Welcome To The Shire

Thor followed your gaze down at himself like he’d only just noticed. “Ah,” he said, completely unconcerned. “I removed it.”

“I can see that,” you said. “I’m asking why.”

He rolled his shoulders, muscles shifting like he was actively trying to make your life harder. “It restricts movement.”

“It absolutely does not restrict—Thor, you have worn shirts into literal war.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And I have since learned.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, proud. Glowing, even.

You turned away, dragging a hand down your face. “This is already a disaster.”

“Come,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Strike me.”

“I’m not—what?”

“Attack,” he clarified, spreading his arms slightly. “I will not defend.”

“That feels like a trap.”

“It is not.”

“That feels like a lie.”

Thor grinned. “Then prove me wrong.”

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. You could do this. Ignore the… everything. Focus. You lunged forward. You did not make it two steps before your brain went, wow that is a lot of exposed skin, and your timing completely fell apart.

Thor caught your wrist easily. Too easily. “You hesitate,” he noted, tilting his head.

You tried to pull free. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, stepping closer. “Your eyes wander.”

“They do not wander.”

“They wander,” he repeated, very calmly, as his thumb brushed—lightly—against your pulse point.

Your breath hitched. Traitor. “I am literally looking at your face,” you argued.

“For now,” he said.

Oh, he was enjoying this.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you gestured wildly at him. “All of… this.”

Thor leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something softer, warmer. “If my presence unsettles you,” he said, “perhaps you should train harder.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I will.” You yanked your wrist free and tried again—faster this time, sharper.

He blocked. Of course he did. Again. You tried again. Blocked. Again— He caught you by the waist this time, momentum pulling you straight into him.

You froze.

There was a very noticeable lack of fabric between you and him.

Thor looked down at you, eyes bright, amused, entirely too aware. “You are improving,” he said.

You stared up at him. “Put a shirt on.”

“No.”

“…Thor.”

“Again,” he said instead, already stepping back, already resetting like this wasn’t completely unfair.

You groaned, but followed. And the worst part?You kept trying.

You were being productive. You wanted that to be known. This was a rare moment of responsibility—laundry sorted, detergent measured, everything running smoothly. You even folded a few things already, stacking them neatly on the table like someone who absolutely had their life together.

Peaceful. Quiet. Functional.

Then Thor walked in. “…have you seen my tunic?”

You didn’t even look up at first. “Depends. Which one?”

“The red one,” he said.

You nodded, still focused on folding. “Gold trim?”

“Aye.”

“In the washer.”

There was a pause.

Then, “…you have placed it in the spinning water machine.”

You finally looked up. And immediately wished you hadn’t. Because there he was. Tall. Damp-haired from a recent shower. And very, very shirtless. You blinked once. Twice. Processing error. “…you’re not wearing anything.”

“I am wearing trousers,” Thor corrected, glancing down briefly.

“That is not the point!”

He frowned slightly. “It seemed unnecessary.”

“Clothing is not unnecessary, Thor, it’s—” you gestured helplessly. “—standard!”

He stepped closer, peering into the washer like it had personally betrayed him. “How long does it remain trapped within?”

“It’s not trapped,” you said. “It’s being cleaned.”

“It did not request this.”

“You didn’t wash it!”

“I intended to.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious. You grabbed the nearest towel and shoved it into his chest. “Here. Use this.”

Thor looked at it. Then at you. “…why?”

“Because I can’t—just—cover yourself!”

He draped it over his shoulder.

You made a noise of pure frustration. “That is not covering anything!”

“It is present,” he argued.

“That is not the same!”

Thor smiled then—slow, amused, dangerously entertained. “You are flustered,” he observed.

“I am not flustered.”

“You are speaking louder.”

“I always speak this loud!”

He stepped closer. Too close. Water from his hair dripped onto your arm. You absolutely noticed. “I did not realize Midgardian laundry came with such… consequences,” he said.

You crossed your arms, refusing to back up. “The consequence is that you learn to own more than one shirt.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Or none at all.”

“No.”

“It is efficient.”

“It is not efficient!”

