Erik began dragging Sam back into the house - and that’s when the pain became the worst thing he could possibly imagine. He screamed, a loud, guttural scream of terror and pain and pure misery. He felt like his leg was still on fire, like it was going to rip right off.
Erik pulled him into the house, laying him on the ground. Sam was relieved to not be moving anymore, but once the pain had kicked in, it didn’t stop. He groaned loudly, moaning in pain, desperate for some kind of relief. He barely noticed Ray and Tommy pulling an unconscious Elliott into the house behind him.
“Two rooms deep!” somebody yelled, and then he was being dragged again, screaming. When he stopped moving he unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off, tossing it to the side. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
Ray began checking him over. They rolled Sam onto his side as he gritted his teeth, still moaning in pain. It felt better being back on his back, but not by much. Ray grabbed a pack of gauze and stuffed it into the wound in Sam’s leg, and again - he screamed. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. He thought he was going to be sick.
Sam heard Ray speaking into the radio. “We have two severely wounded. We need another CASEVAC as soon as possible. Be advised an IED caused the injuries, over.”
Even more panic rose in Sam’s body. He wasn’t sure he heard Ray right, until he related it into the radio again “We have two severely wounded. We need another CASEVAC.”
“Who’s the severely wounded?” Sam asked, grabbing onto Ray’s arm. “Is it me?”
“No, it’s not you,” Ray lied, trying to calm his friend. “It’s not you.”
“Then who is it??” Sam asked, getting more worked up by the minute. “Who is it?? Who the fuck is it? Who is it?”
“You’re okay, calm down,” Ray said. “You just think about that beautiful baby girl, okay? And that hot wife of yours, remember? They’re waiting for you. They need you, okay? You’re gonna get home to them, okay?”
Sam took in his words, his mind flipping through images of you, of his daughter. “Okay,” he said, calming the slightest bit. “O-okay.”
Ray reached into the front pocket of Sam’s uniform. His brothers knew what he kept there. He pulled out the photo of you holding Olivia, and pressed it into Sam’s shaking, bloody hand. “You’re going to see them soon, okay? You focus on them. That’s what fucking matters.”
Sam nodded, taking the photo and holding it where he could see it. He had smeared blood onto it, dust now coated it and made it slightly harder to see, but it was you. It was you and it was Livvy and that’s what he focused on, trying to push the pain out of his mind with thoughts of coming home to you both.
You sat in Sam’s recliner in the living room, rocking a sleeping Olivia in your arms. She was 6 weeks old now and had been fussier than usual. It was hard to take care of her without any help, but you loved it. You loved her. And you knew Sam would, too. Hell, he hadn’t even met her yet and he was already obsessed with her.
You rocked gently as you watched TV with the volume on low. You were barely paying any attention, your eyes heavy. You’d been running on little sleep. Erik’s wife and your best friend, Viv, had been by nearly every day to help. She loved the baby time and you loved the cherished rest it afforded you.
The large framed wedding photo on the wall caught your eye. It had been the happiest day of your life - tied with the day Livvy had been born. Sam wore his dress uniform, looking handsome as ever. You wore a gorgeous white dress with long lace sleeves. In the photo you clutched onto his arm, a smile taking over your entire face. Sam looked equally elated. Surrounding the large portrait were smaller photos, the both of you with your families and your wedding party.
The sound of the phone ringing brought you out of your reminiscing. You grabbed it quickly, hitting the answer button before it had time to wake Olivia. She stirred, but remained asleep.
“Hello?” you answered, keeping your voice quiet.
“Mrs. O’Brien?”
You froze. Panic crept beneath your skin. “Yes?”
The man over the line introduced himself. “I’m a Casualty Assistance Calls Officer.”
Your blood ran cold. Casualty? Oh god. Oh god. You felt as if you might be sick. You tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder and stood, walking to the other side of the room and laying Olivia in a bassinet. “Is- is Sam-“
“Petty Officer O’Brien was injured in combat,” the man said. That’s when your knees gave out, your body dropping back down into the chair. “He was involved in an IED explosion. He sustained serious injuries to both legs. He’s currently receiving treatment on base, but will be shipping home in the next few weeks.”
Sam was hurt. But he was alive, you thought as relief rushed through you. He was alive and he was coming home. But how would this change his life?
The officer gave you little more information, but promised to be in touch with updates regularly. You asked if you could speak with him, but were told he was heavily medicated for the time being. When you hung up the phone, you felt as if your entire world had been tipped on its axis. Everything felt shifted, like nothing would be the same.
You wanted nothing more than to run to him, to be by his side. But you were helpless to do anything but sit and wait.
Sam was out of it for a while. He had life saving surgeries overseas before he was finally sent back home to continue care and rest in his own bed, his own house, with his family.
His family.
All he could think about on the flight home was seeing you again, and meeting Livvy. If he was honest with himself, he was terrified. Being a dad was a new kind of challenge, one he didn’t know if he was prepared for. What if he fucked it up? What if he couldn’t be a good dad because of his injuries? What if he couldn’t run and play with his daughter?
His legs ached as he sat through the hours long flight. He took some of his pain medication, which helped a bit and allowed him to get a little sleep. He rested his head against the window, watching the clouds pass by until the pain waned and he drifted off.
The plane touching down woke him from his slumber, jolting him awake. He looked around, recognizing the base. He was back home in Coronado. He felt a weight off his chest.
That anxiety came back when he was helped off the plane and into his wheelchair. He hated it. He always hated feeling weak, and now he physically was. He knew it wasn’t his fault, and the doctors promised he would regain the ability to walk eventually. It was just going to be a long journey.
He was pushed away from the plane and through the base, his stomach churning. This was it. He fidgeted with the material of his pants as he looked everywhere for you.
Then - there you were.
You spotted each other at the same time. Erik’s wife, Viv, stood next to you, and in your arms was the most beautiful little girl he’d ever seen. You held her at your side, your hand against her back for support. You handed her to Viv and then you were running.
As you got closer, Sam could see the massive smile on your face, the tears brimming in your eyes. He reached out for you, a matching smile on his own lips. You pulled him into an embrace as you reached him and he held you back just as tightly, laughing in relief that he was home, he was here, he was holding you.
You pulled back slightly before pressing your lips to his. God, it had been over a year since he’d kissed anyone, over a year since he’d even seen a pretty girl in person. He wanted so badly to pull you onto his lap and kiss you deeper.
You pulled back and held your hands on either side of his face, as if you weren’t convinced he was real. He felt the same way about you, his hands gripping onto your waist. You looked even more beautiful than when he’d left, if that was possible. There was a kind of motherly glow about you that made his heart beat wildly.
“You’re here,” you said, still smiling as a few tears escaped, and he laughed.
“I’m here, baby,” he said. He pulled you down for another quick kiss, and then his eyes were drawn behind you.
You turned to see Viv holding a fussing Olivia, then faced Sam again. “Want to meet your daughter?”
His mouth went dry - but yes, he wanted that more than anything. You stepped behind his wheelchair and pushed him over. As he got closer, he could see the little girl better. She looked like the perfect mix between the two of you. She was perfect.
“Hey, Sammy,” Viv greeted with a smile as you stopped his chair. Sam greeted her back, but he was barely paying attention. You were taking Livvy from her arms, and then you were gently setting the baby in Sam’s arms.
“Livvy,” you cooed to the baby. “This is your daddy.”
Olivia looked at him curiously. Seeing her so close, being able to hold her and touch her, took Sam’s breath away. “Hi, baby girl,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. He rubbed his thumb over the soft skin of her chubby cheek, then pulled her close and placed a kiss to the top of her head.
Livvy smiled at him, reaching for his nose. Sam laughed, pure joy coursing through his veins. He pulled her in for a hug, and she laid her head on his shoulder. He rubbed her back as she was content to just be held by her dad. Viv snapped pictures in the background, but he hardly noticed.
He had his family back.
—
Sam spent the day playing with Livvy as well as he could. She adored him already, clinging to him and laughing so hard every time he’d make a funny face or play peekaboo. Sam was overjoyed. He had never felt so content.
That night, you rocked Livvy to sleep in the recliner while Sam watched, a warm smile on his face. When she was out, you carried her gently to the nursery and laid her down. She didn’t wake, just rolled onto her side and settled.
You walked out into the living room. Sam sat on the couch, his wheelchair against the wall. The TV played some cable movie with the volume on low, but he wasn’t paying much attention.
He was watching you. You walked over with a playful smile, your little sleep shorts hanging low on your hips. Sam licked his lips - god, it had been so long since he’d seen you in person, so long since he’d been able to touch your body. He reached for you and you went to him.
His hands found purchase on your hips, thumbs rubbing the exposed skin between your shorts and shirt. His breath caught in his throat. All the blood in his body rushed down south, like he was a teenager and this was his first time touching a girl.
“Want you so bad,” he mumbled. He pulled you closer, and you leaned down and kissed him.
“I wanna take care of you,” you whispered. “Can I?”
Could you? Hell fucking yes.
Sam nodded, nipping at your bottom lip one more time before he watched you sink down to your knees in front of him. His cock was filling out his sweatpants, so eager for you to touch him he could hardly stand it.
You eyed the outline of his cock through his grey sweats, mouth watering, core aching as you thought about having him inside you again. It had been so long.
You reached for his waistband and gently pulled them down. His already hard cock sprung free, tip red and leaking in anticipation. “Baby…” he muttered, his pupils blown as he watched you between his legs.
You could see the scars on his thighs, making your heart ache, but you turned your attention back to where he needed you most. He threaded his fingers through your hair as you wrapped a hand around his shaft, making him hiss.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his cock throbbing in your grip.
You moved forward and wrapped your lips around his tip, tongue teasing over his slit. He groaned, head dropping back against the back of the couch.
“Fuck, baby,” he moaned. “It’s been too fuckin’ long. Need you so bad…need your mouth.”
You couldn’t resist his pleads. You took more of him into your mouth, tongue tracing the vein on the underside as you took him down your throat. Sam’s grip tightened in your hair, another low groan spilling from his lips. You set a slow pace, letting him savor the feeling of your mouth.
“Fuck, fuck yeah,” he breathed. His free hand grabbed onto the couch cushion. “So good, baby. Feels so good.”
You hummed around his dick, which drove him crazy. He was panting above you, barely able to hold on. He’d been dreaming of this, especially when you’d send those photos that were for his eyes only. If only he could see more of you.
He watched the way your lips wrapped around his girth, the way you’d look up at him through your long eyelashes, looking so innocent despite what you were doing to him. He bucked his hips up as much as he could without hurting himself, wishing he could fuck your face like you sometimes let him do. Fuck, he loved that.
You gently cupped his balls, massaging them in your hand as his cock twitched in your mouth. He was breathing heavier now, his legs starting to shake. His hold on you was a little rougher, his moans a little more desperate. You knew he was close.
“G’na cum,” he groaned. “I’m so close.”
You lifted off of him, working his shaft with your hand instead. “Where do you wanna cum, baby?”
“On your face and tits,” he answered quickly, his voice strained. “Please. Please.”
You stopped long enough to pull your sleep shirt over your head, revealing your bare tits to him, the cold air making your nipples harden in the dim light of the living room. His cock twitched again and then he was moaning as you wrapped your mouth around him once more.
You sucked him off, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. He was losing his mind above you. When he started throbbing against your tongue, his moans getting a little higher, thighs and hands trembling, you knew he was right there. You pulled off of him once more, jerking him off quickly while you looked up at him.
He let out a choked moan as he came, his cum spurting onto your face and chest, covering you in his spend. He watched with wide eyes, thinking he had never seen anything hotter in his life. You looked perfect like this.
When he had finished, he sat there breathing heavily while you cleaned yourself up with some tissues. You smiled at him playfully - and he beckoned you over. He tucked himself back in his sweats and pulled you down to sit next to him, cuddled against his chest.
“I fucking love you,” he said, before leaning in and kissing you hard. You returned it, hand resting on his strong chest.
“I love you too,” you said, and god, did you.
—
Recovery was slow. Sam was still in a lot of pain. He had multiple more surgeries to go through, and a rigorous physical therapy schedule. But he was determined to keep his legs, and determined to regain the ability to walk. He felt useless as he was. He knew he would never be active duty again, but he wanted to do something.
The only bright spots in his life were you and Olivia. He loved playing with his daughter. She loved sitting on his lap, watching Sesame Street with her dad. He’d watch kids shows all day long if it meant he got to spend time with her.
It took Livvy no time at all to warm up to Sam. She adored him. It’s like she knew the second he held her that that was her dad. “Dada” was her first word, and any time anyone else held her, she reached for him. She hardly ever took her eyes off him.
Sam still had bad days. Some days the pain was significantly worse than others. Some days his mental state was what he struggled with.
This was one of those days where he struggled with both. He had been feeling down, although he wouldn’t admit it, it was obvious to you. You wanted to do something to make him feel better.
You left Sam in bed taking a nap after his physical therapy. You had called Viv and asked if she wanted to watch Livvy for the night - she said yes, of course, and was excited for a sleepover with her and Erik’s goddaughter. Viv came by during Sam’s nap and picked her up. You gave your daughter a million kisses before you allowed her to go, but you knew she would be safe.
When Sam awoke, it was already 7pm. He called for you, still unable to do much on his own. You walked into the room to find him there, still looking as if he hated himself.
“Do you need some help?” you asked him softly, brushing your hand over his hair that was slowly growing out.
“Bathroom,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes.
You grabbed his crutches from against the wall and helped him stand. Once he was situated on them he was able to hobble into the bathroom while you waited for him. When he was done, you helped him lay back down.
You crawled into bed next to him, cuddling up to his side. He wrapped his arm around you, holding you close. “Where’s Livvy?”
“Sleepover with Auntie Viv,” you said. “Just us tonight.”
Sam smirked down at you. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you giggled. “What, you have something you want to do?”
“Maybe,” he teased. He shifted so he could face you better, then he tilted your head up, leaning down to kiss your soft lips.
His tongue traced your bottom lip and you happily let him in, your own meeting his as he pressed his body into yours. His hand rested on your waist and he pulled you closer, bringing you onto his lap.
“Are you sure?” you asked, gently straddling him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” Sam mumbled, kissing down your neck and nipping at the spot that always made you gasp. Your hands tightened on his broad shoulders. “I want this. I need it.”
You and Sam still hadn’t had sex since he’d been home. You were scared he was still in too much pain - and for a while, he was. But now he was healing, and he wanted more than anything to be inside of you.
You reached down between you and lowered his sweatpants, large cock springing free, already hard and needy. It throbbed between you, so desperate to get in your pussy he could hardly stand it. You lifted yourself up and pushed your shorts and panties down, Sam helping.
He grabbed the base of his cock and dragged it through your folds, already soaking wet just from the thought of fucking him again. He lined himself up at your entrance then gripped onto your waist as you held onto his shoulders and lowered yourself down onto him.
You did it slowly, both so you could adjust and so you could watch Sam’s face for any sign of pain. You saw none - in fact, his face contorted in pleasure, his head falling back against the headboard.
“Christ,” he groaned. “Just as fuckin’ tight as I remembered.”
You whined as his girth stretched you - it felt like your first time again. His hands were trembling where they held you. His eyes went wide when you landed flush against him, finally buried completely in your tight heat.
You slowly, experimentally, rocked your hips against him. “Is this okay?”
“Oh yeah,” he grunted, using his hands to guide your hips a little faster.
You were nervous, but you knew he’d let you know if something didn’t feel good. You let yourself bring your hips down against him harder, the curls at his base rubbing against your clit just right.
“Sammy,” you moaned, starting to carefully bounce on him. He kept his guiding hands on you, encouraging you to go a little harder, a little faster.
“You feel so good, baby,” he said, his voice low and laced with desire. “I needed this so fuckin’ bad. You have no idea.”
You thought you did have an idea, because you felt the same way. You were keening, head thrown back as you bounced on him, the curve of his cock pressing perfectly against that bundle of nerves at your front walls.
He began thrusting up into you, grunting with every movement of his hips. The bed frame creaked with your movements - it hadn’t seen any action in a good while. Sam ran his hands up your front to pull your shirt off then grab at your tits, his thumbs rubbing against your hardened nipples. In this position they were bouncing right in his face, just like he liked them.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you in my whole fucking life.”
You smiled, looking down at him. “You sure you’re not just saying that because I’m riding you right now?” you asked him, breathless.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he teased.
You grinned, bouncing a little faster. He hissed, fingers tightening on your waist. You stopped immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Just hurt a little,” he said, though you could tell he was downplaying it. “Don’t stop though. Maybe just a little slower.”
Hesitantly, you rocked your hips again, watching him carefully. When he seemed alright, you worked back into a steady rhythm. He was letting out quiet little moans, leaning forward to wrap his lips around your nipple and pull your body against his.
“Sammy,” you moaned. “I’m so close.”
“Cum for me,” he begged. “Please. Need to feel you squeezin’ around me. I want you to cum on my cock, baby, please.”
It only took a few more rolls of your hips before you were crying out, your head falling forward onto his shoulder as you rocked against him, pussy clenching around him and pushing him over the edge. He wrapped his arms around your waist and held you flush against him, groaning your name as he thrusted up with every release, filling you the way he liked.
You just held each other like that, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat covered your skin. Sam kissed your shoulder affectionately. “I love you. More than anything.”
“I love you too, Sammy.” You kissed his lips one more time before carefully sliding off his lap. You cuddled up against him under the covers.
TRACK 50 - can i leave me too? by the greeting committee (steve harrington x fem!reader)
a/n: so naturally, to keep the universe in balance, here’s some angst with our boy steve harrington. (also this song just screams to his abandonment issues)
“if you leave me, can i leave me too? i’m afraid that i might need you.”
“You don’t love me anymore.”
It’s not a question - it’s a statement.
He’s staring at her from across their shared bedroom, and he can see his answer written across her face. Her eyes nervously focus on the ground, refusing to meet his, and her lips are pressed painfully shut, avoiding saying anything she might regret.
“It’s just… I- It’s all been a bit much, you know?” she finally whispers, and the words shoot straight for his heart.
It’s all been a bit much is simply the nice way of saying you’re too much.
Steve Harrington knows the feeling well - the feeling of being an overwhelming presence. There was a time in his life he was praised for it, that everyone loved the way he would occupy a room. But gone are those days, now replaced with the girl in front of him who he’d been suffocating without even realizing.
“I’m sorry,” is all he can reply, pathetically so, at a loss for any other words that might make the situation better. There’s nothing he can say.
He could beg and plead on his knees until they bled. He could remind her of just how much they’re giving up; he could remind her of the last two years that they’d been together, seemingly happy, seemingly in love. He could weaponize the memories of their first date together against her, when he’d gone above and beyond to orchestrate an elaborate romantic dinner at home for her, apologizing at the time that it had been too much and her replying that there’s no such thing.
Clearly, there was such a thing. All it took was two years of him pushing to find out just what too much was for her.
“I’m sorry, too,” she faintly replies. This is the part where, if she still loved him, she’d step forward and put a gentle hand on his cheek. Where she’d look longingly into his eyes, hers shining just as his were with unshed tears. The part where she might kiss him goodbye one last time.
She doesn’t love him anymore, though. The space between them remains vast.
He tries to wrack his brain for the moments he’d overdone it. For all the moments he should have been less, should have given her the necessary space. A reel plays of all the nights he had been too clingy, all the fights he had been too insecure, all the quiet mornings he’d been too sentimental.
He doesn’t blame her. He’d also pack his bags and leave, if given the chance.
So he doesn’t try to stop her as she does that. As she gathers most of what’s hers, she explains that she’ll be staying with a friend for a few days before figuring out where to go from here. She says it as if there’s hope for them, and he wants to throw his head back in bitter laughter.
Where to go from here? Isn’t it obvious?
They’ve become something broken, and there’s no fixing it, no matter how much false hope she spews. She doesn’t love him anymore. It’s over.
When she finally walks out the front door, letting it close gently behind her rather than slam, it still silently wrecks him. He still feels the splinters and slivers of his heart lodge between his ribs and lungs. It’s almost effortless, as he stands alone in the dim hallway, wallowing in the familiar ache of heartbreak.