“It saves time.”

“It causes problems!”

Thor leaned in slightly, voice lower now, teasing. “What problems?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…this,” you said finally, gesturing between you.

He glanced down. Then back up. “And what is this?”

You felt your face heat. “You being impossible.”

Thor laughed bright, loud, completely delighted and finally, finally, took the towel and actually draped it properly around himself.

“There,” he said. “Compromise.”

You exhaled. “Thank you.”

A beat.

“…you’re still staring.”

“I am not!”

He grinned.

You hated him a little.

The sky didn’t warn you. One second it was clear, the next there was rain. Heavy. Sudden. Cold enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

“Are you kidding me—” you gasped, sprinting for the nearest overhang, already soaked through by the time you made it. You wrung out your sleeves, shivering. “Great. Perfect. Love this.”

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. And then you noticed him. Of course. Thor stood in the middle of the courtyard like he belonged to the storm—head tilted back, eyes half-closed, rain pouring over him like something summoned.

“Thor!” you called. “Get over here!”

He turned, hair already slicked to his shoulders, expression bright. “You hide from it,” he called back.

“Yes, because I don’t have a death wish!”

He laughed. Actually laughed. And instead of coming toward you, he lifted his arms slightly like he was embracing it. “You Midgardians deny yourselves simple joys!”

“Hypothermia is not a joy!”

“It is refreshing!”

“IT IS FREEZING!”

He finally started walking toward you. Slowly. Very slowly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. And then, because apparently the universe had decided you didn’t deserve peace, he reached up, grabbed the collar of his already soaked shirt… …and pulled it off.

You stared. You absolutely stared. Rainwater traced down every line of him, catching the light, and your brain just— “…why,” you said weakly, “would you do that.”

“It was already wet,” he said simply.

“That is not—how is that your solution?!”

He stepped under the overhang with you, close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him. “You are shivering,” he noted.

“Yes, because I’m human!”

“Then take this,” he said, draping the soaked shirt over your shoulders.

You recoiled. “It’s wet!”

“So are you.”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

Thor tilted his head, studying you. Then, very gently—he adjusted it anyway, pulling it more securely around you. His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary. “You are warm,” he murmured.

“I’m literally not.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

You glared up at him. “That’s not because of the temperature.”

“Mm.” He didn’t move away.

Rain hammered against the ground just beyond the overhang, loud enough to fill the silence that suddenly settled between you.

You became very aware of how close he was. Of the way water still dripped from his hair. Of the fact that he had, once again, no shirt.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you said quietly.

Thor’s mouth curved slightly. “Perhaps.”

You huffed, looking away—only for him to reach out and gently tilt your chin back toward him.

“You could step away,” he pointed out.

“…I could.” You didn’t.

Thunder rolled again, softer this time. And Thor—still smiling, still entirely too pleased—leaned just a fraction closer.

“You remain,” he said.

LOGAN HOWLETT

You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.

You are trying to be mad. You really are.

But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.

“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”

He stops mid-snarl. “What?”

You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.

Silence.

For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.

“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.

“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.

He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”

“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”

He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.

WORST WOLVERINE

You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.

You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.

It’s already barely there. But you want more.

So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.

“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.

“No,” you whisper.

He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.

“You’re as bad as the red one.”

“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.

WADE WILSON

You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.

One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.

“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”

You blink. “I was just going to-”

“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”

He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.

By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”

You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON

This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.

You lift his shirt.

He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”

“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.

“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"

You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”

He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.

Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”

“I don’t have abs like that.”

“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”

REMY LEBEAU

You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.

He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.

“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”

You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.

He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”

You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.

He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”

KURT WAGNER

You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.

You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.

You lose the battle.

You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.

He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.

“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”

You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.

“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.

He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.

“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”

EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)

You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.

You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.

Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.

Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.

“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”

“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.

“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”

Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.

“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”

“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”

You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.

STEVE ROGERS

You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.

He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.

You crack.

You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.

He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring American history,” you whisper.

He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.

“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”

“I wanted to see your abs.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”

“Not up close.”

He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. That was a crime.”

“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”

“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”

“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”

“Deal.”

He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.

You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.

Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

“Worth it.”

TONY STARK

You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.

You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.

Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.

“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”

You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.

“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”

“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”

“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”

He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.

PETER PARKER

He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.

You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”

You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).

It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.

His face, already upside-down, goes nuclear red. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”

He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.

“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”

“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.

He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”

“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”

He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”

You have never loved anyone more.

THOR ODINSON

You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.

You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"

You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.

Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.

“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”

“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”

“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”

He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”

You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.

JOHNNY STORM

You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.

“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"

“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”

“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”

You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.

You grab it. You yank it up.

Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.

You stare.

He stares at you staring.

“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”

His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”

You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.

He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

PETER QUILL

You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.

He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.

You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.

Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.

The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”

You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.

“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”

“I’m aware.”

He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.

“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

“Peter Quill, are you offering to strip?”

“I’m offering to negotiate.”

ྐ❤︎

You stumbled over a tree root you'd manage to miss in the darkness, but it didn't deter your determination to get as far away as you could. In the back of your mind you knew that there was no realistic way to get out of your predicament, but the desperation and self preservation inside of you wouldn't let you admit defeat. 

You had to try. 

Sweat coated your skin, evidence of just how much you'd pushed yourself the moment you realized the danger you found yourself in. It was insane to think that only some five hours ago you were relaxed and surrounded by who you thought were friends, feeling comfortable and protected with people you'd known for years. Now, you were running for your life from those same people. 

You should have known that something was wrong from the moment you'd stepped inside of the cabin. 

“What time is Nat getting here?” 

That was one of the first questions out of your mouth as you'd sat your things down. Steve was the one to answer you, and looking back, you should've paid more attention to the slight pause before he gave you a response. 

“She's not,” he'd said, turning to you with a sheepish look and a shrug. “Said she was going to wait it out at home this year”. 

You recalled the way you'd frowned, finding it odd that Nat wasn't coming. Since the first year it was put into place, all of you always holed up during the Purge together in some fancy backwoods cabin Bucky owned. Your disappointment must have been obvious because Steve had reached out, playfully flicking your chin. 

“Hey, you still have us,” he'd told you with a small smirk. “It'll still be fun.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

You'd fought to keep your tone even, but you had been disappointed, and it wasn't just because of Nat. The day before Bucky had told you that Wanda wasn't coming either and a few days before that Tony made the sudden decision to stay in one of his many expensive buildings with Pepper. It wasn't like you hated that it was just going to be you and the guys, but naturally you loved being around your girlfriends. 

“Cheer up, Lady Y/N,” Thor had said when he got a good look at your face. “I have brought you your favorite movies at your request, and we will watch them as many times as you'd like.”

The blonde's infectious demeanor and determination to make you smile had relaxed you, forcing you to brush off any reservations you'd started to have. Looking back, you wondered if that was planned too—for Thor to be the one to lessen your unease because naturally he would. He was Thor, and you didn't think he had one sadistic bone in his body. 

When your shirt got caught on a branch, it took everything in you not to cry out as the sharp piece of wood broke skin. The saltiness of your sweat hit your tongue as you pulled your lip between your teeth, blinking back tears as you renewed your hurried steps. Your vision was starting to sway a bit, and you knew that you were pushing yourself too much but the alternative end to this night wouldn't allow you to stop. 

You could both feel your heartbeat in your throat and hear it in your ears. That observation only served to remind you that they no doubt could as well even from far away, and you fought the urge to cry again as the trajectory of this night once again felt inevitable. How were you supposed to keep out of reach of two super soldiers and a literal god in the middle of the Purge? Where would you go? Who would even help you if you happened to stumble upon someone else out here? What would you tell them? That the friends you'd had for years and who you'd holed yourself up in a cabin with were chasing you down to do God knows what? 

You didn't even know what they wanted with you. 

In fact, for hours you'd been none the wiser to the danger you were in, oblivious as ever as you and Thor attempted to make Wanda's signature dish. You both were very bad at it, laughing at the mess you were making while Bucky and Steve were getting fire wood. Finally admitting defeat, you'd decided to go ahead and hop in the shower, opting to just go and get ready to call it a night. 