He catches sight of himself in the mirror in their his entryway, and realizes he is once again left alone with the unfamiliar stranger in his reflection.
Angsty and kinda cheesy fluffy ending, Simon Riley x reader
Most of the 141 wouldn’t really understand why you still have any stuffed animals as an adult. They have grown well beyond their phases of childhood where they cared about such things. These are adult men who find comfort in adult men ways. They wouldn’t exactly say something to you, but you can see it in their faces. They think it’s silly.
Simon Riley, however, would be very kind about you having stuffed animals. Or even one just particular one that means a lot to you.
He didn’t get to grow up with soft things like that. No toys, no stuffed animals, bare and boring walls. His childhood was far from the best. He could take comfort in his brother and mother, but that had it’s limits.
When he sees you cuddled up with a stuffed animal, he doesn’t think it’s embarrassing or childish or anything negative at all. He can’t even exactly put into words how he feels about it.
He knows the story, you’ve had the stuffed animal for years. It’s got heaps of sentimental value and memories attached to it. It’s brought you comfort in ways he quite literally cannot imagine. Even begin to imagine.
He appreciates that something so simple, so seemingly nonfunctional, can help you so greatly. After a bad day, there it is. During a scary movie, there it is. After a nightmare or an argument, there is it. When you’ve just woken up, your hair is a mess, and there’s sleep in your eyes, there it is.
He wishes he could have an object to bring him such comfort.
He’s lucky enough to have you instead. Laying next to him, holding your stuffed animal. You’re in his arms and it’s in yours. He knows that if he’s not there, you have it. You know that if you don’t have it, you’ll always have him.
One day if you were ever to get him his first his own stuffed animal, maybe as a joke, maybe sincerely, you’ll have to excuse him for looking at it silently for a while, gripping it so tight in his hands you worry it might rip, and having to take a moment to collect himself before any tears involuntarily roll down his cheeks.
Poaching [this] nonny ask from @total-killer-brainrot
Imagine ghost crying when he sees the pregnancy test. He swore he never wanted a baby, the thought alone terrifies him.
There's a small part of ghost that's worried he'll be just like his father, that he'll drag you to the ground with him, that he'll ruin his child's life.
He almost refuses when price asks for his help in an op knowing damn well you and ghost are expecting. But your urge him to go, reassure ghost that you'll be there when he gets back, it's only a month after all.
A month turns to two, turns to four, and ghost is starting to regret ever agreeing to this forsaken mission. He just wants to go home and see you, he wants to be there when his son is born.
Except...he gets home a month before your due date, expecting to find his very pregnant partner to chew him out, and instead finds what can only be described as the smallest baby he's ever seen.
"Premature, simon." You tell him, and ghost can't stop the tears that spring to his eyes. Because you look exhausted. Because you needed him and he wasn't there.
Because he missed his little son's birth, then missed giving him all the support he needed.
"Hold him, si. Hold him." You urge, coralling simon onto the couch. You can't stand to see him tearing himself up.
Baby is tiny, and hardly moves. Ghost can cup him in one hand, he's so small. He has to hold back sobs in fear of disturbing the little thing, but his eyes are wet when he tucks baby to his chest "...he's so small. He's tiny, love. Tiny."
"I know. Three pounds and two ounces." You lean your head against ghosts shoulder, reaching across him to smooth over baby's hair with your thumb.
"...I'm done. No more missions, no leaving. Not anymore." He whispers, and you smile because you knew simon would do this "I'll send price my forms tomorrow."
And he means it. How could anything else matter with you by his side, with his tiny son in his hands?
Ooh, what about ditzy reader putting together matching battle outfits for her and Steve as they get ready to go into the Abyss?
hope you like it xoxo — moments before the end of the world, you make steve play dress-up and he realizes he wants to marry you (established relationship, slight hurt/comfort | 0.9k)
bug's three year celebration ♡
“Alright…” Steve huffs as he steps out from behind the folding partition and out into the bustling basement, where the gang readies itself for the final fight. His arms are heavy beneath the protective layers worn beneath his brown leather jacket when he splays them at his sides. “How do I look?”
Dustin grins from the other side of the lamplit room as he shrugs on his fluffy green ghillie jacket. “Well, I think you look perfectly handsome, Harrington,” he quips.
Steve’s dark eyes narrow into thin slits. “I’m not talking to you, Henderson—”
You spin in your swivel chair by the desk at the sound of his voice. You’re already clad in your battlewear, a more feminine version of Steve’s attire — heavy boots, green cargo pants, and camo outerwear. You push your bandana back up your forehead when it slips down your eyes, smile fading when you find the boy missing the green garment that’s meant to go over his jacket.
“Wait, where’s the vest?” you pout. “The vest is important— It has so many pockets! And it ties the camo shirt with the brown jacket!”
“Yeah, Stevie,” Lucas jokes, snapping his wrist rocket as he saunters by. “It ties in the shirt and the jacket.”
“Don’t encourage her…” Steve grumbles under his breath.
He smiles a second later when you cross the room to close the distance between you. The pink expression glitters mainly in his round brown eyes, ‘cause he can’t help but wear all his love for you there — even if you are making him play a game of dress-up in the face of the end of the world.
“You gotta go put on the vest, Stevie,” you tell him, still so soft despite your quiet demand, as you adjust his bandana over his thick brows.
“It doesn’t fit, babe,” he tells you, in lieu of confessing that the thing made him look incredibly uncool.
“Of course, it does,” you retort with lowered brows. “You had it on the other day. Go put it on— So we can match.”
He meets your pretty smile with a crumpled look of boyish agony. “Do I have to?” he murmurs.
Your grin flickers at the edges. You flinch slightly, like his words have pierced you physically, and you shake your head rapidly in response.
“No. Not if you don’t want to. It’s no big deal,” you assure him, though he doesn’t miss the faint look of hurt that twists your features when you turn away again.
Steve caves under very little pressure, and with the distant notion that doing so will make you smile again. He catches Lucas’ teasing as he turns on his heel and heads back to the partition. “Not a word, Sinclair…” he grumbles.
He returns half a moment later, with the green vest thrown over the shoulders of his heavy leather jacket. The thick fabric is adorned with a number of buckles and shallow pockets, which is what had initially drawn you to the clothing item from where it sat on the rack at The War Zone — “Lookit! You can put so much stuff in here!”
Even though Steve feels a little like a child, he smiles at your smiling when you catch sight of him across the basement. “Happy now?” he teases with his brows raised under his red bandana and with his eyes all squishy around the edges.
“See how cute you look!” you exclaim, beaming as you rush to close the brief distance between you. You adjust a buckle on his vest, from where the strap had gotten caught beneath the fabric by his sternum. “And now we match!”
You smooth your palms over his chest, and Steve buzzes under your touch.
“Yeah, this is really gonna stick it to the Mind Flamer, isn’t it?” he jokes with a soft pink smile. He misses Dustin’s shouted correction of ‘Flayer, Steve. Mind Flayer!’, ‘cause he’s too busy looking at you.
“Of course, it is!” you chirp on instinct, still smiling in the face of the end of the world. “Well, I mean, I don’t know, obviously, but… Positivity’s always the first step!”
Steve grins down at you — wider than he realizes, wider than he thinks he has in years.
He forgets all about the battle that’s yet to be fought when his melted honey eyes lock with yours. He forgets about the bustling bodies in the crowded basement preparing for said battle, too, when his calloused palms raise to cup your jaw.
“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” you murmur, totally unaware of how pretty you are.
“‘Cause I’m gonna marry you when we get back,” he confesses with a lazy smile, and your breath catches in your throat. “When that shriveled skin asshole is long gone, and the world’s not ending anymore… I’m definitely gonna marry you.”
Your nose scrunches to hide the vividity of your smile.
“Well, that is very presumptuous of you, Steve Harrington,” you croon, though he can feel already your cheeks growing hot beneath his palms. “But the answer is yes.”
“I haven’t even asked you yet,” he chuckles.
The breath of his laughter fans across his chin when he leans down to kiss you.
“Doesn’t matter,” you tell him, moments before his lips brush yours. “You’re already stuck with me, Harrington.”
I have a baby blurb request if you like the idea! Eddie just being really touchy and clingy on the reader for no particular reason but he literally won’t let her move rooms without following her like a puppy/hanging off of her like a koala. We love our lovesick boy!!!
ty for your request ❤︎ 0.4k, fem
“Oh, Eddie, my sweet angel from heaven.”
You’re kidding. Mostly kidding, voice soft and quiet as Eddie races back from his trip to the bathroom. There are perfect wet prints on his thighs where he’s dried his hands in a rush. The bed wobbles under his sudden return. He gets his arm around your waist and shuffles up to hook his chin over your head. “Wha’dyou say?” he asks.
“I said you’re heavy.”
“I don’t think you did.”
You smile. Eddie smiles the same, his mouth catching the side of your forehead, lips warm and a little chapped.
“Was there something scary back there?” you ask.
“In the bathroom?” He sighs dramatically, and manhandles you further into his arms. It gives you a jolt in your tummy of pleasure. “You weren’t there, so. Totally horrifying.”
“Oh.”
“Oh…” He turns your head to kiss your eyebrow. “Yes. Very scary stuff in there.”
“Did you clean it up at any point while I was gone?”
“It’s usable.” He spots your disgust and nuzzles your head. “Usable for you, so I cleaned it on my hands and knees. You doubt me. You hate me and you think I’m disgusting while I love you enough to get bleach on my good jeans–”
“Shh,” you murmur, raising your hand to curve around his face without moving from your spot below him. You stroke his cheek, shushing him quietly. “Shh, baby. I love you.”
You do it because it’s corny and it’ll make him melt. He acts like such a character, always loud and brash when he’s so sweet in his centre. Baby talk makes him cringe but he loves it simultaneously, and you love to tease. Better when he goes like warmed taffy against you, all his energy turned to clinging.
“I love you,” he murmurs, almost embarrassed.
“And you’re not disgusting. I could never hate you.”
He scoffs weakly. “Yeah, I know.”
“Yeah, you know. Thank you, sweetheart.” You’re laying it on thick, now, but it’s not not real. You love him. You don’t mind babying him. “You’re so good to me.”
It’s like glue. He’s stuck to you from that moment on, all day long, cuddled to your side as you make dinner, barely parted while you eat. When you need to take a bath, he holds your hand over the tub’s lip, stars in his eyes as you shave your straggly knees.
POV: 1st (f!Reader POV)
Rating: Mature - Blog is 18+
Summary: Benny Miller returns home to say goodbye to his dad, and learns how to carry him forward.
Word Count: 4.4k
Content/Warnings: Parental Loss, Grief, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Adult Humor, The Millers Ruin Toy Story, Postpartum, Dad Benny, Benny Holding a Baby, Ovaries Might Explode, Domestic Fluff
A/N: Heyyyyy. I have no idea why I’m hurting Benny…again. It all began when my husband and his brothers ruined Toy Story at Thanksgiving. It made me think about a holiday with the Miller, and @musings-of-a-rose, as usual, encouraged the chaos and told me to write it down. I've also been wanting to write a story about Benny losing his dad inspired by the song "Fade In/Fade Out" by Nothing More for ages. This finally felt like the perfect way to mash all that emotional devastation together. Happy holidays? I'm not sorry.
Masterlist
Benny pushes through the front door of his parents’ house, and I’m right behind him. The cold Colorado air still clings to my skin as I step inside, but it’s the heaviness in the house that steals my breath. It’s thick, unmoving, like the walls themselves are holding it.
I’ve been here over a hundred times. Holidays, barbecues, stolen weekends. But never like this. Never with dread pooling in the corners. Never with silence pressing so hard against my ribs that I can barely breathe.
“Where is he?” Benny forces out, the desperation beneath it barely contained.
No one answers immediately. The quiet stretches, becoming its own kind of sound, one I feel in my bones. Somewhere in the back of the house, I hear the faint creak of a floorboard, the soft murmur of a voice.
Will appears in the hallway, his eyes tired and red, his face somehow older than it was when we last saw him a few days ago. “He’s in the bedroom,” he says softly. “He’s been asking for you.”
Before the words fully register, Benny is already moving, brushing past his brother, running up the staircase two steps at a time like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he doesn’t reach it fast enough.
A door closes behind him with a quiet click. The house goes still.
“Did we make it?” I whisper, breath trapped in my chest.
Will nods. “Yeah. I think…I think he’s been holding on for Benny.”
Relief hits me so fast it almost hurts. A shaky exhale slips out of me, but it doesn’t steady me. It just cracks something open. My knees feel weak with the sudden release of fear I’ve been holding since the phone call, since the airport, since Benny went silent beside me on the plane.
Will lays a steady hand between my shoulder blades, grounding me. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you sitting before you hit the floor. I’ve had enough with hospitals for one week.”
I don’t protest. I don’t have the bandwidth to. My body just follows, grateful for the direction. We move toward the dining room, our footsteps suddenly too loud against the hardwood, like we’re intruding on a moment so fragile even sound feels unwelcome.
Mrs. Miller sits at the table, staring at a cup of tea that’s long gone cold. Her shoulders are tense, her breath shallow, like she’s been holding herself together with sheer willpower.
I cross the room quietly and lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Mom,” I whisper, using the name she’s always insisted on.
Her eyes lift to mine, red and wet, but when she sees me standing there, when she realizes we made it, something in her face loosens. Not joy, not relief exactly, just a softening, like one small weight has finally shifted off her chest.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes, her hand squeezing mine for a second too long. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Will’s wife, Emily, sits beside her, one hand resting gently on our mother-in-law’s arm. We exchange solemn smiles, the kind people give when words are too clumsy, too sharp, too loud.
Will pulls out a chair for me. I sit, feeling the weight of the room press against my ribs.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The quiet lays heavy on all of us, thick, suffocating, settling into the spaces between our breaths. The house feels like it’s holding itself still, afraid to shift, afraid to break whatever fragile thread is keeping everyone together.
Mrs. Miller keeps her eyes fixed on her cold tea, her fingers trembling just slightly around the mug. Will sits rigid in his chair, staring at the table but seeing something much farther away. Somewhere deeper in the house, the heater kicks on with a dull metallic groan, a reminder that life continues even when it feels like it shouldn’t.
I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. Every tick of the wall clock seems louder than the last, stretching seconds into something unsteady and sharp.
Finally, Emily lifts her gaze to me, her expression gentle, tentative, like she’s afraid anything louder might shatter the room.
Emily clears her throat gently. “Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?”
“A stiff fucking drink,” Will mumbles.
I smile weakly, then shake my head. “No, thank you.”
The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. Someone shuffles a foot against the hardwood. All tiny sounds, each loud in its own way.
“How was the flight?” she asks softly.
I swallow. “Long. Quiet. Benny didn’t say much.”
The truth is, the silence on the plane had felt endless. He just stared out the window the whole time, jaw tight, leg bouncing, holding himself together by threads I could almost see straining. I kept waiting for him to say something, anything, but every word stayed locked behind his teeth. And all I could do was sit there beside him, pretending to read the same page of a magazine, glancing at him every few minutes, wishing there was something I could say that wouldn’t break him further.
“That’s how he gets,” Will murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “Whenever things go sideways. He shuts down until he’s standing where he needs to be.”
Mrs. Miller gives a faint, humorless smile. “Just like his father.”
I hesitate, then question, “How’s he been?”
Mrs. Miller’s gaze drifts toward the hallway. “Stronger than we expected. Stubborn as ever.” Her lips tremble. “He insisted on sitting up when he heard Benny was on his way.”
“That sounds right,” Will says softly. “Dad would drag himself out of the grave if he thought one of us needed him.”
Mrs. Miller’s attention turns back to the hallway, but her eyes soften. “He was always at his best when his boys were under the same roof.” She meets my eyes. “Thank you for making sure Benny got here.”
I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t do anything. He was already halfway out the door when we got the call. He barely even packed a bag. Just grabbed his wallet, his keys, and asked when the soonest flight would be.”
“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Miller whispers, swiping at her eyes. “Always running toward the people he loves.”
I swallow, voice thick. “He just…he couldn’t lose any more time.”
Will nods. “None of us can.”
Mrs. Miller looks at me then, not through me, not around me, but at me, seeing something she hadn’t needed to before today.
“Thank you,” she says, voice steady despite the tears. “For loving my son the way he deserves.”
My breath stutters, catching somewhere between my ribs. I’m not sure what to do with the weight of her gratitude. Not tonight. Not with everything trembling on the edge of breaking. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
Will clears his throat softly. “He’s stronger because you’re here,” he adds. “Even if he won’t say it.”
The words hit something inside me, something raw. Benny had leaned on me in ways he didn’t realize, in ways he would never claim for himself. But hearing it from Will, from his family…it settles differently. Heavier. Realer.
I nod, because speaking might break something open inside me.
Another long stretch of quiet settles, but this one is softer. It’s shared, not suffocating.
I stare at the back hallway, imagining Benny sitting beside his father, talking, holding his hand, memorizing everything about him because he knows the moment is finite.
A selfish part of me aches to be there too, to hold his other hand, to anchor him through the breaking. But I know Benny needs this moment with his dad alone. This goodbye is theirs, not mine, and the only thing I can do is wait. And hope it gives him something to hold onto when the moment is gone.
No one talks. No one moves. We’re all listening, each in our own way, for something. Footsteps, voices, a sign that the world hasn’t shifted permanently in the last ten minutes.
I stare at the place mat in front of me. Just weeks ago, this very table held more food than anyone could possibly eat and glasses of mulled wine. I blink. My vision blurs.
God, it had been so alive here. So loud. So full.
The memory pulls me back without warning.
The Millers’ living room had been buzzing with holiday chaos. Decorations were draped over every available surface. A stack of presents sat under the tree. Laughter echoed off the walls like it was trying to outshine the twinkle lights.
Will cracked open another beer, leaning back with a mischievous glint in his eyes, his arm comfortably draped along the couch behind Emily.
“Did you hear Toy Story 5 is going to focus on sex toys?” he announced.
Emily choked on her drink. “What?!”
Mrs. Miller nearly spat out her own drink, scrambling upright as if speed alone could help her scold her son properly. “William Miller! It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”
I didn’t even flinch. I’d built up an immunity to Miller male nonsense years ago.
Benny laughed. “Really brings a whole new meaning to the names Buzz and Woody, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Miller groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s a wonder you two never got kicked out of Sunday school.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Benny muttered, lips twitching. I elbowed him gently, trying not to smile.
“That cannot be true,” Mrs. Miller gasped, clutching her metaphorical pearls.
“Which part?” Benny shot back. “Us trying to get kicked out of Sunday school or the fact Will believes everything he reads online?”
Emily nodded toward him. “Honestly, the Sunday school part checks out.”
“Oh, it gets better. I heard they’re finally going to handle Andy’s sex life while at college,” Will added.
Emily groaned dramatically. “Please stop. You’re ruining my childhood.”
I had my hand pressed to my mouth trying not to encourage them.
“Too late,” Benny snorted. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, he yelled, “Andy’s coming!”
Emily shrieked and launched a throw pillow at him. Mrs. Miller hid her laugh behind her wine glass, shoulders shaking.
Mr. Miller shook his head, but he was laughing too, big, booming laughs that filled the room. “God help me,” he said. “This is what I get for teaching you both to speak.”
“We learned from the best, Pops,” Will replies, tilting his beer in his dad’s direction with a crooked grin. “You’re the one who taught us that hands aren’t that only thing that can ‘reach for the sky.’”
“Lord, give me strength,” Mrs. Miller mumbles.
“There’s more than a snake in my boot,” Benny murmurs with a teasing smirk, looking at me. He lays a hand on my knee. “Want me to poison your waterhole later?”
“Not when you ask like that, you pervert,” I laugh, playfully swatting his hand away.
Mr. Miller spread his hands dramatically. “Give me strength. Or earplugs. I’ll take either.”
Benny lets out a low laugh and hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me into his side. Warmth settles over me like a blanket as he pulls me against his chest. I crack up, my laughter spilling out and pressing into him, his own rumbling beneath my cheek.