You could hear Bucky downstairs talking with Thor when you got out, glancing at the clock in the hallway and noting you had about 4 more hours until the Purge commenced. Any other year and you would've been glued to Nat’s hip, but seeing as you found yourself a tad more alone this year, you instead decided to lay down for a bit. The drive up to the cabin was no joke and as much as you'd always been encouraged to every year, you never could relax enough to just sleep through it. 

“You're in a house full of a couple of assassins and some of the most dangerous people on the planet,” Nat would say to you. “What would we possibly let happen to you?”

She was right of course, but even still your body would never just let you sleep through it, and this year was even more nerve wracking without her by your side. You found yourself in and out of sleep for what felt like ages but in reality it was only about two hours. Occasionally you'd wake up to the sound of Thor’s voice asking you if you wanted or needed anything but you'd continuously give him a grumbled ‘no’ before going back to sleep. 

It was in those throes of sleep that you heard it. 

Steve’s voice was so recognizable and clear, but his words were so off putting that you immediately thought you must be dreaming. You were convinced that you were dreaming because your body still felt too heavy to be awake. 

“No, she's asleep,” you heard him say, his voice carrying ever so softly from the hallway. “Why would we be? We only have a couple of more hours.” 

There were a few beats of silence before his voice carried again. 

“Well, you can just never be too safe. Anything done during the Purge is legal,” he softly laughed to himself. “Why chance it?” 

His words created a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you weren't able to place why until a few moments later. 

“Bucky took care of her starter,” he said, making your heart sink. “She won't be going anywhere.” 

His words were so vivid in your mind even when you did eventually wake up, and while you were sure your mind had conjured them up, something deep down in your gut wouldn't let you be convinced. You had sat in your room for a while just playing it over in your head and repeatedly telling yourself it was just a dream no matter how much something said otherwise. 

Your jumbled thoughts must have been evident because Bucky asked you if you were alright when you eventually made it downstairs. 

“Yeah,” you'd told him after a while, shaking your head. “Just slept weird, I think.”

The dark-haired man had looked at you for what felt like too long before humming to himself. 

“You want something to eat? I know you and Thor’s attempt at dinner didn't turn out too well,” he'd chuckled. 

His light demeanor made your shoulders relax a bit, and you knew he noticed by the way those blue eyes of his shifted. 

“Yeah I might as well,” you'd sighed, moving to sit on the couch. “I won't be able to do much else for a while.” 

The brunette only threw you a smile before getting up, and you’d flipped through the DVDs Thor brought. As nice as the cabin was, at the end of the day it was still just a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and while the lack of internet never bothered you before, it was glaringly obvious this year without Nat or Wanda to keep you busy.

Among other reasons.

You’d found your thoughts drifting as you stared at the DVD in your hand, eventually convincing yourself that you were losing it. Of course, it had been a dream. Even if it wasn’t a dream, what could you possibly think it meant? Bucky had broken your car and Steve was talking to someone about their plot to what? Kill you? It was almost laughable, and you’d shaken your head.

You’d finally chosen a movie to put on just as Bucky finished up in the kitchen, the sound of the opening door reaching your ears as Thor and Steve brought in more firewood.

The smell of said firewood still clung to your clothes and hair as your gaze roamed along the dark trees in front of you. You needed to make sure you weren’t just mindlessly running in circles, but you also didn’t have the luxury of stopping and assessing where you were. You held your hand to your bleeding shoulder as leaves crunched beneath your feet. You were out of breath and so tired and so…confused, but most of all you were scared.

The thought that that phone call you heard was real was one that almost paralyzed you with fear. It seemed too insane—too sick—to be true, and yet you found yourself running in the middle of nowhere during the height of the Purge in the hopes that you would last the night. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the short phone call from Nat that managed to get through still made your head spin.

“I’m surprised I even managed to get a signal,” you’d told her hours earlier with a smile, stepping out onto the back patio. “The service out here is almost the same as the lack of wifi.”