I remember thinking… This is what joy feels like. Chaotic, ridiculous, loud joy.
I had no idea how quickly it would all change.
The memory shatters when the front door slams so hard the frames on the wall rattle. It feels like the whole house flinches, like even the walls recognize the sound of Benny’s breaking heart.
Mrs. Miller meets my eyes, her expression raw and knowing. She doesn’t have to speak. I already know where he’s gone, and I know he needs me there.
I rise from my seat and slip out the back door, the screen creaking softly behind me before it shuts. The cold Colorado air rushes over me, sharp, bracing, pulling me toward him.
I cross the frost-bitten yard, heading straight for the lake. My boots know the way by heart. We’ve walked this path since we were kids, always ending up in the same spot whenever life felt too big, too loud, too unfair.
Tonight, it feels bigger than ever. Louder than ever. And I won’t let him face it alone.
Benny sits on top of the old picnic table, shoulders hunched, staring across the water. The wind stirs his hair, the same way it did when he was a boy who came here to escape, to think, to just be. He looks like that boy again, lost at the edge of something he can’t control. Seeing him there now, folded into himself, I can almost hear the echo of who he used to be and who he’s terrified of becoming without his father.
I climb onto the table beside him. He doesn’t look at me, but he shifts just enough to let me know he feels me there, feels my presence, even if it can’t reach him yet.
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Then his breath rips out of him, sharp and angry.
“The hospital should’ve done more,” he snaps, voice unsteady. “They shouldn’t have just sent him home to die.”
I blink, startled, but only for a second. This grief has claws. “Benny-”
“They gave up,” he spits, running a shaking hand through his hair. “They just sent him home like he’s already gone.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
“No,” I murmur gently. “They sent him home because it’s what he wants.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” he chokes out. His fist curls, knuckles white, pulse hammering beneath his skin. “How do we even know this is it? People survive things all the time. They get better. They prove doctors wrong.”
“Benny…,” I say softly.
He shakes his head hard, rejecting every syllable.
And I know, God, I know, there’s nothing I can say that will make this easier. No truth gentle enough to land without breaking him. He has to reach that place himself, has to make sense of what’s happening before he can even begin to accept it. All I can do is stay beside him while the denial cracks and gives way to something heavier.
“He’s still him,” Benny says finally, voice raw. “Still sharp. Still talking. Still Dad. And that… that might be the hardest part.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“He told me… He said he’s always been proud of me,” Benny whispers, but the last few words wobble, betraying him. He swallows hard, blinking fast. “Of the man I became. Even when I scared the hell out of him.” He clamps his jaw, trying to steady his voice, but it still comes out cracked. “I never once let him down.”
“You didn’t,” I whisper. “You couldn’t.”
Benny drags a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away a feeling that won’t go. His chest rises and falls too quickly, the cold air catching on every inhale. For a moment, he just stares at the ground, like he’s searching for solid footing that isn’t there.
His breath shakes. “I told him I’m not ready,” he continues. “That I don’t know how to do this. How to lose him.”
My heart cracks quietly. “What did he say?”
Benny swallows hard. “He said… He said, ‘Son…you’re not losing me.’” His voice fractures on the last word, barely holding together. “He said that I’ll see him again someday. Maybe not at first. But one day…”
His gaze drops to our joined hands, like the memory is too heavy to look at straight on.
“He was so damn calm,” Benny whispers. “Like he wasn’t the one lying there, like he wasn’t the one…” He cuts himself off, breath shaking. “He told me to push through the pain. To remember the good things. The loud things. The things that make life feel…full.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, voice barely above a breath, “He said, ‘Find the things that breathe life into you, and you’ll find me right beside them. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there.’”
The words hollow him out and hold him together all at once. A tear slips down his cheek, carving a quiet path through everything he’s trying not to show.
He drags in a breath, thin, shaking, like he’s trying to take his father’s words into his lungs just to keep them alive a little longer.
The words settle between us like a heartbeat. Steady. Tender. Devastating.
I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. He squeezes back like he’s drowning and I’m the only solid thing left to hold onto.
“I don’t know how to be anything like him,” Benny whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to fill his shoes. I don’t even know where to start.” He drags a shaky breath. “But he said being like him was never the goal. He said I was supposed to be better. That I already am. And that someday, when I have a kid of my own, I’ll understand.”
A deep ache curls through my chest. We’ve been trying for months, hoping for a miracle, and now, hearing this, I can’t stop the sharp, quiet guilt that rises in me.
He won’t get to see it.
He won’t get to see Benny hold his first child, won’t get to watch him become the father he always believed he would be.
And I hate that we ran out of time before I could give that to him. Before I could give it to Benny.
But this moment is his, not mine, and I swallow the guilt down hard, burying it beneath the weight of what Benny needs right now.
He finally turns toward me, eyes shining with devastation and love. Raw, unguarded. Son and soldier and man all at once.
“I’m not ready for this,” he whispers.
I lift my hand to his cheek, brushing away a tear that immediately replaces itself. “No one ever is,” I murmur. “But you’re not doing this alone.”
He closes his eyes, breath trembling, like he’s standing on the edge of something too deep to measure.
“And Benny… He’s right. He’s not leaving you,” I whisper. “Not really. He’ll always be with you. In the things he taught you. In the way you love. In the man you already are. You carry him. You always have. You always will.”
He leans into me then, like the weight of grief finally pulls him forward instead of under. My forehead presses to his, our breaths warm in the cold night air.
The wind moves across the lake, cold and soft, rustling the trees like a breath from another world.
Somewhere in the dark, grief shifts. Not lighter. Not gentler. Just…shared.
And for now, that’s enough.
Approximately One Year Later
The hospital room is soft and golden from the late-afternoon sun. Machines hum quietly, steady and gentle, a calm rhythm beneath the hush of new life.
Benny sits beside my bed, cradling a tiny, wrapped bundle. Our newborn son. His hands, usually so sure and strong, tremble as he holds the impossibly small weight against his chest. His thumb brushes the baby’s cheek like the slightest touch might break him.
“He’s so…tiny,” Benny whispers, voice thick, reverent. “I didn’t realize they were this small.”
I smile weakly, exhaustion pulling at my bones. “You get used to it. At least, I hope.”
Benny doesn’t look away from the baby. He studies him like he’s memorizing every detail, the soft dark hair, the wrinkled little nose, the soft rise and fall of his chest.
A shaky laugh escapes him. “He’s got your nose,” he murmurs.
“And your mouth,” I tease. “He’s going to charm his way out of everything.”
Benny huffs out a watery laugh, brushing the pad of his thumb across the baby’s lip. “He’s perfect,” he breathes, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell. “How is he already perfect?”
Emotion swells up, sharp and sudden. Damn hormones.
“I wish Dad could see him,” he whispers. “God, he would’ve loved him.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
I reach out, resting my hand over his. “He does, Benny,” I whisper. “He does.”
Benny closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in slowly, as though trying to pull strength from the tiny bundle in his arms. I watch him hold our son like he’s something holy, something too precious for this world. His thumb traces their baby’s cheek again, slower this time, like he’s memorizing every cell, every breath.
He looks at me then, just a flicker, a glance, but it’s enough. I see it in his eyes. The question he’s afraid to say out loud. The hope. The ache. The name.
A small smile curves at my lips. “Benny,” I whisper, “you don’t have to ask.”
His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“I know what you want to say.” My voice stays steady, even as my chest tightens. “And it’s okay. More than okay.”
His breath catches, eyes widening just slightly.
“I want it too,” I say softly. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”
For a moment, he can’t speak. His throat works around emotion too big for words as he looks down at our son again, like the world has tilted gently back into place.
“You’re sure?” he whispers.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Benny lets out a shaky exhale, the kind that sounds like grief and relief and love all wrapped together. He holds our son a little closer. He presses his lips to the baby’s forehead, closing his eyes as though offering a silent promise.
That’s when there’s a soft knock on the door. It’s tentative, hopeful. Too gentle to belong to anyone in a rush. For a second, I assume it’s another nurse, another doctor, one of the dozens of people who’ve been flitting in and out all day to check vitals, adjust monitors, explain things in hushed voices.
But the knock comes again, quieter this time.
We both look up.
“Come in,” I say.
The door cracks open, and Will steps into the room, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well?” he asks, voice rough with barely contained excitement. “Are you going to let us meet the newest Miller or what?”
Benny shifts slightly in his chair, angling the tiny bundle toward them. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Come meet our son.”
Mrs. Miller drifts forward slowly, like she’s approaching something sacred. Her eyes never leave the baby, not once.
Will stops beside the bed, his grin already wobbling at the edges with emotion he’s trying, and failing, to hide. Emily stands just behind him, one hand on his arm, eyes shining as they flick from me to the tiny bundle in Benny’s arms.
Mrs. Miller drifts closer, almost hovering at Benny’s shoulder. Her hands tremble, clasped together like she’s holding herself still. She’s watching her son and grandchild the way someone watches a miracle. Carefully, reverently, afraid to breathe too loudly and somehow break it. She leans in a fraction, the tears in her eyes bright and unashamed.
Will clears his throat, attempting to cut the tension, or maybe his own emotions, with humor. “If this kid’s named Benny Jr., I’m out,” he declares. “It’s bad enough he’s a spitting image of you.”
Emily elbows him so hard in the ribs he jerks sideways with a wince.
Benny snorts, his mouth twitching. “Please. The world can barely handle one of me.”
Mrs. Miller lets out a watery laugh, lifting shaking fingers to her lips. Will grins again, relieved to have drawn breath and laughter back into the room, even in the smallest dose.
Benny draws a slow breath, steadying the weight of the moment. He looks down at our son, then at me. I nod, giving him an encouraging smile.
“I want you to meet…” His voice falters, thickens. He clears his throat gently, swiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “I want you to meet Robert.”
Mrs. Miller’s breath catches violently, like she’s been struck in the chest. Will blinks hard, his smile softening as recognition settles in.
Benny’s voice drops to a whisper, reverent. “Robert Thomas Miller.”
Silence falls, not empty, but full. Full of memory, of grief, of love. Full of everything Benny’s father ever was and everything this tiny baby could one day be.
Mrs. Miller presses her fingers to her lips, tears spilling freely. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes. “Your father… he would have…” Her voice breaks, and she leans forward, touching the baby’s tiny head with trembling fingers. “He would’ve loved him more than anything.”
Benny blinks fast, eyes fixed on his son. “I know,” he whispers. “That’s why… That’s why he gets his name. Dad deserves to be here. With us. With him.”
Will places a hand on Benny’s shoulder, squeezing once, firm, steady, brotherly. “Dad would be proud as hell,” he says, voice thick with emotion he doesn’t bother to hide.
“Thanks, man.”
I wipe at my eyes. “You ready to be Uncle Willy?”
Will winces. “Can we not call me that?”
Benny doesn’t miss a beat. “Fine. We’ll go with Little Willy.”
Emily chokes on a laugh. I fold over, laughing so hard it hurts.
Mrs. Miller gasps, swatting lightly at both of them. “Boys! Not in front of the baby!”
Will lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, he started it! It’s his kid he’s corrupting.”
Benny grins unapologetically. “And I’ll keep starting it. It’s my job as your little brother.”
Mrs. Miller shakes her head, but she’s smiling, tearful and exasperated and impossibly full of love.
Benny looks down at Little Robert – Little Bo - again. The pride on his face is quiet but so pure it almost hurts to witness.
“Dad told me once,” Benny murmurs, “that one day I’d look down and find him.”
He looks at our son and smiles, soft and full and broken open in the most beautiful way.
“And I did.”
Mrs. Miller presses a hand to her mouth, tears spilling freely. Will’s shoulders drop on a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Emily leans into him, her arm sliding around his waist.
And Benny… He looks lighter than he has in months. Not healed. Not whole. But grounded, tethered to something new, something hopeful.
I reach for his free hand, threading our fingers together. He squeezes back, firm and warm and sure.
Three generations fill the room. One gone, one living, one just beginning. Outside the window, the sun dips lower, bathing the room in soft gold. The world keeps turning. Life keeps breathing. And love… Love doesn’t leave. It simply changes the arms it rests in.
wc - 1.5k | content warning - car accident, large medical inaccuracies !, angst, sad jack, established relationship, normal hospital gore, let me know if i missed anything <3
pt. 1 | pt. 2
"BP 90/60 and dropping, we need an OR now!"
"Y/n? Oh god."
"Robby, please don't let her die man. holy fuck, please!"
"Jack, you need to go, Dana! Get him out of here!"
Everything around you was so loud, but still impossibly far away. Your body was pulsating with overwhelming pain, all you could do was look up at the bright light above you whilst being prodded at and told to keep your eyes open.
But it was so hard. Robby came into your eyesight with a soft smile, one that you could very clearly see through — the worry that had settled itself behind his eyes was enough.
"You're gonna be okay, just keep looking at me." He spoke calmly, hand gently combing through your hair. Talking to you about his day as he normally would, like this was an average conversation between them, Jack's best friend and his, now, very injured wife.
His voice only starting to raise at the image of your eyes rolling, as you tried to mumble apologies about how hard it was to keep your eyes open.
The void had faded in, and you were now floating in an endless abyss
"Shit!" Robby cursed, normally he wouldn't step in on a procedure his students and the other medical staff could learn on, but this was you.
Jack was pacing outside the room, the limp obvious with irritation but it was the least of his worries. It had all happened so suddenly, you two were giggling on the way home — singing some song on the radio when a car t-boned the passenger side, your side.
He had walked out with minor injuries, a mild concussion, whiplash, and bruised ribs. You on the other hand got the brunt of everything, including a piece of the other cars windshield sticking through your torso.
"Baby!? Oh fuck me, fuck!" He cursed as he saw the way your body had been mutilated, he called 911 the moment he found his phone before assessing your injuries. This wasn't a new situation to him, the haste that was required in combat medicine had taught him well — his lack of resources was what seemed to be hurting him.
His hand reached over to feel your pulse, releasing a heavy sigh of relief when he felt the thumps against his fingertips.
"Y/n, honey, need you to open your eyes for me." The words caressed the air in a panic, pleading with you to follow his voice back. He noticed your eyelids start to flutter and your face scrunch up in pain, Jack couldn't stand it but at least you were alive.
"My head- Jack?" He heard your fragile voice reach for him, closing his eyes for a split second before attending to you. "I'm here, I'm here sweetheart, try not to move too much." Jack didn't know weather to inform you of the comically large piece of glass sticking out of your abdomen, hoping you would be easier to keep calm without understanding the extent of your injuries.
Right now the only thing you could process enough was the pounding in your head, Jack's voice, and the buzzing noise around the car.
Jack kept patting the side of your face, attempting — with little success — in keeping you awake, he starting talking about that new restaurant you two had a reservation for on Tuesday, or how he was finally taking some much needed time off in April to spend a few weeks wrapped in comfortable clothes and reading books with each other on the couch.
You tried, you really did but the pain became unbearable, compromising your being with its every power. Your husband kept you from complete unconsciousness all the way up until you began coding in the trauma room.
The tension in the ER dramatically increased when your heart stopped beating, simultaneously being silent and brain-numbingly loud all at once. Jack was stood outside the glass doors watching as resuscitation efforts started up, dissociated while they pushed epinephrine and pushed away the moment any heart rhythm was detected and you were hastily pushed up to the OR.
Dana had Jack sitting in the on-call room, quietly observing him for any life threatening injuries.
"It was all my fault." He whispered, a croak from the back of his throat coming out.
"Shh, no it wasn't, don't think like that." Dana soothed, her maternal love showing through with her words. Jack's whole body began to shake, the shock wearing off and the cold catching up to him.
Jack flinched when Dana's fingers pushed passed his — likely broken — ribs, "Alright, I'm gonna get you scheduled for a CT, you've got a pretty nasty head wound up here, and I know that wife of yours would kill me if she found out I let you wallow without a making sure you were okay first." She lightened the mood with hope, feeding it into Jack's brain before heading to the nurses station to get him sorted.
Robby continued compressions while sweet dripped down his forehead, they had pushed epinephrine twice already and got the same result of the haunting flat sound. He refused to stop till every effort possible was preformed.
"Come on, kid, don't do this." Robby whispered, breathes coming out hard. His hands pushing down 2 inches before springing back up — he already felt the crack of your ribs beneath him.
"Stop compressions!"
The silence was deafening, you could hear the churn of the physicians stomachs as they waited for something, anything.
Seconds pass, right as Robby was gearing up for another round of compression the loud, piercing sound of a beeping heart penetrated the thick tension in the room. Everyone allowed themselves a sigh of relief before getting right back into making sure your heart stayed beating, Garcia began prepping you for the OR, Robby secured your intubation tube, and Princess began calling for more O Neg while they wheeled you up and into surgery.
Jack saw as they rushed you toward the elevator, his whole body nearly shut down at the sight of you being rolled out.
That means your alive. Alive enough to be taken for surgery.
Robby walked over to Jack and yanked him into a hug, holding Jack up while his knee gave out beneath him.
"It's your turn to be looked after, brother."
Hours passed, Jack had been stitched and scanned. You were being ripped apart in a sterile room while he was sitting on the roof, not understanding why this was happening to him, why he wasn't allowed happiness and stability. You were supposed to be alive, in bed next to him and rubbing your insanely cold feet on his skin while talking about anything that popped into your brain.
He allowed himself to smile at that image of you in his head, the way you would giggle when he would respond with a half-awake grunt before you would kiss his chest and finally close your eyes with the sound of his heartbeat singing you to sleep like the perfect lullaby.
Jack stared at the sky for a while longer, waiting for the text that you were stable and out of surgery. Robby had to force him away from the thought of watching you in the observation deck, telling him 'he didn't need to see her like that' but in his head it was the only fair outcome. If you die he should have to be there for it, this was on him, he deserved every bit of hurt that was thrown upon him.
"Please baby, please be okay." He whispered out a sobbed into his hands.
Robby walked slowly up the stairs to the roof to meet Jack, rehearsing the best way to tell him all your injuries, wondering how he was going to look in his eyes while telling him that you weren't out of the woods yet. Robby opened the roof door to find jack hugging himself tight and praying to something Robby was she Jack didn't believe in.
"Jack?" Robby called out gently, trying not to startle the man breaking down in front of him.
"I-Is she okay?" He asked immediately, roughly wiping the tears off his cheeks in swift movements.
"Let's go see her, yeah?"
Robby explained the extent of your injuries while walking him to the room you lay unconscious in, Jack watched you through the doorway for a little while, working up the courage to really see you. The only way he could see you was as a doctor and not as your partner, the monitors, all the beeping, the statistics of all your injuries and the outcome of each.
He wished he could just turn it off. To just be with you.
Jack moved with a limp to your bed, his achy bones finally catching up to him as he sat down next to you and pulled your hand into his. Kissing it gently, his tears catching your cold bruised skin.
contents: reader with a vagina; copious amounts of teasing; snarky divas <3; touch/love starved steve; top!steve; chokehold!!!!!
a little bedtime story for you!! 🫶🏻
“oh, shit,” he groans into your ear, breath hot against you. “mmm— f-fuck.”
steve grinds into you slow and deep. wants to take his time savoring you. wants to hear every little whimper you make when he manages to bury himself all the way into your tight cunt.
“missed you,” he says, pressing lazy, open mouthed kisses to your neck. “missed you so goddamn much.”
you saw him twelve hours ago.
“you’re obsessed with me,” you tease.
he ruts into you hard, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“say it back,” he goads, grinning like he’s evil.
you tsk, eyes rolled halfway back. “say please.”
steve ruts into you hard again, then picks his pace up, caging you in with his arms.
“you think you’re cute?”
you nod, whimpering as the tip of his cock finds your sweet spot. he’s making it a little difficult to bite back.
he hums. bottoms out and grinds into you, his pelvis pressing against your clit.
“tell me you missed me, or i’m stopping.”
your breath catches. steve’s so hot when he’s like this. getting worked up just by a little teasing. being a little bit commanding, rougher, devious.
it only makes you want to push him more.
“i missed you,” you confess. and, just because he should hear it, you add, “i love you.”
steve shivers. perpetually touch and love starved, desperate to hear you say those words over and over and over.
he brushes his lips over yours.
“i love you, too.”
you smile at him. “i know.”
he snaps his hips into you quickly, making you pull in a gasp.
“lose the attitude,” he warns.
he’s hardly intimidating.
your smile returns. “no.”
you’re flipped into your front. your eyes widen in shock — what just happened? — and then steve’s pressing you into the bed, strong, muscular body draped over you. an arm wraps around your neck, putting you into a chokehold, keeping you pinned.
the tip of his cock just barely presses into the wet heat he’s been craving all day. he gently pushes forward, then backs out, your cunt clenching around nothing.
you’ve been outperformed. out-teased.
his breath is hot against your ear. “you shouldn’t’ve said that.”
You can say with certainty that you've never seen Simon this drunk before.
The drunk text you got from Soap was a step away from being complete gibberish, but you were able to understand that he was telling you it was probably a good idea to come pick up your boyfriend.
You had no idea what to expect, but when you show up at the pub, Simon is slumped in the booth and the smell of booze is so strong you worry about any open flame sparking up around him. The moment he sees you he nearly tumbles out of his seat altogether from how violently he reaches out to you.
"Oi, lovie," he says, his accent thick with the alcohol. His big, clumsy hands land on you far heavier than they ever would sober. "There's my bird, my fu-" his voice catches in his throat for a moment from either a hiccup, burp, or nausea, "fuckin' baby."
"Yes, Simon, hello. I think it's time to go home." You glance over at Soap who's barely any better off than the giant man actively trying to crawl into your lap while you still stand. The sergeant just smothers a poorly hidden laugh behind his hands.
"'m drunk," Simon says like he's telling you a secret.
"I can tell."
"Don't divorce me, luv," he mumbles with such a hangdog look on his face it takes you a moment to realize what he said.
"Well, we'd first have to be married to do that."
"Wo'?"
"What do you mean 'what?'"
"We're no' married?" he says, looking genuinely distraught.
"No, baby." The dawning look of horror has you biting back a smile, not wanting to laugh directly in his face.
"But you're my wife."
You splutter. "Since when?"
"Fuckin' always."
"That's news to me. You want me to be your wife?"
"Yeah!" he hollers before immediately catching himself and looking up at you with those big, watery, brown eyes of his. "Sorry fer yellin'. I love you."
You lose the battle and can't help the laugh that punches out of your chest. Your hands cup his scarred, flushed face.
"I love you too, you silly, silly man. Come on, time to go home. You're not going to feel very good tomorrow."
Through a precarious balancing act you manage to get him more or less upright and on his feet all while your sweet boy mumbles to himself, "Wha', i's just yer my bloody wife, yeah? 'S my girl."
Clock in. Find Jack Abbot. Say something that makes him squirm. Clock out. You've never claimed it means anything. You've never claimed it doesn't either. What matters is that something has shifted. Jack is off. And you are going to figure out what happened.
genre: jack abbot x reader, attending jack x attending reader, comedy, because i think i'm funny!, flirty reader makes jacky a nervous boy but he likes it, best friend john shen!!!!,banter, inaccurate medical lingo probably, eventual smut 18+ nsfw, angst in this one sorry!!
(a/n: here yall gooooooo. jack is a little bitch in this. i am so sorry but he will be making up for it, you best believe.)
word count: 3600
pt. 1
You sobered up fast.
It happened the second your ass made contact with the passenger seat of Jack's car. His jacket was being draped over your legs with the kind of quiet care that you were not going to think about too hard.
You'd fought him on the wheelchair, obviously.
"I can walk," you'd told him.
"You have a bandaged knee and you've had some drinks tonight." he'd said, already wheeling it toward you.
"I walked in here didn't I?"
"You hobbled in here leaning on Shen."
You'd looked at the wheelchair. Then up at him. "You could just carry me again," you'd said, smiling up at him. "If you want."
And he had without hesitation started to bend down. Which you had not actually expected. "I'm kidding, Jack." You stepped back, a blush crawling up your own neck for once.
He straightened. Looked at you and shrugged. And held his arm out for you to take instead.
Pittsburgh moved past the window, lit up and unhurried. You called out your directions softly and watched the city go by and tried very hard not to watch the way his forearm flexed every time he reached for the turn signal.
The flirting was supposed to be simple. It had always felt contained. Like something you could pick up and put down. The feeling currently sitting in your lower stomach was not simple.
"How come you and Shen never dated?"
You turned from the window. It was the first full sentence he'd really produced since the hospital. Not a hum, not a grunt, not a one word answer to something you'd said to fill the silence.
You laughed a little. "Even if I saw John romantically," you shifted in the seat to look at him properly, "don't you think we would make the most chaotic couple?"
Jack was quiet for a moment. Genuinely considering it. "Yeah," he said finally. "It would actually be a disaster. And you'd make it everybody's problem."
The laugh came out of you with more force than you'd planned. A snort, completely undignified, and you slapped your hand over your mouth so fast it was almost a reflex.
You would have been mortified and you almost were. Except you looked over at Jack and he was beaming.
Not a small tip of the mouth. Not the almost exhale. A full, genuine, ear-to-ear grin, and the laugh that came with it was quiet but it was real, and it did something catastrophic to your chest.
You'd snort a thousand times for that. Gladly.
…
He insisted on walking you in. "I brought bandage replacements," he said, holding up the small kit he'd taken from the supply room as evidence.
"You know we're both doctors, right?" you said, key already in the lock. "I have all of this in a kit in my closet."
He waved a hand and brushed past you into the apartment. You would have been more embarrassed about the state of the place if your knee hadn't chosen that moment to remind you, with significant enthusiasm, that it was still very much injured. The movie night debris was exactly as you'd left it. Popcorn bowl and all. Across the floor near the couch, was the glittering spread of broken glass that you and John had simply walked away from because that had felt like a problem for future you.
Before you could say anything, Jack turned to you. "Where's your broom?"
"Jack." You shook your head. "You've done enough tonight. I can get it. Go home and get some rest."
He opened the first door within reach and looked inside, closed it, and moved to the next one. Not giving up until you finally relented and told him where it was kept.
You sat on the arm of the couch and watched him sweep, but then your eyes caught on his upper shoulder. The dark bloom of blood was showing through the fabric of his shirt. Small, but unmistakable. "Jack." You straightened. "You're bleeding."
He didn't stop sweeping. Bent to collect the larger pieces of glass into the container he'd found under your sink. "Don't worry about it. I just need to change the bandage."
You crossed the room and grabbed his arm and he turned.
You got close enough to look and the reality of it assembled itself in your head. A hundred different scenarios involving that SWAT uniform and they were not good. "I'm going to worry about it," you said. "What happened?"
"A bullet grazed me today." He shrugged. "Shootout. Bank robbery gone wrong." He rolled the shoulder slightly. "I dressed it the best I could back at the ER."
The thing that crossed your face wasn't anger. It sat somewhere between disappointment and fear. "Take your shirt off," you said. "I'm going to bandage it properly."
"It's fine, really."
"Take." You held his gaze. "Your shirt off. So help me God."
Something shifted in his expression. He straightened and walked toward your living room without another word. When you came back, your heart went directly into your throat.
He was sitting on your couch. In your apartment. At whatever hour this had become. Shirtless, in his camo pants and boots.
You settled on the couch behind him and opened the kit. He sat very still while you worked. You cleaned the wound carefully and applied fresh ointment.
"I don't like that you do this job," you said quietly.
He didn't answer. You smoothed the ointment and reached for the bandage.
"So," he said finally. "Why do you need a recommendation letter? Leaving us?"
You opened the package. "Not intentionally anyways." You peeled the backing. "There's a surgical residency in New York. You know how giddy I get when they need me at the hospital."
You smoothed the bandage down along its edges, pressing gently to make sure it held. Then you tapped his shoulder twice. He reached for his shirt and to pull it back on, and some small, treacherous part of you felt the loss.
"For what it's worth," he said "you would be an asset to wherever you go. PTMC has been lucky to have you."
You snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been waiting for the moment I get out of there."
He turned and the expression on his face was serious and still and his eyes found yours and stayed there. "I notice when you're not there," he said. "I would feel it."
You sat back and blinked, stunned.
Jack Abbot had always been honest with you. He didn't perform sincerity. When he said something he meant it and you'd always respected that about him even when it made him hard to read.
But this was different. This was him on your couch, in your apartment, his shirtless back being cast in the warm glow of the lamp in the living room.
I would feel it.
You didn't say anything. For once in your life, with this man, you had absolutely nothing. No line ready. No deflection loaded. You just sat there and looked at him and felt something in your chest pull tight.
He looked back at you and then his eyes moved across your face first and then down, just briefly, before they came back up to yours.
His hand found your knee, the unharmed one and squeezed once.
"I mean it." he said. He held it one moment longer, then let go. Finally pulling his shirt over his head. "Let me see the knee before I go."
He crouched down and checked the bandage pressing lightly at the edges, checking adherence, asking you to flex it once. His hands were careful and you stared at the top of his head and tried to remember how to be a normal person.
"It looks good." He grabbed his jacket from the arm of the chair. "I should go."
You walked him to the door and at the threshold he stopped and patted his pants pocket. "Oh. Almost forgot."
He held out an envelope with your name on the front, in his handwriting. Clean and precise, because of course it was.
Your recommendation letter.
"Get some sleep, sweetheart." he said quietly. He turned and walked down the hall and you stood in your doorway holding the envelope with both hands and watched him go and did not move until he'd rounded the corner and disappeared completely.
…
You woke up with your hair wrapped around your face, drool on the pillow, and the fading tail end of a dream that had been vivid.
Specific.
Embarrassingly high definition.
It may or may not have involved an attending. It may or may not have also ended with you pushing him back into a very familiar couch and swinging a leg over his lap.
You reached for your phone and called John.
The screen came up black when he answered. "Bitch," you said, already swinging your legs out of bed, padding toward the bathroom. "Are you still asleep?"
"Well I'm up now." John's voice was thick with sleep. "Thanks for that."
The lamp clicked on. You were reaching for your toothbrush when you looked at him and stopped. John was sitting up in bed, blinking, and visible just above his left ear was a patch of hair cropped close to the skin. And buzzed into it, in swirly, cursive: princess.
You stared. "...How'd the date go?"
John picked up the glass of water from his nightstand and took four enormous gulps. "Really good," he said, setting it down. "I think I'm in love."
The laugh that came out of you bounced off the bathroom tiles. You pointed at the screen with your toothbrush. "You know what, hell yeah. Love that for you."
He took another gulp of water, looking considerably more woken up.
You started brushing your teeth. "I need to talk about Jack," you said, or tried to, around the toothbrush.
"What?"
You held up a finger and rinsed. "I need to talk about Jack."
“Wait” He sat up straighter against his headboard. "Talk."
John was very still by the time you finished spilling the whole story. "Well? Did you read the letter?"
"Not yet."
The look on his face was instantaneous. "I'm hanging up on you," he said, annoyed. "Call me back when you've read it and can actually provide me with pivotal information." Then you saw him glance at himself in his mirror. “Also, can I come over and have you fix my hair?"
…
To Whom It May Concern,
It is without reservation that I recommend Y/N for consideration in your surgical residency program. In my years of practicing emergency medicine, I have worked alongside a great number of physicians. I do not offer this kind of endorsement frequently, or lightly.
Y/N is, in the simplest terms, an exceptional doctor. Her clinical instincts are among the sharpest I have encountered.
She is the physician that other physicians want in the room when things go wrong, because she is steady. There is a particular kind of competence that announces itself, and a rarer kind that simply acts. Y/N is the latter. I have watched her de escalate, diagnose, and perform under conditions that would rattle less grounded clinicians, and I have never once watched her falter in a way that cost a patient.
What I would also ask you to consider, though it falls outside the traditional scope of a letter like this, is what she brings beyond her clinical skill.
She makes the people around her better. Not through instruction or oversight, but simply by being present. The nurses trust her. Her colleagues, myself included, are better for working alongside her. That quality is rarer than any board score or procedural metric, and your program would be fortunate to have it walking through the door.
I would be remiss if I did not add, with full transparency, that recommending her for a position in New York means recommending her departure from PTMC. I am aware of this. I am recommending her anyway, because it is the right thing to do, and because anything less would be a disservice to what she is capable of.
She is ready. She has been ready.
Please do not waste that.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jack Abbot
Attending Physician, Emergency Medicine PTMC
…
You'd spent Sunday with John, who had left your apartment with symmetrical hair and red eyes from laughing too hard as he shared how his date went and how he exactly got that haircut.
He had read the letter three times and then set it down on your coffee table. “That man is going to miss you so much it breaks something in him” and then refused to elaborate because his Hinge match was texting him.
On Monday, you were forty minutes into charting at the nurses' station when the radiologist appeared.
He leaned against the counter with ease "You know," he said, by way of greeting, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous," you said, not looking up from your screen.
He grinned. "There's a new place on Penn Avenue. Small menu, good wine list. Very low lighting." He leaned a little closer. "I think you'd like it."
You looked up. "Just dinner," he said. "No agenda."
"There's always an agenda."
"Okay, minimal agenda." He tilted his head. "Come on. What do you say?"
In your peripheral vision, just past his shoulder, you caught movement. Jack was coming out of a consult room, chart in hand, taking the long way back to the station. His eyes moved across the nurses' station and then they landed on you and the radiologist.
He kept walking. Just a turn on his heel and gone, disappearing around the corner with his jaw set and his shoulders hunched.
"I'll think about it," you said, which was the most diplomatic version of no you currently had access to.
The radiologist looked pleased enough with that to push off the counter and head back to work and you turned back to your screen and tried to find your place in the chart.
...
Things were fine until they weren’t. Jack’s mood had turned sour for whatever reason and you were in the line of fire.
It was a straightforward laceration. Clean edges, good depth assessment, textbook closure. You'd done a thousand of them. Jack appeared at the door while you were finishing the last suture, reviewed the chart on the wall display, and said without looking up, "You'll want to irrigate that more thoroughly before you close."
You looked at the wound and at your irrigation documentation. “I did irrigate it thoroughly."
He set the chart back. "Just flagging it."
He left and your patient looked at you.
"That happens." you said pleasantly, and tied off the suture.
…
You’d written clean, thorough handoff notes since your first year. It was something you took pride in.
Jack picked up the chart. "This is missing the last set of vitals in the summary."
You took the chart back and found the vitals section complete.
"They're right here," you said, keeping your voice even, turning it so he could see.
He looked and said nothing. Set it back down and walked away.
You'd been patient. You knew how to absorb things and keep moving. But this was Jack.
Jack, who had crouched in front of you and checked your bandage. Jack, who had swept up your broken glass without being asked. Jack, who had written she makes the people around her better and folded it into an envelope and carried it in his pocket through a bank robbery.
This was Jack, and it hurt in a new way.
…
You were coming out of the supply room when he fell into step beside you and looked at the supplies in your hands. "That's not the right gauge for what you're doing."
Something in your chest that had been bending all day made a sound like it was about to snap. "Jack." Your voice was very controlled. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
The room was empty, a patient free bay at the end of the hall, curtain drawn, blessedly quiet. You pulled him in and dropped his arm and turned to face him.
"What is going on with you today?" you said.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You've been on me all shift." You crossed your arms. "Every chart, every order.”
"I'm just doing my job."
"You're not." Your voice climbed a little despite yourself. "You're doing something else entirely and I need you to tell me what it is because you have never, in all the time we've worked together, done this with me."
He looked at the wall. "I'm not doing anything."
"Jack."
"Maybe your work has been slipping," he said flatly. "Maybe I'm doing you a favor by flagging it early."
The room went very quiet. "My work," you said slowly, "has not been slipping."
"I'm just saying.."
"I have given you zero reason today to question a single thing I've done and you know that. So say what you actually mean or don't say anything."
Something like sadness moved across his face. Or was it anger? "Why don't you just go where they actually want you," he said. "In radiology."
The air went out of the room. Your hand went to your jacket pocket, fingers closing around the envelope and you pulled it out, then ripped it.
Clean down the middle. Then across. The pieces small enough that they scattered when you dropped them.
"I don't even fucking want this." Your voice broke on the last word and you hated that, hated it completely, but your eyes were hot and your chest was tight and you were done. "Fuck you, Jack."
You pushed through the curtain and the ER swallowed you back up, bright and loud and you didn't look back.
summary: you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au)
notes: okay, listen, this was never supposed to see the light of day... this was what i would write between other fics when i felt blocked or wanted to be dramatic and wax lyrical about loving lewis pullman... so basically, this is me not-so-subtly saying i would abandon everything i know and love for him... please be kind! this one feels weirdly personal because it's so emo??? but regardless, i hope you enjoy and would love, love, love to hear what you think! (p.s. happy birthday to me!)
warnings: swearing, angst, mention of slight age gap (with bucky), heartbreak (lots), crying, fainting, the void (almost), alcohol consumption, acotar reference (if you squint), so many metaphors, nudity, and horniness very slightly bordering on smut (yes, i still managed to make it horny) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!
word count: 14951
Mates.
It’s not something you hear about often—and it happens even less.
Centuries ago, it was something creatures hungered for. Something that drove them. Compelled them to find their one true mate and, well… mate.
But that was long ago. Now, it’s rare. Fabled. Forgotten by most. Even fewer still are lucky enough to have one.
There are other words for it now—soulmate, twin flame, kindred spirit, true love. Softened, romanticised. Colloquial terms thrown around like confetti at a wedding. Used to describe someone you choose to love. Not someone you’re bound to by something older than time.
Because mates? Real mates? They aren’t chosen. They’re fated. Selected by some ancient magic. A gift from the gods—or whatever existed before gods. Two souls born within the same lifetime, tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. And if they meet?
Well... no one really knows what happens then.
You see, with a world this big, teetering on the edge of collapse, stuffed to the brim with people all trying to survive—who has time to go chasing destiny? Who’s got the energy to scour the globe in hopes of locking eyes with some cosmic stranger?
Sure, the sex would probably be mind-blowing. But sex can be plenty good without a soul-deep connection plucking the strings of your orgasm.
Which is exactly why no one really cares about mates anymore. Most people don’t even believe they exist. And those who do? They’re usually just lonely—reaching for hope, not magic.
And you? Well, you’re more than happy in the arms of your sex god super soldier fiancé.
Or at least… you were.
-
“Do we have to?” Bucky sighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin.
You giggle and squirm beneath the weight of his body—his very naked body.
“Come on,” you say, half-heartedly shoving at his chest. “We’re already going to be late. Besides, you can’t possibly be ready to go again.”
He lifts his head, blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Sure about that, doll?”
He shifts, and you feel it—thick and heavy, pressing insistently against your hipbone.
Your eyes go wide, heat pooling between your thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be like... over a hundred?”
He chuckles, sliding down a little, clearly aiming for your breasts.
“Technically, yes. Biologically, no.”
You hum, enjoying the rasp of his beard as it brushes against your skin. “Still,” you tease, “even biologically, you’re almost an old man.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
You giggle again, trying to wriggle free. As much as you’d love to stay tangled up with him all morning, you really don’t want to be late—again—and keep his teammates waiting. They’re not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but not in a bad way. More like the sarcastic, sharp-eyed, chaos crew who’d never let you live it down if you showed up looking freshly ravished. And honestly? You’re not in the mood to be roasted before coffee.
“For that little comment,” Bucky says, shifting to straddle you as the blankets fall away, “I’m cutting you off.”
You try to look up at his face, but your attention is… elsewhere. More specifically, the part of him that obviously doesn’t agree with this whole cutting you off plan. It’s hard—painfully hard—and staring right at you, begging to be touched.
You lick your lips, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Cutting me off?”
He nods, sliding off the bed and taking his gorgeous body with him. “Mhm. You’re cut off. For at least twenty-four hours.”
You scramble after him, following him into the ensuite like a woman on a mission. “Twenty-four hours?!”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but he keeps it together. “Yep.” He turns to you, leveling you with a mock-stern look. “You called me old.”
You jut your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “It was just a joke.”
He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “maybe next time you’ll think twice.”
Then he turns to the shower and cranks on the hot water, leaving you standing there like a sulking child who’s just been denied dessert.
As the two of you shower and dress in companionable silence, a twinge of guilt starts to settle in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about his age.
He didn’t seem offended—but still. The age gap is real. It’s not something either of you acknowledges often, but maybe you should be a little more mindful. He is the older one. The one in the public eye. The one who constantly fields backlash from idiot reporters and politicians, all desperate to dig up something to use against him.
And now that you’re engaged—engaged—right as he’s stepping into this whole New Avengers thing? The spotlight on him is brighter than ever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick your playful jabs a little more carefully. Just for a while.
“Hey,” you murmur, lacing your fingers through his as you step into the tower elevator. “Sorry about before.”
He hits the button for the main floor, then glances at you with a puzzled little frown. “For what, doll?”
You shrug. “Calling you old.”
He chuckles—low, rough, and unfairly attractive. “Don’t be sorry. I’m a big boy. I can take a joke.”
There’s a beat of quiet as the elevator hums around you. Then, he leans in, lips near your ear, breath warm on your skin.
“I’ll just have to punish you for it later.”
Anticipation sizzles beneath your skin, adrenaline zipping down your spine before settling between your legs—a place Bucky’s words have a habit of landing.
Before you can fire back something smart—or filthy—the doors slide open, and you're greeted by the wide, sunlit expanse of the New Avengers common room.
“Finally!” Yelena calls, her head popping up over the back of the couch. “You’re like… twenty minutes late.”
“It’s not my fault,” you say quickly, slipping away from Bucky toward the kitchen. “All Barnes.”
He shoots you a look, lips twitching, then turns back to his teammates, moving toward where most of them are crowded around the living room setup in the centre of the huge space. Everyone is here except their newest specially-abled member—Bob.
You haven’t met him yet, and honestly, you’re not exactly eager. You know he’s got… issues, to say the least. And with all the other complications this group brings, you’re already close enough to being overwhelmed. How they came to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0? You’ll never understand.
You busy yourself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and some breakfast while Bucky and his team dive into their meeting. You don’t live at the tower—you and Bucky have a small apartment a few blocks away—but you’re more than comfortable here. At first, coming along to all the meetings and mission briefings felt like a drag, but eventually you got to know everyone, and now, it doesn’t bother you so much.
An hour later, the meeting slips into something more casual. Bucky excuses himself to take a phone call, and Ava disappears—literally—so you take the opportunity to settle onto the couch, half-listening as John and Alexei bicker over what to watch on TV.
John wins, and you’re stuck watching college sports.
“I read your book,” Alexei announces, turning to you with a proud smile—his back now to John.
You tilt your head, frowning. “My book?”
“Yes, yes.” He slings an arm over the back of the lounge, turning fully toward you. “The one you told me to read.”
You stare at him, confused, for a beat longer than you’d like—until realisation dawns, followed swiftly by mortification.
“Oh my God, no,” you mutter, face burning. “No, Alexei, you didn’t—”
“The one about the faeries,” he says proudly. “It is a little naughty, but it is good.”
“You!” Yelena gasps from across the room. “You’re the one who told him to read those books!”
You sink deeper into the plush couch, hands flying up in surrender. “No, I swear—I didn’t tell him to! He asked what I was reading, and I... I told him. That’s it. I never told him to read them!”
John groans. “He hasn’t shut up about those porn books all week.”
From the kitchen, Bucky turns sharply, halfway through his phone call. His eyes land on you—wide with amusement, brows lifted in mock surprise, the phone still pressed to his ear.
“They’re not all naughty,” Alexei says with a small frown—and you’re not sure if he’s defending himself or you. “There is fighting and magic too. They are good books.”
You can’t help but let a quiet giggle slip past your lips. “Which one are you up to?”
His eyes sparkle with excitement. “I just finished the second book.”
You sit up and lean toward him, ignoring the dirty looks from Yelena and John. “Oh my God, did you love it? The second one is my favourite.”
Alexei nods eagerly. “I loved it. They are perfect together. Much better than the blond man.”
“Much better,” you agree with another soft laugh.
“I have question, though,” he says, his smile faltering into a curious frown. “How can they be mates if they are born hundreds of years apart?”
Yelena scoffs. “The book has soulmates too?”
You turn to her with a playful smile. “They’re mates, not soulmates. Like, fated mates. It’s not as lame as it sounds.”
“It sounds very lame,” she deadpans.
“It is not lame,” Alexei argues. “It is beautiful.”
Yelena rolls her eyes and John lets out a disbelieving laugh, still focused on the TV.
“You know,” you say slowly, leaning forward to catch John’s eye on the other side of Alexei, “some people actually believe in mates. Like real soulmates.”
“Yeah—desperate people,” John quips.
You roll your eyes. “No—I mean, yeah, but not just lonely people. Some still think fated mates are real. Rare, but real. Like some kind of ancient, sleeping magic. Most people won’t find theirs, because the world is too crowded now. But centuries ago, it used to matter. In some cultures, it still does.”
Yelena snorts. “Still sounds lame.”
You’re just about to respond when Ava phases in beside you, startling you.
“It’s true,” she says plainly. “I’ve heard stories.”
You ignore your spiked pulse and tilt your head. “You have?”
She nods. “Yeah. You know, when I was stuck in a lab for most of my childhood. I read a lot. Learned a lot. There are a few different versions, but some cultures still believe in real mates.”
Yelena frowns, but leans in—clearly intrigued. “This is ridiculous. There is no way every person has someone they are destined to be with. If that were true, we’d know more about it.”
“Not everyone has one,” you say. “It’s actually pretty rare.”
Ava raises a sceptical brow. “So, you believe in mates?”
You shrug, your cheeks warming with a touch of embarrassment. “I don’t know.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Yelena asks, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
You press your lips together, buying a moment to decide whether or not to tell them your story. But really—why not? It’s not like you have anything to hide. Mate or not, you’re happy with Bucky. And you know you will be for the rest of your life.
“Okay,” you begin, leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. “A few years ago, I was at this gala—something for work—and this woman approached me…”
- Five Years Ago -
You tip the champagne flute to your lips, emptying it in one gulp.
“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “These fancy events are stingy with the refreshments.”
An older couple nearby gives you a dirty look, but you ignore it and wander off in search of another waiter with another tray of tiny, unsatisfying champagne flutes.
“Excuse me?”
A woman steps into your path before you can reach the next tray. She’s older, with a lined face and silver-grey hair that falls almost to her hips. Her floral dress flows a little too gracefully for a ballroom with no breeze, and the many pieces of jewellery adorning her neck and arms clink softly as she moves.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a small, serene smile. “But I had to speak to you.”
You tear your eyes away from the waiter retreating with your drink.
“That’s okay,” you reply, turning to meet her gaze—only to falter when you notice her eyes. They’re not hazel or green or brown. They’re gold. Entirely gold.
“Sorry, I—uh, I don’t think we’ve met?”
You offer your hand, which she takes gently, though her eyes never leave your face. They scan your features like she’s searching for something—something buried. Something you’re not sure is even there.
“No, we haven’t,” she says, stepping a little closer. It’s invasive, but her strange energy keeps you frozen in place. “I don’t normally do this. I usually keep my… visions to myself.”
Oh, God. She’s a fucking loon.
You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Visions?”
She nods. “I’m not crazy.”
Sure, lady.
“My family is gifted—well, some of us are,” she continues. “I prefer to keep to myself, but when I saw you, I had to say something.”
You frown. “Say what?”
“You have the mark.”
“The… mark?”
“Yes,” she says, and you realize she’s still holding your hand as she gently places her other over it. “In your fate lines.”
Your eyes dart around the room. Why is no one noticing this weird little encounter?
You glance back at her—into those strange gold eyes. “My what, now?”
Her brows pull together slightly. “You don’t believe in fate?”
“I believe in free will.”
She smiles. “The two aren’t so different. Fate offers the door. Free will decides whether you open it.”
“Okay...” you murmur. “So I’m marked?”
“You have the mark,” she corrects. “The mark of a mate. Your other half. The dark to your light. You’ll know him when you feel the pull. It won’t be gentle—it never is, for ones like you.”
Your brow creases. “Ones like me?”
She studies you again—longer this time. Her smile is faint, but her eyes are deep, unblinking. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking through you. Still searching for something beneath your skin.
“You’re not ordinary,” she says softly. “Neither is he—at least, he won’t be when you meet. That’s why it matters. You two were made for something bigger. Together, you’ll either shift the course of something… or break it entirely.”
Okay. Definitely time to find that waiter. And take the whole damn tray.
She leans closer, her voice a whisper now—but somehow heavier. “This isn’t about belief. It’s about design. You can walk away—fate gives the door, not the hand that turns the knob. But when the moment comes, it won’t feel like a choice. Not to you. Not to him. Because something in the marrow of your bones will know.”
You swallow hard, the hairs on your neck standing straight.
She glances around once, then leans in—like she’s sharing a secret. “There will come a time when everything depends on whether you hold onto each other. Or let go. And if you let go…” Her lips press together, almost regretful. “Well. I suppose the universe will just have to adjust. Somehow.”
And then, like smoke in a breeze, she slips into the crowd—leaving your pulse racing and the taste of stardust on the back of your tongue.
- Present -
“Were you on drugs?” Yelena asks—not accusing, just curious.
You shoot her an unimpressed glare. “No.”
Of all the faces in the room, Alexei’s is the most excited—his eyes practically sparkling.
“Did you go after the mysterious woman?” he asks, leaning in.
You shake your head. “No. I went after the waiter and took his tray.”
Yelena snorts. “So you were drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” you argue. “Yet, at least.”
Ava tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Did you believe her?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched, but… look at the last ten years. Super-people, aliens, sorcerers, magic. It’s not that hard to believe in the grand scheme of things.”
Alexei leans closer, dropping his voice. “Do you believe Barnes is your mate?”
No—but you’re not saying that out loud.
“Sure,” you say, your voice just a little too high. “I mean, assuming I believe the woman—which I never said I did—”
“You do,” Yelena cuts in. “I can see it in your eyes.”
You shoot her a look. “Whether or not I believe her... I love Bucky. He’s my person. I don’t care if he’s my cosmically assigned soul partner or not. I want him. Only him. End of story.”
Yelena breaks into a cheesy smile. “Aw, you are so cute. Sappy, and a little gross, but cute.”
You roll your eyes as she pushes off the lounge and heads toward the kitchen, where Bucky is still muttering into the phone. John’s attention is glued to the TV—you’re not even sure he heard your story. And Ava phases out again, disappearing somewhere into the tower.
After a moment, Alexei turns to you, voice lowered. “Are you scared?”
You frown. “Scared of what?”
“If you meet your mate.”
You laugh—softly, uneasily—ignoring the sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. “I don’t even know if I believe in that. So why would I be scared?”
“Because,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, “you’ll either have to break his heart, or break your own by refusing fate.”
His words hit harder than they should. For a moment, it’s like your lungs forget how to work—air punched right out of your chest, heart pounding hard and fast against your ribs.
You’ve never thought about it like that—because you’ve never truly believed the strange woman’s prophecy. You met Bucky nearly a year later, and the thought never crossed your mind.
Not until now. Not until you had to retell that bizarre encounter out loud.
And sure, you could keep telling yourself you don’t believe in it. But there’s always that one question that lingers.
What if?
What if what she said was real?
What if Bucky isn’t your mate?
What if you find him?
What if she was right—and you can’t stay away?
What if the choice comes down to breaking Bucky’s heart… or your own?
-
“You okay?” Bucky asks, his fingers laced with yours as you walk down the corridor toward the elevator.
You’d spent the last few hours watching TV with Alexei and John—mostly talking about books—while Bucky worked. You tried to push all the weird questions and swirling doubts out of your mind, but it wasn’t easy with Alexei’s constant interrogation.
“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Just tired.”
He squeezes your hand. “You sure?”
You glance up and meet his baby blues—so sincere it makes guilt creep up your spine. You can’t just tell him you’re scared he’s not your person... That would break his heart. And for what? Some cryptic message from a strange woman about a mark you’ve never even seen? Or believed in.
“Shit,” Bucky mutters, his eyes snapping away from yours.
You frown and follow his gaze, eyes widening when you see the end of the hallway swallowed in black.
“Um,” you lean into him, “what the fuck?”
“It’s Bob,” he says, slowly backing away. “He’s having a nightmare.”
You glance up at your fiancé. “He’s still sleeping?”
“Yeah, he has trouble actually sleeping,” Bucky replies. “That’s why he’s in his room all the time. He’s trying to sleep, and then whenever he does... it’s this shit. I thought I had nightmares, but this kid…”
Your heart thuds heavy in your chest—but not fast. Not panicked. You should be panicked. But you feel calm. Strangely calm. Even as the darkness creeps across the floor and walls, inching toward you as you back away.
“What happens if we touch it?” you ask, hesitating mid-step.
Bucky tugs your hand, urging you to keep moving. “Nothing good.”
Your head tilts as you watch the inky mass crawl, swallowing everything in its path. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—but you know better.
“Is it cold?” you ask, eyes still fixed on the darkness.
Bucky frowns. “What?”
“The darkness,” you say, glancing up at him. “Is it cold? It doesn’t seem cold.”
He stares at you like you’ve just asked if it tastes like chicken. “It doesn’t really... feel like anything,” he says, eyes darting between you and the growing shadow. “Now, come on. We’ll take the stairs and warn the others.”
You stop short, frowning. “You’re just going to leave him?”
He looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “Well, no. We’ll go in if we have to, but it’s usually better to wait it out. He’s getting better at managing it. It usually stops before it spreads too far. So, we try not to interfere unless we need to.”
“He shouldn’t have to deal with it by himself,” you argue.
“I know that,” Bucky says, tipping his head slightly as he studies you. “We all know that. And he knows we’re here for him. But we can’t sleep beside him every night—if we do, we get pulled in the second he starts dreaming. He knows we’ll help him if he needs it, but he’s trying to learn how to control it on his own.”
You feel an ache to run in after him—a man you barely know—to dive into that abyss. But you know it’d be stupid. You’re not like Bucky or the others. Not enhanced. Not particularly special. You probably wouldn’t last a second inside whatever hellscape awaits you in that darkness.
“Okay,” you mutter, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.”
You backtrack through the tower to the common area and give the others a heads-up. Then, taking the route furthest from Bob’s room, the group filters out. Yelena and Ava decide to hang back and keep watch, while Alexei and John head off in search of lunch.
You and Bucky say your goodbyes—for the second time today—before heading down the street toward your shared apartment.
“What was all that, hm?” Bucky asks gently, his voice soft but his eyes sharp with concern.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still want to go back. The darkness hadn’t scared you—it hadn’t even really deterred you. All you could think about was the man trapped inside it—scared and alone. Gifted with powers like a god, but still powerless against his own demons.
“Nothing,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just feeling a little extra empathetic today.”
He studies you a beat longer, but you keep your eyes fixed ahead. After a minute or two, he sighs, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead. He pulls you in close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something too quiet for you to catch—but you’re pretty sure it’s an I love you.
Once back at your apartment, you curl up on the couch together and start watching a movie—one you insist Bucky has to see, since he missed out on so many years of excellent pop culture. About an hour in, the pressure in your chest finally starts to lift—the weird heaviness that had been stopping you from telling Bucky what was really wrong. But instead of relief, guilt settles in, and you quickly turn to him.
“Buck,” you say softly.
His eyes are on his phone. “Bob’s fine now. Yelena said he woke up and wasn’t even rattled. Said the nightmare was bad, but he found it easier to stop.”
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s good. I’m glad.”
He locks his phone and tosses it onto the couch beside him, giving you his full attention. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah—um, about before. I’m sorry for not listening to you. For arguing. It was weird, and I was kind of lost in my own head.”
He leans forward, takes both of your hands in his, and doesn’t speak—just laces your fingers together and watches how his hands swallow yours.
You clear your throat, hesitating. “Do you remember when I told you about that strange woman who came up to me at The Vantage Summer Gala a few years ago?”
His gaze lifts to yours, steady. “Of course. The lady who told you about your soulmate.”
“Well,” you begin, “I was telling the others about it—Alexei brought up those books I supposedly told him to read, and... I don’t know, we ended up talking about soulmates, or whatever. And after I told them the story, Alexei started asking weird questions. Like if I believed her. If I think you’re my soulmate. And then... what if you’re not? And—and—” Your voice catches, throat thickening. “And w-what if—”
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re not about to cry over something dumb Alexei said, are you?”
You let out a watery laugh, your eyes welling as you press your cheek to his shoulder.
“I knew something was eating at you, doll,” he whispers into your hair, breath warm against your skin.
You sniffle, blinking fast. “It just feels so stupid.”
“Nothing’s stupid if it hurts you,” he says firmly. “And you don’t ever have to keep things from me. I don’t care how small it feels—if it’s bothering you, I want to know.”
“Okay,” you mumble into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you, still holding you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for being upset.”
You swipe the back of your hand beneath your nose.
“Now listen, okay?” He takes your hands again, holding them tight. “This might not help, but I need to say it.”
You frown but stay quiet, holding your breath like it might help hold back the tears.
“I know you’re unsure about what that woman told you,” he starts, “and I don’t know if soulmates are real or if fate really gives a damn about people like us. But I know what I feel when I look at you, and when you look at me.” He pauses, just for a beat. “I love you. And not because the universe says I should. I love you because you’re kind, and sharp, and stubborn as hell. I love the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking, and the way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for.”
A few tears slip down your cheeks as he takes a shaky breath.
“But if one day, you find out there is someone else—if that soulmate thing is real, and you meet him and your whole world shifts—then I won’t hold you back. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you’re not happy.”
The tears start falling faster.
“Do I want that? Hell no. I want you. Here. With me. Always. But loving someone means putting them first, even when it hurts. So if it ever comes to that… I’ll let you go. But until then… I’m all in. Every part of me is yours. No marks. No fate. Just choice. And I choose you.”
His voice wobbles as he finishes, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
You swallow a sob and take a deep breath, willing your voice to work.
“I love you too,” you whisper, a little pitiful after his brilliant speech.
He grins—and you barely get a second to appreciate it before he’s on you. His lips crash into yours, his hands gripping your body as he presses you back on the couch. The movie is long forgotten as he kisses you like you're the only place he’s ever felt at home.
You start fumbling with his shirt, trying to undress him, but barely make it far before his phone starts buzzing.
He groans and pushes up, and you let him go—his line of work is literally life or death.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
He nods, tapping out a quick reply before locking his phone again. “Yeah. Just John asking about tomorrow night.”
“The foundation ball thing?”
“Yep,” he sighs. “Can’t wait.”
You lean in until your lips are just inches from his. “Can I come?”
He frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to?”
“I didn’t,” you say. “But now I do. I think I need to be there.”
His expression softens as he leans in to kiss you again, murmuring, “Of course you can come.”
-
You feel strange under the glowing lights of the lavishly decorated ballroom. You haven’t even stepped foot in a place like this since your encounter with the fate lady—which isn’t helping that nagging anxiety that hasn’t let up since yesterday. But you’re still here, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne, because you knew you had to be. You just felt it. In your bones.
“Wow, you clean up nice,” Yelena says, her eyes sparkling as she approaches.
You’re at a high table near the back of the room, conveniently close to the bar.
“And excellent choice in location,” she adds with a wink.
You laugh quietly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of these kinds of functions unless there’s copious amounts of alcohol involved.”
“I’m not a fan of much without copious amounts of alcohol,” she says dryly. “But I imagine you’ve got a little PTSD from this kind of thing. Especially after the voodoo lady read your palms.”
Her tone is teasing, but her words still prick your chest like tiny needles full of panic.
“Very funny,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a crazy woman tonight who can tell you all about your future.”
She scoffs. “No thank you. I am perfectly happy keeping that a mystery.”
You snort softly into your glass and take a generous sip of champagne.
“I’m pretty sure the only reason Alexei came tonight was in hopes of getting his fortune told,” she says, glancing across the room to where he’s talking to Bucky. “You know he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours? He even asked me to help him use a computer so he could research.”
“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I’m so sorry.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Alexei catches your eye and his face splits into a grin. He waves enthusiastically, then quickly excuses himself and begins weaving through the crowd.
“Oh, great,” Yelena sighs. “He’s coming over here.”
“You are here!” he exclaims, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I am so excited to see you. We have much to talk about.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “Hey, Alexei. Yelena was just telling me you’ve been doing some research.”
“Lots of research,” he confirms, setting his beer down on the table. “I know everything about mates. Ask me anything.”
Ignoring the sting of nerves rushing through your veins, you start to search for a safe question—something that won’t set your anxiety on fire.
“How do you know if you’ve met them?” Yelena cuts in before you can speak.
Alexei’s eyes light up. “Ah, good question. It is obvious. You cannot deny it once you meet them. It feels like gravity is gone, and they become your only tether to the earth. You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need water. You just need them.” He smiles proudly and nods at both of you. “Now ask me what happens when you touch them.”
You frown, curiosity getting the better of you. “What’s the difference? Between simply meeting them and touching them?”
“There is all the difference,” he says, frowning like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You see them, and yes, you know—but you still have choice. When you touch them, you cannot change mind. You can try, but it is too painful.”
You tilt your head. “Like... it actually hurts? Or it’s just emotionally difficult?”
“It physically hurts,” Yelena answers, and your gaze snaps to her. “You’ve acknowledged the connection, so you can’t go back to being without them. It feels like you’re being torn apart the further you try to get away.”
You raise your brows, surprised by her sudden expertise.
“What?” she snaps. “I was helping him use the computer, okay?”
You press your lips together to stifle a laugh and turn back to Alexei. “Okay, so what happens if you don’t like your mate?”
He scoffs, throwing his head back dramatically. “It is not possible. These two people are designed to be together, from birth. It is deeper than souls or magic. You cannot even describe it. There is no way two beings created for each other could possibly dislike one another.”
“Okay...” you say softly, “but what if you deny it?”
“Deny it?” he echoes. “You cannot—because you will not want to. The second you find them, you will ache for them in ways you cannot explain. No one else will ever fit. No one else will ever satisfy. You will crave them in your blood, in your breath. Denying it would be like trying to unmake the sky.”
His words knock the breath out of you for the second time in twenty-four hours. You nearly stumble back at their weight—at the way they land straight in your chest.
“This part is interesting too,” Alexei continues, ignoring the way your face has paled. “Before you meet them, you feel it.”
John appears beside you, setting his drink down on the table and eyeing Alexei with a frown. “What do you mean, feel it?”
“When you are close to meeting them, everything shifts,” he says. “Just a little. Sometimes it feels like anxiety. Sometimes it feels like peace. But always, it feels like something is happening—something inevitable. You start going places without knowing why, saying yes to things you would normally refuse. There is a pull in your gut, something telling you where to go. Like the universe is nudging you to where you are supposed to be.”
The words hang in the air, humming like static before a storm—until Yelena’s voice slices through the tension.
“Walker,” she snaps, frowning. “Where the hell is Bob?”
John blinks, taken aback. “I don’t know. I thought Ava was with him.”
You glance between the two blondes, blinking slowly. “Wait—Bob is here?”
“Yes,” Yelena says, clearly irritated. “He asked to come. Said he needed to be here—I don’t know. I felt bad saying no, he never leaves the tower.”
John exhales sharply. “I’ll go find him.”
Yelena turns to Alexei. “Can you go track down Ava? Let us know if she’s with him.”
“I’ll tell Bucky,” you say quickly, already moving as you slip away from the table and into the crowd.
You move through the crowd with steady purpose, weaving between glittering gowns and polished tuxedos, eyes scanning for that familiar face.
Bucky. You’re looking for Bucky.
The ballroom thrums behind you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low swell of music—but it all begins to blur. Your heartbeat picks up, not with panic, but with something else. Something you can’t name. A shift beneath your skin.
You slip through a side door, into a wide corridor draped in golden light. The hush is immediate, swallowing the noise of the party like a dream closing over waking thought. The silence buzzes in your ears, and the air feels... heavier. Thicker. Like the world had been holding its breath, and you just stepped into the exhale.
You walk slowly, drawn forward without thought. Each step echoes, like it belongs to someone else.
And then—you see him.
At the far end of the hallway, half-turned as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, stands a man. Tall. Tousled brown curls. Shoulders hunched just slightly in a way that says he doesn’t quite know how to fit inside his own skin. His head lifts as if sensing you, like a string inside him just snapped taut.
His eyes meet yours.
It’s not a lightning bolt. It’s not an explosion. It’s worse—or better. It’s everything. The moment stretches, distorts. A pressure builds in your chest, like gravity has decided to anchor you only to him.
You can’t breathe.
The world doesn’t blur—it sharpens. Every detail. The rise of his chest as he inhales, the exact shade of his deep blue eyes, the way his fingers twitch like they know something his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a long-lost note finally striking true.
Your mouth parts, but there’s nothing to say.
He takes a step forward, unsure. Almost afraid.
And you realise—you weren’t searching for Bucky. Not really.
You were being led to him.
“D-Do I know you?” His voice carries down the corridor—low, deep, wrapping around you like silk and smoke.
“No,” you whisper, even as every part of you screams yes.
He’s still a few feet away, and you’re not even sure he heard you—but his head tilts, just slightly, like he did. Then he takes a step. And another.
Drawn forward like the tide answering the moon.
His movements are slow, deliberate—like he’s caught in the pull of something he doesn’t understand, only knows he has to follow. Eyes locked to yours, wide and dark, shimmering with a quiet awe you can’t name.
He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to forget how to breathe. But you don’t need to breathe. Not now. Not when he’s here.
He is your oxygen. Your gravity.
He is everything you will ever need.
Everything you want.
He is everything.
“Hey—there you are.” The voice crashes into you like a wave shattering glass.
You jolt, snapping your head toward Bucky as he rounds the corner, a sheepish grin on his face, completely unaware of the world he’s just torn apart.
“Bucky,” you mutter, as if reminding yourself of his name.
Bucky frowns, curiosity sharpening his gaze as it flicks between you and the man beside you. “Bob?”
You whip back to Bob, eyes widening at his outstretched hand—fingertips hovering just a breath from your arm.
You flinch as if burned, stepping back before he can touch you—and his eyes snap up, darkening with something raw and wounded. The crack in your chest widens, because you feel it too. The sting of refusal. The ache of distance. The desperate, inexplicable need to feel his skin against yours—a need neither of you understands, but both feel deep in your bones.
“What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice is tight as his eyes settle on you.
You meet his gaze, a sharp pang of guilt slicing through your chest—because the face you love isn’t the one your heart seeks anymore. Your eyes? They’re drawn only to Bob. To memorise every line, to trace every curve. To know him more intimately than your own reflection, more deeply than the shadows behind your closed eyelids.
“I was—I, uh—looking for you,” you say, forcing your gaze to stay with him.
His posture stiffens, guarded—something you know all too well after years together. His brow furrows as his sharp eyes dart between you and Bob. He can sense it—whatever it is. The shift in gravity, the subtle movement beneath the earth. He knows there’s something more, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.
He fixes his gaze on you. “Are you okay?”
You nod slowly, then glance at Bob—you can’t help yourself—and it feels like surfacing from deep underwater, finally able to breathe. “Bob,” you whisper.
Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Of course. You two haven’t met yet.”
He wraps an arm around your waist and Bob’s eyes flare with heat—anger. He moves as if to shove Bucky away, but you find his gaze and silently plead for restraint.
You swear his eyes darken a shade, but he holds back. Jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—tense—but no longer coiled to strike.
“Bob,” Bucky says, eyes flickering between the two of you—clearly not missing the silent exchange or the way Bob’s body tensed. “This is my fiancé.”
Time stops—or at least, it feels that way. Bob’s eyes don’t leave yours, that same wounded look returning—only now, it’s splintered into something far more devastating. Like he’d caught a glimpse of heaven—just for a moment—before being ripped from the sky and cast down. Down through the clouds, through the earth, all the way into fire.
He was so close. So close to having everything. To having you.
Now all that’s left is ash in his mouth, and a slow, burning fury aimed at the man standing beside you. A man he calls a friend. A teammate.
“I need to go,” you whisper. “I—I feel sick.”
Bucky’s arm tightens protectively around you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You shake your head, eyes stinging. “I need to leave. Can we go—” your voice breaks as you glance up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, “—please.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take you home, doll.” Then he turns to Bob. “Yelena’s looking for you. Come on.”
Bucky guides you back through the same door you’d slipped through earlier, back into the chaos of the ballroom. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all feels like it’s coming from underwater. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that your axis has tilted.
A few guests nod or greet Bucky as he passes, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel the way you’re swaying beside him, the way your weight leans harder against him with every step. He’s moving fast now. He knows something’s wrong.
So do you.
Your vision swims. The lights blur into streaks of gold and silver, voices folding into one another like crashing waves.
Somewhere in the distance, you hear Yelena. Then Alexei. Then—Bob.
Bob.
You spot him behind Yelena, eyes wide and wounded, standing like a ghost at the edge of your unravelling world.
He’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos.
The only thing that’s clear.
And all you want to do is reach for him.
But you can’t.
Not here. Not now.
Not ever.
Because you love Bucky.
Because you chose Bucky.
“Bucky,” you murmur, barely audible, “Need t’ go…”
His arm tightens again. “I’ve got you.”
“Is she okay?” Yelena’s voice cuts through the noise.
“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need to get her out of here—now.”
You try to blink, but your eyes don’t open again.
The music and chatter twist into a storm—deafening, chaotic, pounding against your skull.
You try to move, to breathe, to see—but nothing works.
Your eyelids are too heavy.
Your lungs feel like they’re filling with water.
Your chest is caving in under the weight of it.
Everything is too heavy. Too loud. Too much.
Then—
The world cuts out.
Everything stops.
-
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yelena’s voice is muffled, but still clear.
“Keep it down,” Bucky hisses, his voice low—laced with urgency and… grief.
“I came here to ask if you knew what happened to Bob last night, because he’s been acting weirder than usual,” Yelena snaps, no softer than before. “But I did not come here for bullshit—I get enough of that from Alexei.”
Bucky exhales a long, tired breath. “Maybe we need to talk to Alexei.”
“Why the hell would we do that?” Yelena demands. “Whatever he’s been on about these past few days isn’t real. He’s off with the fairies—literally. Do not tell me you actually believe in all that stupid soulmate crap.”
There’s a pause. A thick, heavy silence as you try to peel your eyelids open. But you can’t. They’re too heavy.
“You didn’t see what I saw, Yelena,” Bucky says, voice strained. “The way they looked at each other... it felt—I don’t know. Like something cracked open. They were just standing there, but it was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I could feel it—the whole world shifting.”
“You sound like Alexei,” Yelena replies, deadpan. “So you’re either on drugs, hit your head, or you’re trying to be funny.”
“Why would I joke about the woman I love being inextricably bound to another man?”
Your eyes snap open. Heat licks up your spine and burns behind your eyes as your vision adjusts to the harsh morning sun.
“Okay. So, drugs. Or you bumped your head,” Yelena says, voice carrying through your bedroom door.
“Yelena,” Bucky pleads, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what happened, but I know something did. I need your help.”
She sighs. “Okay, fine. But you asked for this.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I’ll call Alexei.”
Your mouth is dry and your whole body aches with stiffness as you sit up, rubbing at your burning eyes. The sun through the window is too low and too bright for it to be your usual wake-up time—so you know you’ve overslept.
You throw back the duvet and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, curling your toes into the plush carpet you and Bucky picked out together. You’d chosen it the second you stepped into the flooring store. The saleswoman warned you off it—something about loose threads and visible tread marks—but it was just so unbelievably soft, you couldn’t imagine choosing anything else.
The day it was installed, you and Bucky spent the first fifteen minutes making carpet angels, laughing like idiots, and revelling in the feel of it beneath your skin. Then you spent the next hour defiling the brand-new flooring. There’s still a stain you never managed to get out—thankfully hidden beneath the bed.
Your stomach twists with nausea, bile climbing your throat until you gag. You scramble to your feet and rush into the ensuite, gripping the basin for dear life as you cough up nothing but stomach acid.
Tears well up, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks before your mind can even catch up.
You feel wrecked. Totally and utterly ruined. Chewed up and spat out by the universe.
You don’t understand anything. It’s like you’ve been dropped into the centre of the labyrinth without a torch. But there’s a rope inside your gut—tugging, steady and sure—pulling you in a direction that promises escape. Only, it’s not leading you toward where you should be going. Not to Bucky.
No, the rope is dragging you toward someone else. Your mate. The man from last night. Bob. The only thing your body seems to crave.
“Fuck,” you mutter, letting your heavy eyelids fall shut as you slowly straighten.
You avoid your reflection in the mirror as you strip off and step into the shower. You can’t look at yourself right now. You’re not just confused—you’re scared. Something inside you has changed, irrevocably. And you know that the moment you admit it, you’ll lose the power to stop it.
Once you’re showered and slightly less of a wreck, you wrap yourself in a comfortable pair of sweats and an old hoodie—one you haven’t worn in a while, since you usually prefer to steal Bucky’s. But not today. You tried to put on one of his sweaters, but the smell made you gag. And then you started crying again. Because yesterday, his scent was one of the most comforting things in the world to you. But not anymore.
Now, all you can think about is Bob—where he is, what he’s doing. And you know he’s thinking about you too. You can feel it.
After another few minutes of tears, you dry your cheeks and take a deep breath before stepping out of the bedroom and padding down the hall. When you reach the lounge room, the low chatter dies instantly, and three pairs of eyes turn to you—wide and full of concern.
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brows drawn tight. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze.
“You do not look great,” Alexei says flatly.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Alexei. She knows.”
You curl up on the far end of the three-seater lounge, putting as much distance as possible between you and Yelena. Bucky is on the two-seater, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexei is perched on one of the dining room chairs with his back to the TV.
It’s on, but the volume is muted.
“So,” your eyes flick toward Yelena, “what’s all this about?”
She sighs, her gaze darting to Bucky before settling back on you. “I came over to ask Barnes if he knew what happened to Bob last night, because he was acting strange—stranger than usual. But instead, I get told a bunch of bullshit about this ridiculous soulmates thing that Alexei has been going on about. And now I’m being forced to entertain the idea that it might be real. So... explain.”
You frown. “Explain what?”
“Whatever happened with you and Bob last night,” she says, waving a hand like the answer should be obvious.
You blink a few times, brows pulling tighter as you glance down. The room thickens with silence, tension rising in the air. The only sound is Alexei’s heavy breathing.
“What do you mean... he was acting strange?” you ask softly.
Yelena sighs again, tipping her head as if searching for the right words. “He was... weirdly calm. And not the kind of quiet, anxiety-ridden, dissociative ‘calm’ he usually is. He was actually peaceful. It was kind of alarming. So Ava stayed up all night to keep watch. We thought it might be the ‘calm before the storm’—you know, before one of his other personalities came out to play—but... nothing. He went to bed and slept. No noise, no darkness. Ava even phased into his room to check he was still there. And he was—sleeping peacefully.” She pauses. “He was... talking, though. Kept saying your name.”
You swallow—hard. “My name?”
She nods.
“Okay,” you mutter. “That doesn’t really mean... anything.” You glance at Alexei, like he might save you. “Right?”
“Doll,” Bucky says softly, voice tight, eyes still locked on the floor. “You were sayin’ his name all night too.”
You choke on nothing. Your chest tightens, lungs aching, heart leaping into an erratic rhythm.
“Alexei,” Yelena says sharply, turning toward her father. “Assuming this ridiculousness is real—how do we know for sure?”
Alexei raises his brows, eyes fixed on you. “She knows. And so does Bob. There is no magical way of asking the universe. They just know.”
Yelena’s head snaps back to you, her eyes wide, expectant. “So?”
A few silent tears slip down your cheeks, and you blink quickly, trying to keep the whole dam from breaking.
“Oh,” she murmurs, rearing back slightly. “I’m sorry.”
You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Why are you sorry?”
She shrugs. “For being harsh, I guess? I don’t know. I’m just... confused. It’s hard to believe any of this is real, but—”
“Why else would it affect them so much?” Alexei cuts in, gesturing toward you. “Whether or not you believe it, you cannot deny something has happened. Look at her. You think this is what happens when she simply meets someone new? Of course not—that would be crazy.”
“Couldn’t it be something else?” Yelena presses, brows knit. “Like, maybe Bob’s powers just—”
“You said it yourself,” Bucky interrupts, “he’s been better lately—especially last night. You really think that’s a coincidence?”
“Did not the crazy lady say it to you?” Alexei asks, eyes locking on you. “That you and your mate were something special?”
You nod slowly, sniffing and wiping the wetness from your cheeks. A beat of silence stretches between the four of you as you try to compose yourself, pressing down the guilt and that strange new sensation pulling you toward your mate.
“So... what do we do?” you ask, your voice hoarse as it slices through the quiet. “How do we stop it?”
“Stop it?” Alexei echoes. “You do not stop it. It’s not possible.”
Your bottom lip quivers. “But Bucky—”
“This isn’t about me,” Bucky says, eyes dark as he finally looks up. “If Bob could control himself after just meeting her, then this could be—this could help him control his powers. He might be able to use them without the other two showing up.”
You frown, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he turns to Yelena. “She could help him. This could help the whole the team.”
Frustration bubbles beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire through your veins and making your heart pound. “This isn’t about the team, Bucky,” you snap. “This is about you and me.”
Nausea swirls low in your gut, your body physically rebelling at your own words—this attempt to reject your mate. Because you don’t want to. Not really. But you know you should. You chose Bucky. And you’re going to stick with that.
Even if it kills you.
“Barnes...” Yelena says softly. “I’m not sure if—”
“This isn’t about me!” he exclaims, turning toward her sharply, his expression stormy. “Not anymore.”
You watch him with wide, watery eyes. “Bucky. Please. I don’t—I don’t want this... I don’t—” Your voice catches, breath halting as you fight for the words. “I don’t want... him.” It burns to say it, but you know it’s what Bucky needs to hear. “I want you. I choose you.”
His face softens, blue eyes turning almost cerulean—the way they do when he’s close to tears.
You turn to Alexei. “Couldn’t I just... help Bob? Be there for him to help control his powers and—and still be with Bucky?”
Alexei chuckles—low and soft, full of quiet contrition. “You could try. But it would be difficult... being so close to him, wanting him in a way you cannot explain, and holding yourself back. Not to mention the physical and emotional pain you would put him through.”
“So,” Yelena pipes up, “this could make Bob worse?”
Alexei shrugs. “Theoretically, yes.”
“Can’t we just try it?” you ask, your voice cracking halfway through as more tears spill down your cheeks.
Yelena scoots closer and gently places her hand on your knee. She’s not entirely sure what to do—your body language is still guarded—but you offer her a soft smile as her thumb begins to trace small, calming circles.
“We can try it,” she says quietly.
Bucky nods, watching you with a heavy expression and the faintest spark of hope behind his eyes. “It’s worth a shot.”
Alexei leans forward, his eyes crinkled and mouth pulling into an awkward grimace. “Well... there is one more thing.”
You all turn toward him, frowning.
“Do you remember what I said last night? About... it being different when you touch?”
You nod slowly.
“If you want to try just being his friend, then you cannot touch him,” he says. “Not at all. And you will want to—badly. But you cannot.”
Yelena lifts a brow. “Why?”
There’s a pause—an awkward silence while Alexei searches for the right words.
“You will not be able to... resist, as you say. When you first see him, it is all spiritual. Like fate. An invisible string pulling you together, but...” he hesitates, brow furrowed. “When you touch, it is more... physical.”
You suck in a sharp breath. “Physical?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Like... sexual. You will not be able to—”
“No, no,” Yelena cuts in, eyes wide as they flick toward Bucky. “We do not need to unpack this. She just won’t touch him.” She looks at you pointedly. “Right?”
You nod. “Exactly.”
Never mind that your fingertips are already burning. That your whole body is buzzing, restless with the ache to be near Bob again. The idea of his skin against yours sparks like a live wire and makes every nerve ending flare to life. You feel lit up—like something dormant inside you has snapped awake. Like a part of you was missing, and now that you’ve found it—felt it—you can’t breathe without it.
Yeah... this is going to be fine.
-
The day has been long. Maybe the longest you’ve ever lived through.
You tried to read. You tried watching TV. You even went for a run—which turned into a walk, which turned into a slow lap around the block before you forced yourself back inside. Because all you really wanted to do was find Bob. Go to him. Be near him.
It’s strange. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You know him—somehow. Like he already belongs to you, and you to him, even though you’ve only met once. Barely exchanged a handful of words.
Your whole body aches for him in a way you don’t understand. You feel like you’re fading without him, like staying away too long might cause you to unravel entirely. The idea of never seeing him again makes your stomach churn.
But you can’t let it show. You have to remember you chose Bucky. He’s your person—not this stranger with eyes that feel like home. You gave your word. You said yes.
So you’re going to marry Bucky.
Even if it’s not what you want anymore.
Even if he’s not what you want anymore.
“You sure you’re feeling better?” Bucky asks, stopping at the door to the bathroom.
You’ve been standing in a towel, staring at your reflection for at least five minutes now, trying to will yourself into being stronger. To shake this feeling. To silence the strange, restless hum beneath your skin—like stardust catching fire. Like gravity itself has shifted, bending around you, pulling your soul toward Bob’s with a force so fierce it almost hurts.
You clear your throat. “Much better, I promise.”
He gives you a small smile—weak, but still there.
There’s a beat of silence. A stretch of unfamiliar energy between you, tense and fraying at the edges. As if the universe itself is rejecting the bond you once believed was written in the stars.
But the stars had nothing to do with you and Bucky. Not really.
Now you know what it truly feels like when the stars choose. When they bind one soul to another.
“I love you,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “Regardless of everything. Whatever you choose—I love you. I always will.”
Your eyes fill with tears—easily, instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I wish I could—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, nearly choking on the word. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“But—”
“Doll, I’m serious.” He steps forward, hesitating before reaching out with his flesh hand. You take it, and he gently pulls you a step closer.
“I know what I said before—about the team. That shouldn’t have been what I was worried about. But it was easier, you know? Easier to focus on something practical than to face the truth. Which is… I think I’m going to lose you.”
You shake your head, tears already spilling. “No, you’re not—”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a tight, sad smile. “Maybe it’s meant to happen. Like… literally written in the stars, right? And if being away from him is hurting you, I won’t be the one who makes you stay. That’s the last thing I want.”
He looks away, jaw working, before he meets your eyes again. “So just… forgive me. If I shut down. If I don’t know how to deal with this. If I can’t always stick around when—if—you choose him.” His voice trembles. “Because it’s going to hurt, doll. More than I probably know how to handle. But I meant what I said—I’ll let you go.”
He blinks fast, but a few tears escape anyway, carving slow trails across his cheeks. “If that’s what’s right—for you, for him, for fate or the universe or whatever this is—then I won’t fight it.”
He pauses, breathing deep.
“But you have to promise me something.” His voice steadies, just a little. “Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t settle. Don’t lie to yourself just because you made a promise before everything changed. Before you knew what this really was. Can you promise me that?”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as you try not to scream. All you can do is nod.
“Good,” he whispers, his fingers brushing the ring on your left hand.
Then he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek.
A sob breaks free from your chest, more tears falling fast as he slowly turns and walks away—leaving you standing there, crying for what feels like the thousandth time today.
Not because you don’t love him.
But because you don’t want him.
And you hate yourself for that. Hate that you’re doing this to him.
But there’s nothing in you strong enough to stop it. So all you can do now is try not to hurt him more than you already have. Try to make it work.
Which is exactly why you’re going to the tower tonight.
To see Bob. To talk to Bob.
Because this thing—whatever it is—it involves him too.
And that’s something everyone else seems to have forgotten.
After drying your eyes—and then your body—you change into a fresh pair of sweats and another old hoodie. You pull on a pair of sneakers, run a brush through your hair, and head out the door. You don’t care about looking good right now. You don’t even care about looking decent. You just want to see Bob.
The walk to the tower is quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to hold your hand, and you don’t notice until you’re standing outside the looming building—when nerves start to creep in and you suddenly wish you had something to hold on to.
You glance his way, mouth parting—to ask for his hand, for comfort—but then you feel it.
That pull.
It threads through you like a live current, drawing you forward, calling to you like a heartbeat echoing in someone else’s chest. Like the ache of a memory you’ve never lived.
“You ready?” Bucky asks softly.
But his voice barely reaches you. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking from another room—or underwater. Muffled beneath the steady thrum of your pulse.
You nod, eyes fixed ahead as you step through the doors. Into the elevator.
You wait—still, silent—breath caught in your chest.
Then the doors open.
The moment you step into the common room, the air changes.
Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are gathered near the TV, the low hum of a movie playing as they speak in hushed tones—careful, like they’re trying not to break something fragile. But none of them are the first thing you see.
It’s Bob.
He’s sitting alone on the far couch, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely as he stares at nothing in particular. Like he’s been waiting in stillness. Like he knew.
His head lifts before you even take a full step into the room.
The moment your eyes meet, the rest of the world exhales. Or maybe it holds its breath—you can’t tell. All you know is that everything inside you goes quiet. The noise, the ache, the confusion—it all stills beneath the gravity of him. The pull.
You don’t move at first. Neither does he. It’s like your souls got there before your bodies could catch up. Like the space between you is still catching fire.
And then, gently, you walk toward him. Just a few steps. He rises slowly, hands by his sides, eyes locked on yours with a look so open, so raw, it nearly undoes you.
No one speaks.
Not until Ava lets out a soft, wide-eyed breath from the couch. “Holy shit.”
The others glance between you and Bob, exchanging looks, but no one interrupts. No jokes. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of people who have just witnessed something that feels... bigger.
You stop in front of him. Close, but not touching. His breath hitches. Yours does too.
Still, neither of you says a word.
You don’t need to.
Because whatever this is—this ancient, aching thing that lives between your ribs and beneath your skin—it’s speaking loud enough for both of you.
Yelena clears her throat, gaze lingering on Bucky. “Okay… yeah. I get it now.”
You blink rapidly, like you’ve just slammed back into your body after falling out of it. Slowly, you step back, eyes flicking toward the rest of the team—but refusing to snap straight back to Bob.
“This is crazy,” Alexei says, his grin so wide and his eyes so bright it looks like he might actually combust.
John pulls a face, nose wrinkled, confusion and mild disgust written all over him. “I can, like… feel it too.” He looks at you, alarmed. “Why?”
You shrug, breath caught in your throat, your voice nowhere to be found.
There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with the weight of unspoken words and the flood of questions swirling through everyone’s minds.
Then John claps his hands together, loud and abrupt. “Okay, so… how do we figure out if she can control him?”
That snaps the room back into motion.
“I don’t think it works like that,” Ava mutters, folding her arms.
“How the hell would you know?” John fires back.
Alexei lifts a brow. “She is not here to control Bob.”
“Oh. Okay. Did you read that in one of your magic manuals?” John scoffs.
“Walker, please,” Yelena sighs. “Now is not the time to argue.”
They start talking over one another, voices rising and overlapping like a wave about to crash.
And then—
“Wait.”
The single word is soft. Barely audible.
Bob.
Everyone turns, and the room falls back into a heavy silence.
He shifts slightly on his feet, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the floor for a beat before flickering up to you. His voice is uncertain, but steady enough. “I… I’m confused.”
There’s a pause.
“What do you mean?” Yelena asks gently.
Bob swallows, glancing around the room before his gaze returns to you.
“Well… whatever this is, I feel it. I know it. I know—” His voice falters as he looks at you again, softer now, “I know you. You’re… mine.”
You don’t flinch. You don’t look away.
He blinks, grounding himself.
“But… I don’t understand what’s happening. Why it’s happening. Or… what you’re all talking about.”
You open your mouth, but Bucky speaks first, stepping forward.
“She’s not staying,” he says quietly, almost scared to say it out loud. “Not really. She’s… choosing me.”
Bob’s brows pull together, dark blue eyes widening.
“I mean… she’s here to help,” Yelena jumps in, a little too quickly. “Just to help. While we figure things out.”
“Help,” Bob repeats, like he’s trying to fit the word into a sentence that doesn’t quite work.
You finally speak, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Not completely. But I also… I made a promise. And right now, I’m trying to keep it.”
Bob’s eyes search yours—not angry. Not desperate. Just… aching with the effort of holding something too big for his hands.
And somehow, that’s what hurts the most.
Because those words taste like acid in your mouth. Burning your tongue like white-hot lies.
You don’t want to keep your promise—not now. Not when he is standing there, looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. You don’t want to walk away to protect someone else, even if that someone else has your heart in his hands too.
All you want is this. Him. The man in front of you.
You want to hold him. To reach across the impossible space between you and wrap your fingers around his and never let go. To tell him that whatever force carved your souls from the same star had it right. That you don’t care about the plan or the past or the path you promised to walk.
You just want to stay.
You want to lace your soul into words and place them in his hands.
To tell him that you’ll keep him safe.
That you’ll be the light when his world goes dark.
That you’ll be steady when everything else shakes apart.
That he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
That you’re his.
Because you are. You always were. Even before you knew.
And walking away from that feels like trying to cut the sky in half and pretend the stars won’t notice.
“I—I don’t understand,” Bob says, his voice firmer now, edged with something darker. Something dangerous. “She doesn’t want this.”
You exhale sharply, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “Bob, please.”
His eyes snap to you, wide and shining with everything he can’t bring himself to say. But you don’t need words. You don’t need promises. You just need him.
“You don’t want this,” he repeats, softer now. Almost broken.
You swallow hard. “I do. This is what I’m… choosing.”
His brow pulls tight. “Why?”
“I made a promise,” you say again, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “And I want to keep it.”
You don’t.
“But I’ll still be here when you need me. We can still… be together. Just… not completely.”
Bob’s eyes shift to Bucky, dark blue bleeding into molten silver. “She’s choosing you?”
The energy in the room changes again.
The air goes still. No static hum. No crackle of power. Just… silence.
Heavy and unnatural—like being buried underwater. A crushing pressure that squeezes your lungs until you forget how to breathe.
Bob’s jaw tightens. You can see it—feel it—in the tension radiating off him. In the flicker of silver that sharpens, flares, then fades again in his eyes.
“You’re lying,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
“I can feel you,” he continues, voice raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “That’s what this is, right? This connection? I feel you, and you feel me. So I know you don’t want this.”
“Bob—”
His hands clench into fists at his sides. “No. Don’t say it again. Don’t say it’s your choice. Don’t say it’s a promise. Because that’s not what you’re feeling.” His voice cracks, then drops into something lower. Rougher. “You want me. I know you do.”
A faint pulse of cold slips through the room—sharp and unnatural, like a draft from somewhere that shouldn’t exist. It kisses your skin, raises every hair on your arms, and sinks deeper, like ice threading through bone.
Ava shifts her weight uneasily. John glances toward Bucky, tense.
“I don’t understand,” Bob says again, and this time his voice is breaking. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you choosing something that hurts you? That hurts us?”
You open your mouth, but the words aren’t there. They’ve drowned somewhere in your throat, tangled in the ache behind your ribs.
“I can feel your heart,” he whispers, silver light blooming behind his irises again. “And it’s breaking.”
There’s a pause. A beat where no one dares to speak. No one breathes.
Then Yelena steps forward, her voice steady. “Bob, please. You need to—”
But he cuts her off, eyes flashing silver as his anger sharpens, gaze snapping to Bucky. “Why won’t you let her go?”
Bucky swallows and takes a step back, his blue eyes wide and watery, flicking between you and Bob. “I—”
“She’s not yours,” Bob says, his voice so deep it echoes through the room—through your mind. “You can’t keep her.”
The room tenses. Silence coils thick around you, something ethereal seeping into the air like gasoline waiting for a spark.
“Bob,” Yelena tries again, louder now, more urgent. “You need to calm down. Now.”
You glance at the floor—at Bob’s feet. Shadows crawl across them, creeping upward, inch by inch, slowly consuming him.
Panic flickers across his face. He knows he’s slipping. The power inside him swells—cold, fierce, pressing outward.
His breath comes faster, fists trembling. “I’m… I’m sorry—”
The air snaps, taut like a wire pulled too tight. His power spirals, wild and uncontained, slicing through the room in jagged bursts like shards of ice.
The darkness creeps higher with every breath, swallowing him slow—leaving nothing in its wake but shadow, nothing but void.
“This was supposed to help,” John snaps. “She was supposed to help him, not make it worse!”
Alexei steps forward, eyes locked on you. “You need to go to him.”
You shake your head, slow and small, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I—I can’t.”
Ava backs away, her body flickering as she prepares to phase.
“Bob, look at me,” Yelena says, steady but firm. “Breathe. You are not alone.”
But his eyes stay on you. That look—raw heartbreak etched into every line of his face, love twisted with fear and confusion—
It fractures something inside of you.
“We need to get out of here,” Ava calls from a few feet away.
John starts backing up, his eyes wide and locked on Bob—as if waiting for a sign to turn and run.
“We cannot leave him,” Alexei says. “We go in, if we have to.”
“Bob,” Yelena pleads. “You’ve got this. Please. You can control this.”
Everything starts to blur.
The shouting becomes a wall of noise, voices crashing over each other, words slurring until they’re nothing but static—a low, violent hum in your ears. The blood rushes louder. Your head throbs, a sickening, rhythmic pounding like your skull is splitting apart from the inside out.
You want to scream.
You want to tear at your skin just to feel something real, to make the pain physical—tangible—because at least that would make sense. You want to tell them all to shut up. To stop talking. To just let you breathe.
You want to drop to your knees and scream into the void until it spits him back out.
Bob.
Bob, whose body is almost completely swallowed by shadow.
Bob, whose eyes—silver and scared—are locked on yours, pleading. Begging.
Bob, who holds your heart in his shaking hands. Who owns your soul, even now. Even as you’re walking away from him.
The one thing you need… and the one thing you’re denying yourself.
And for what?
For the heart of someone else? For a promise that was never meant to cost this much?
You would burn the whole damn world to save him.
You’d tear the universe apart just to keep from breaking that heart.
But this? This is breaking yours too.
Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos—barely louder than a whisper, but somehow it reaches you. Steady, but breaking.
“It’s okay,” he says, eyes locked on yours even as his own brim with tears. “Go to him. I’ll be okay.”
You shake your head, lips trembling, a silent protest caught in your throat. But deep down, you know he means it. You feel it—the weight of his acceptance, the way he's choosing love over possession. Choosing you, even if it breaks him.
“I don’t want to let you go. God, I don’t. But I can’t be the reason he breaks.”
Your chest aches so deeply it nearly folds you in half. But there’s something else there too—something small and warm and unspeakably grateful. You don’t deserve this kind of kindness. But he’s giving it anyway.
“You still have a part of me. Always will.” His voice falters, but his eyes stay soft. “But he needs all of you right now. And I… I just want you to be safe.”
A sound escapes your throat, half a sob, half his name. You take a shaky breath, tears sliding down your cheeks as you step toward him—not to stay, but to say thank you without words.
His smile is soft. Cracked around the edges. Brave in the way only someone who’s breaking can be.
“It’s okay. I promise.”
You nod once. Swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes shut—steadying yourself. Then turn back toward him.
Bob, who’s almost gone—his form nearly swallowed by the creeping dark, his features carved in flickers of silver and shadow. He stands there like a man on the edge of oblivion, barely tethered to this world. Just a silhouette of the boy you love, wrapped in light and ruin.
His eyes find yours, and for a second, everything stills.
Even now, almost lost to the void, he sees you. Only you.
You take a step forward, your body trembling with the weight of it all—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable ache of loving something you might be too late to save.
“Bob,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a lifeline.
The darkness claws higher, curling up his neck like smoke. But his eyes—those bright, breaking eyes—shine through it all. The fear in them cuts through you like a blade. Not fear of what’s happening to him.
Fear that you won’t come.
That you’ll leave.
That he’ll lose you, too.
“It’s okay,” you say—to him or yourself, you’re not sure.
You lift your hand and move forward, closing the space with slow and careful steps—like one wrong move could shatter the world.
One step, then another—until you’re standing toe to toe with him. The shadow writhes beneath your feet, hungry and alive, but the moment you enter his space, it curls back. Like it knows you. Like it fears you.
Or maybe it just recognises what he loves.
The air is ice. He’s trembling. His face—barely visible now—flickers in and out of shadow like a dying flame. You reach for him, slow and sure, your fingers brushing the centre of his chest.
Right over his heart.
And the darkness parts.
Just slightly—splitting like oil pulled from water, leaving a sliver of fabric beneath your touch. His heart stutters. Yours lurches.
Then you press your palm flat.
And a soft light blooms.
Not blinding, not loud—just a soft, golden glow that seeps from beneath your hand like a memory. Gentle and warm. It spreads slow, steady. The shadow recoils, peeling back inch by inch, retreating from the light, from you.
Everything stops.
The void is gone.
Your ears are filled with the sound of your own pulse as you stare into those dark blue eyes—like the ocean kissed the sky and gave birth to this colour just for him.
He looks so fragile now. So tired. Wrecked not just by the strain of his powers, but by the weight of you. Of your touch. Your choice.
You, choosing him.
For a moment, you just stare at each other—memorising every line, every flicker of emotion—though you already know his face by heart. You’ve always known him. In dreams. In shadows. In the quiet corners of your mind. Drifting through memories and half-sleep, like your souls were stitched together before time ever started.
Always there. Always waiting.
“You okay?” you whisper, your voice faint, barely real.
He nods.
Then you collapse into him, arms winding around his waist, clinging like you’ll never let go.
And you won’t.
Not ever.
There’s still guilt. A lingering ache for the hurt you’ve caused. A hollow echo of someone else’s heart breaking.
But right now, all you feel is Bob. His arms around you, pulling you in like a lifeline. His face tucked into your neck, curls brushing your skin like a secret only he gets to know.
All you want is Bob.
All you need is Bob.
You can’t believe you ever thought you could live without this.
Without him.
Trying to choose someone else would’ve destroyed you. You see that now.
You feel it.
At some point, you shift to the couch. The others are gone—when exactly, you’re not sure—but you’re grateful. You need space. Time. And Bob needs rest.
Which he finally gets. For a few hours.
You settle at one end, sinking into the soft cushions, with Bob’s head resting in your lap. His arms wrap around your thigh like a vice—steady strength even in sleep. You play with his curls, trace the line of his jaw, and rub gentle circles along his back as he drifts.
You’re exhausted, but sleep eludes you. You don’t want to waste a single second with him. Never before have you wanted someone so fiercely. All you need is to feel him here—safe, alive, with you.
So you stay awake. Occasionally you shift, easing pins and needles or aching muscles, but Bob barely stirs. He nuzzles into your lap, your lower belly, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unravelling.
It should feel strange, wrong even. But nothing has ever felt more right.
You know this man better than you know yourself—of that, you are certain—and no part of you hesitates or doubts. This is real. The most real thing you’ve ever known.
You know it’ll be complicated. Awkward with the team, even more so with Bucky. You’ll have to hide it from the world for a while. But none of it matters—not one bit—when the boy in your lap breathes softly against your skin. His lashes dark on flushed cheeks, lips parted with a stray drop of drool on your thigh, and that aching, desperate pull in your chest growing stronger with every breath.
He sleeps until the sun starts to set, and you stay with him. At one point, you turn on the TV and pick a random movie, but your eyes rarely leave Bob. You don’t need him to wake—you’re perfectly content just being near him—but when his lashes finally flutter open, your breath still catches.
He stretches slowly, shifting against you like a cat basking in the sun all day. Then he rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips.
“You stayed,” he murmurs.
You nod.
Without him, your body feels cold, but you resist the urge to cling to him. He needs space to wake fully, to stretch his limbs and shake off the last vestiges of sleep.
“Where are the others?” he asks.
You shrug. “Not sure. They’ve been gone all day.”
He nods slowly. “Did you—Did you leave at all?”
“No,” you say softly. “Stayed right here.”
He shifts closer, one hand finding yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—as if his hands have known yours for years.
His brow creases. “You must be starving.”
You bite your bottom lip, weighing up your next response. Because yes, you’re hungry—but there’s something else you’re craving. Something more urgent, more raw than anything you’ve ever known. Something you need more than you want. Something Alexei warned you about, and you didn’t quite believe—until now. Now it claws at your chest, primal and fierce, relentless and aching.
“There’s… something else,” you say slowly. “I don’t know if you—”
“I do,” he cuts in.
Your lips part, breath catching in quick, uneven gasps as you hold his gaze—captivated, utterly pinned by the raw hunger burning in his eyes.
His brows lift ever so slightly, a subtle twitch—a silent question hanging in the air. You nod.
Then he moves forward, hands cupping your jaw—careful but urgent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real.
The world fractures—time fractures—and everything narrows to a single, blazing point where your lips slam together with the force of a thousand storms.
It’s raw. Fierce. Like the universe just exploded inside your chest.
His mouth devours yours—claiming, desperate—fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You burn and tremble, caught in a tidal wave of need and relief that steals your breath.
The air hums with electricity, silence shattered by ragged gasps and the wild pounding of your hearts—syncing, breaking, snapping together like a sacred, unspoken vow breaking free.
Every nerve screams alive, every touch sending sparks crashing like fireworks. It’s hot, heavy, frantic—a beautiful chaos that feels like coming home after being lost forever.
You taste everything—fire, desperation, the sharp tang of longing—and drown in it, surrendering to the moment where nothing else exists but this.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads collide, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. His eyes are dark, wild, shattered open, and in that look, you know this bond has broken through every barrier, every shadow, every doubt.
You’re his.
And he’s yours.
“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough, cracking, as his hands slip beneath your shirt.
“I know,” you breathe, arching into him, trembling. “I need you too.”
-
“Do we have to?” Bob sighs, face buried in the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your bare skin.
You giggle, placing a kiss to his shoulder, perfectly content beneath the weight of his body—his completely naked body.
“I mean,” you murmur, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, “you’re already late. Is there really any point in going at all?”
He lifts his head, deep blue eyes shining with adoration as he looks at you. “Exactly,” he says, soft lips twitching. “Besides, I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do.”
He shifts, and you feel it—hard and heavy, pressing insistently against your lower belly.
Your lips curl into a smirk, heat blooming low and hot between your thighs. “And what exactly might these other things entail?”
He chuckles, sliding down slightly, tracing his tongue between the valley of your breasts.
“So many things,” he murmurs against your skin, “all of them involving me inside of you… in one way or another.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth wraps around your nipple, drawing a breathy sigh from your lips. “That sounds…” you gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive bud, “very good.”
He looks up again, lips parting from your skin as he gives you a soft, boyish smile. His eyes are bright—almost pale blue in the morning light spilling through the windows—and he looks so damn pretty. His curls are mussed, his cheeks are pink, and his skin is pressed flush against yours in the most delicious way. Even after weeks of having him—weeks of giving yourself to him in every possible way—you still can’t get enough.
“Does that mean we’re staying?” he asks, hands gliding up your ribs toward your breasts.
You giggle, flinching at the ticklish drag of his fingertips across your bare skin. There’s nothing you want more than to stay right here with him—forever. You don’t care if his teammates are waiting. You don’t even care if they blame you for holding him hostage. All you want is to stay tangled up with Bob until something human forces you to stop devouring each other—either sleep or hunger, the usual culprits.
“Yeah,” you whisper, a dopey, lovesick smile curling your lips, “we’re staying… but on one condition.”
His brow furrows, and he sits up a little further, his hard cock grinding against you in the most distracting way.
“Bob,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, hands flying to his shoulders to hold him still.
He laughs softly, low and cheeky. “Yes?”
“I need you to fuck me,” you say, cheeks flushing pink—despite the fact that he literally just did, not five minutes ago. “Again,” you add. “And again, until I can’t walk.”
When your eyes open, you find his—dark and hungry, a stark contrast to the sweet, boyish softness from just seconds ago.
“And then I want pancakes,” you say with a small smirk.
His lips curve before he surges up and crushes his mouth to yours. Your chest aches. Your stomach swirls. Every coherent thought in your head vanishes. You’ve kissed Bob hundreds—maybe thousands—of times by now, and still, every kiss is earth-shattering. Every kiss steals your breath, stops your heart, and reminds you that this man was made for you.
“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.
You let out a breathless sigh as he trails kisses down your jaw, his mouth sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. “I love you too.”
-
Mates are rare. They're not just lovers or partners—they’re soul-deep bonds that tilt the earth, shatter reality, and leave everything else dull by comparison. They’re not easy. They break hearts just as easily as they heal them. But when you find yours, there’s no doubt. No fear. No force on earth strong enough to pull you away.
Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the heartache, and the chaos—you know with absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Thinking about drunkenly making out with Jack Abbot at a work night out, then having to go back to work a few days later without a text from him - embarassed and stupidly in love.
banner by the lovely @uzmacchiato
The thing about working in an emergency department is that you become very good, very quickly, at compartmentalising.
You learn to file things away mid-shift, the hard cases, the losses, the moments that would floor you if you let them, and save them for later, for the car ride home or the shower or the specific hour of three in the morning when everything you've been holding at a professional distance comes and finds you anyway. One night, you spent an hour in the shower with a whole bottle of wine to help deal with a particularly difficult shift. It is a survival skill. It is, arguably, the survival skill, the one that lets you come back the next day and the day after that and keep being useful to people who need you to be.
You are very good at it.
You are, it turns out, completely incapable of applying it to Jack Abbott.
This is inconvenient for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which is that Jack Abbott works in the same emergency department as you, approximately fifteen feet away from you on any given shift, and has done for the better part of a year. You have tried, on multiple occasions, to file him under colleague and boss and leave him there, and your brain has rejected the filing every single time with the cheerful persistence of a system update you keep postponing.
You haven't told anyone this.
Except Santos, who found out by accident four months ago when she caught you watching Jack cross the floor from the nurses' station and said, completely unprompted, oh, you've got it bad, in a tone of such serene satisfaction that you'd wanted to dissolve into the linoleum.
And Dennis, who hadn't said anything directly but had handed you a coffee one morning right after Jack walked past and said, you okay? with such gentle and transparent knowing that the effect had been essentially identical. Dennis sees a lot of himself in you, falling in love with superiors at a distance.
So: Santos and Dennis know.
Dana, you suspect, has always known, but Dana Evans knows everything and has the particular grace never to weaponise it, so you've decided she doesn't count.
Jack himself does not know.
Or if he does, he has given absolutely no indication of it, which is its own particular kind of torment, because Jack Abbott is the most unreadable person you have ever met in your life and you have been trying to read him for eleven months.
This is, more or less, the situation as it stands.
Or was, anyway.
Before the work night out.
Before everything got considerably more complicated.
It had been Dana's idea, which meant it had been non-negotiable.
Charge Nurse Dana Evans did not suggest things. She identified them as necessary and then made them happen through the sheer force of her own certainty, and so when she had looked at the assembled staff of the Pitt at the end of a particularly brutal Friday and said, drinks. tonight. all of you, there had not been a great deal of discussion.
You had gone, obviously. You'd changed in the locker room and met Santos at the entrance and walked the four blocks to the bar that the Pitt crowd tended to migrate toward, which was loud and warm and had cheap cocktails and a bartender who knew Dennis by name.
"Is he coming?" Santos asked, with a studied casualness that you recognised as the exact opposite of casual.
"I don't know who you mean," you said.
"I mean Abbott."
"I assumed he'd skip it."
"He's not going to skip it."
"He hates these things."
"He'll come," Santos said, with the absolute certainty of someone who had already checked, and you elected not to ask how she knew that, or if it was one of those 'speak it out into the world and it will happen' manifestation rituals she often talked about.
The bar was already half full of Pitt people when you arrived, nurses clustered at one end, Robby nursing a beer in the corner with the expression of a man who had shown up entirely for Dennis, which was accurate. Dana was at the bar with a glass of wine, somehow managing to look completely at ease and slightly supervisory at the same time.
You got a drink. You let the evening settle around you. You talked to people you genuinely liked, which was one of the better things about the Pitt, that beneath the fluorescent lights and the impossible hours and the particular weight of the work, it had given you people. Real ones. The kind that showed up.
You were midway through a conversation with one of the ER nurses about something you'd later be unable to recall when the door opened and Jack walked in.
He was late, fashionably so, and he was still in the particular clothes that Jack wore when he was not at work, dark and unremarkable and somehow still doing everything, and he stood for a moment at the entrance doing the thing he always did, the quiet sweep of the room, cataloguing before committing.
His eyes found you and stayed for a couple of seconds. Your neck grew warm under his gaze, and you turned your head so that he couldn't see the effect he had on you.
"Oh," Trinity said, from beside you, very quietly, in a tone of immense personal satisfaction.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"I can hear you thinking it."
"I'm thinking many things," she agreed pleasantly, and went to get another drink.
He found his way to the bar eventually, the way he always found his way to the edge of things (ie the morning you found him on the rooftop literally right at the edge and ran back down the stairs), and you ended up beside him because the bar was crowded and the space beside him was the available one and you were not going to rearrange your entire evening to avoid standing next to a colleague.
"You came," you said, because something had to be said.
"I was told to."
"By Dana?"
"By Dana."
"She has that effect."
"Mm." He glanced at you, briefly, and smirked. "You're loud."
You turned to look at him fully. "I am not loud."
"You were laughing from across the room."
"That's called having fun. You should try it."
"I have fun."
"You actively avoid fun."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
You considered this. "Fair point. Barely."
He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh but lived in the same neighbourhood, and took a sip of whatever he was drinking, and you stood beside him at the bar and felt your heart doing its familiar and inconvenient thing.
"Why do you always do that?" you asked.
"Do what?"
"The sweep. When you walk into a room. You always check the whole room before you do anything."
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't fully parse. "Habit."
"From what?"
A pause. "Just habit."
You looked at him for a second, this man who gave so little away so consistently, and felt the familiar frustration and the familiar fondness in equal measure, which was, you had come to understand, simply what it felt like to know Jack Abbott.
"Depends who's asking," you said, after a moment.
He blinked. "What?"
"You said earlier, when Dana tells you things, you said it depends who's asking." You looked at your drink. "I was just, I noticed."
A beat.
When you looked up he was watching you with something careful and very still in his expression.
"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I did say that."
Neither of you said anything else.
But you didn't move away from him.
The outside part happened later, which was the thing you kept returning to, the fact that it hadn't been impulsive exactly, that there had been an hour of standing beside him at the bar and talking in the particular way the two of you talked, which was always slightly combative and somehow always entirely easy. The night air when you both drifted outside was cool and quiet and a complete relief after the noise.
You didn't remember who moved first.
You were fairly certain, in your more confident moments, that it had been mutual, one of those things that happened in the space between two people before either of them had consciously decided to do it.
What you remembered was his hand at your jaw, warm and deliberate.
The way your breath had caught before his mouth reached yours.
And then the kiss itself, which was, not what you'd imagined, which was remarkable given how many times you had accidentally imagined it. Not tentative. Not gentle in the careful way of someone uncertain. It was the kiss of someone who had thought about this and was finally, with complete intention, doing it. His hand was steady against your jaw and you had grabbed a fistful of his jacket without thinking and kissed him back with approximately eleven months of accumulated feeling and thought, distantly, oh, this is a problem. His hands had wandered a bit too low and when he grabbed your ass with one of his strong hands, he cockily smirked at the gasp you let out against his mouth. It was messy, and unpredictable, and hot.
When it ended you were both quiet for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, breathing slightly uneven.
"Okay," you said, because your brain had apparently died a massive death during that kiss and you needed anything to fill the silence between you.
"Okay," he said back.
And that — catastrophically, humiliatingly — was it.
He didn't text.
Not that night, not the next morning, not at any point in the following forty-eight hours, and you did not text either, because you had convinced yourself with increasing conviction that you had somehow misread the entire thing, that he had simply, been in a moment, and the moment had passed, and the look on his face afterward had been polite rather than significant, and you had made it deeply weird by meaning it so much.
By the time your next shared shift arrived you had constructed a complete and airtight narrative of your own humiliation and were wearing it like a second set of scrubs.
Trinity found you at the nurses' station six minutes into the shift.
"Why is your face doing that?" she said.
"My face isn't doing anything."
"It's doing something."
"I'm fine."
"You just tried to hand me a chart and said here you go, buddy."
You closed your eyes briefly. "I'm tired."
"You're not tired."
"Trin—"
"Is this about Abbott?"
"No."
"It's about Abbott."
"It is genuinely not—"
"You're lying, and you're bad at it, and I say that with love." She leaned on the counter, dropping her voice. "Did something happen?"
You opened your mouth. And closed it again.
"Nothing happened," you said.
"Y/N."
"Something happened," you said.
Santos's eyes went wide with the specific delight of someone receiving exactly the information they have been waiting months for. She grabbed your arm. "Tell me everything, right now, immediately—"
"Not here," you hissed, because Jack had just walked through the bay doors.
He looked exactly the same.
This was deeply unfair. You had spent forty-eight hours in varying states of internal crisis and he looked exactly the same, calm, composed, the steady particular presence of him filling whatever room he was in without him seeming to try. He did the sweep. His eyes moved across the floor, checking, cataloguing.
They landed on you for just a moment.
Something shifted in them, briefly, and then he moved on.
"Morning," he said, to the room in general.
"Morning," you said, to the middle distance, in a voice that was perfectly fine and completely normal, and then slapped a hand against your forehead and turned away. Hard to get was not your thing.
Santos, beside you, made a sound only you could hear.
You told her at the vending machine at eleven-fifteen, in a rapid whispered account that she listened to with the focused intensity of someone watching a very good television programme.
When you finished, she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"He kissed you," she said.
"Yes."
"And then said okay."
"We both said okay."
"And then neither of you texted."
"Correct."
Another pause.
"You are both," Santos said, with great care, "absolutely unbelievable."
"I know."
"Like genuinely — two supposedly intelligent medical professionals—"
"I know, Trinity—"
"Not a single text between you—"
"I was scared he regretted it!"
"Did he look like he regretted it?"
You thought about his hand at your jaw. The intention of it. The way it had not been uncertain at all. The low groan that came out of him when you seperated - how he pulled you back by the belt loop in your jeans.
"No," you admitted, quietly.
Santos pointed a pretzel at you. "Then what are you doing."
"I don't know," you said, honestly, which was the most accurate thing you'd said all day.
The supply room was where it finally happened, which was not exactly the setting you would have chosen, but you were learning that with Jack Abbott the setting was never quite what you'd have chosen and somehow it never seemed to matter.
You had gone in for gloves and he had followed you in, because of course he had, and the door had swung shut behind him and the supply room was not a large space and you were suddenly very aware of both of those things.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," you said, to the glove shelf.
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm getting gloves."
"You've been getting gloves for four minutes."
You turned around. He was closer than you'd accounted for, which did not help anything.
"I'm not avoiding you."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You haven't looked at me properly all shift."
"That's not—"
"You just looked at the shelf behind my head."
You had, in fact, just looked at the shelf behind his head.
"It's a very organised shelf," you said.
Jack looked at you with the expression he sometimes had that you'd privately categorised as deeply unimpressed but paying close attention, which was somehow worse than actual displeasure.
"Did I do something?" he asked.
"What? No."
"You're acting like I did."
"You didn't do anything, Jack."
"Then why—"
"Because you didn't text," you said, and it came out louder than you'd intended, and then it was in the room and there was absolutely nothing to do about it.
Jack looked at you.
"I didn't—" he started, then stopped. Something shifted in his expression. "You didn't text."
"I thought you didn't want me to!"
"I thought you didn't want me to."
You stared at him. "What?"
"You said okay and then you were just — gone, and I thought—"
"I didn't leave, I was standing right there—"
"You said okay," he said, with the emphasis of a man who had apparently been sitting on this for forty-eight hours. "What was I supposed to do with okay?"
"I didn't know what else to say! You kissed me and then you said okay back—"
"Because you said it first—"
"Because I was nervous—"
"So was I—"
You both stopped.
The supply room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked at you. The air between you had the particular quality of something that has been wound too tight for too long and has just, finally, released.
"You were nervous," you said, slowly.
"Yes."
"You." You pointed at him. "Jack Abbott. Nervous."
"I'm capable of being nervous."
"I've never seen you nervous."
"You've also apparently never seen me looking at you across a room for eleven months, so your observational skills are not at their peak today."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"Dennis told you," you said.
"Dennis told me nothing. I told you." His jaw shifted. "Did you mean it? The kiss."
The question landed like it always did with him, direct, undecorated, asking for the real thing and nothing else.
"Yes," you said. "I meant it."
"Okay."
"Jack, if you say okay again I'm going to—"
"Did you mean more than the kiss?" he said, and his voice had dropped into the quieter register, the one that meant he was not managing what he was saying anymore, just saying it.
You looked at him.
At the careful, open, slightly-wrecked quality of his face, which you had never quite seen before and which was going to live in you for a very long time.
"I'm kind of in love with you," you said, which was not how you had intended to say it, but was, you supposed, accurate. "I've been — it's been a while. And I know that's a lot, and if you don't—"
"I'm there too," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"I'm there too."
"You—" You searched his face. "For how long?"
He looked at you with an expression that might, on someone else, have been sheepish. "A while."
"A while," you repeated. "That's all I get."
"You're not subtle," he said. "I noticed you a long time ago."
"I confessed that I love you and you're telling me I'm not subtle—"
"You called me pretty once. In front of Dana."
"I was delirious, I had a twenty-hour shift—"
"You told Whitaker my hands were nice."
"They are nice, that was an objective observation—"
"Y/N."
"What."
"Come here," he said.
And this time you didn't say okay.
This time you closed the distance yourself, and when his hands found your face they were warm and certain and exactly where they were always going to end up, and you kissed him in the supply room of the Pitt under the fluorescent lights with gloves in your hand and eleven months of accumulated feeling finally, completely, nowhere left to go but here.
He kissed you like he meant it.
He kissed you like he'd been thinking about it.
And when you finally pulled back, foreheads together, both of you a little unsteady in the best possible way, you looked at him and he looked at you and neither of you said okay.
"For the record," you said, quietly, "your hands really are nice."
Jack Abbott closed his eyes briefly in the manner of a man exercising considerable restraint.
"Yeah?" he said.
You laughed, and he made that sound — quiet, low, tucked away — and the supply room was small and the lights were terrible and it was, somehow, exactly right.
Santos was waiting outside the supply room door.
She was not even pretending she hadn't been.
"Well?" she said.
You looked at her.
Your face did something you had absolutely no control over.
Her eyes went wide. She pointed at you. She turned to find Dennis, who was approaching from the other end of the corridor with two coffees and the expression of a man who had timed his arrival extremely deliberately.
"Hey" he said.
He held out a coffee. His face did the warm slow thing. He said nothing, because Dennis never needed to say anything, and somehow that made it the best response in the room.
Santos, however, was not Dennis.
"I need every single detail," she said, "immediately, right now, starting from the beginning—"
"There are patients," you said.
"The patients can wait—"
"They cannot—"
"Five minutes—"
"Trinity—"
"Three minutes, I just need the highlights—"
Jack appeared in the supply room doorway behind you.
Santos looked at him.
"There are patients," he said, mildly, and walked past both of you back toward the floor.
Santos stared after him.
Then at you.
"I cannot believe," she said, "that you are in love with that man."
You watched him go, steady and unhurried, and felt your whole chest do its thing.
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