“Out where? The cabin?” she’d asked, and her genuine confusion had made you frown.

“Uh, yeah,” you mockingly told her. “You know, the one you decided not to come to this year.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Bucky said he didn’t think they were going up there this year.”

The redhead’s words only made your frown deepen, that sinking feeling returning to your chest.

“The asshole didn’t tell me he’d changed his mind,” and you could almost see her rolling her eyes on the other side of the line. “It’s so boring waiting this out without my partner in crime.”

She was chuckling to herself, but you had fallen quiet. You’d stared at the woods behind the cabin, going over both her words and what Steve had told you. You gently shook your head, telling yourself that there must have been some miscommunication. In fact, you were just about to bring up Steve’s contradicting words when you turned around…and froze.

The man in question was just on the other side of the sliding glass door, an unreadable expression on his face and two mugs in his hands. There was a brief moment where you both just stared at each other, and then suddenly a small smile graced Steve’s lips as he held the mugs up, brows lifting.

“Yeah, I guess he did,” you slowly replied, distracted. “I’ll call you back later once we’re locked in and settled.”

You and Nat said goodbye, and you swallowed as you reached out to open the door.

“What did Nat want?”

The blond didn’t even try to pretend like he didn’t hear who was on the phone, and so you knew that he heard exactly what was said.

“Just checking in,” you told him, grabbing a mug of hot chocolate. “She misses me.”

You looked at him as you said that, and Steve only shrugged.

“Well, no one told her to stay home this year,” he said to you, bumping his arm against yours as you walked inside.

You only smiled at him, desperately trying to get your thoughts together. 

Was it possible there was just some innocent miscommunication? Maybe Bucky hadn’t relayed it to Nat that he’d decided to come back up here, after all and maybe Steve thought her absence was because she just wanted to stay home this year, not knowing she was under the impression no one was coming to the cabin. It was plausible, and the simplest answers were often the truth, but…

That phone call.

It had to have been a dream because the alternative was too terrifying to think about. Steve was your friend. Bucky was your friend. Thor was your friend. They were friends that you’d known and worked with for years, and the idea that you were alone with them up here for less than genuine reasons was making your stomach twist into knots. You knew that you were scaring yourself, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath.

You forced yourself to ask yourself a few questions, wondering what the reason would even be? They weren’t homicidal violent men or anything like that, and you’d never once felt unsafe with them. In fact, it was always the opposite, so what would the reason even be? Why would they orchestrate this whole thing that left you alone up here with them…during the Purge?

You’d told yourself that you were losing it, and after some time you’d offered to take everyone’s empty mugs to the sink. You could hear them having some debate about some game a month back as you did, placing the empty dishes into the sink. Your hands found the counter, and your eyes met your reflection in the kitchen window. You acknowledged that you were making yourself paranoid, but you couldn’t stop.

You were normally such a rational person, and everything about your train of thought was irrational, but yet you could not let it go. It made zero sense because they weren’t even sort of like the kind of guys who would hurt you—or any woman—but something kept nagging at you in the back of your mind. Something inside of you refused to let you relax.

As Thor’s loud laugh reached your ears, your gaze drifted to Steve’s phone on the counter. The blond—still refusing to grasp technology to the fullest degree—never kept a passcode on it, and your hand was moving without a second thought. They were still talking as you looked at Steve’s call history, searching for something that would ease your worries, but you only got the opposite.

Tony was the last person Steve talked to, and while that wasn’t cause for any kind of suspicion, you did notice that the call was taken when you were asleep—or at least in and out of sleep. You placed it back on the counter as if it were on fire, staring at it with wide eyes and telling yourself that it didn’t mean anything. 

A coincidence.

You told yourself it was a coincidence, but you didn’t feel convinced.

“Hey, I’m kind of cold,” you loudly said, making your way to the key hook. “I’m grabbing my scarf from the car.”

It wasn’t a lie. You were indeed still a little nippy, and your scarf was still in your car, but your brain wouldn’t let this go. You kept coming up with more scenarios to prove yourself wrong and ease your worries, and you didn’t know why. You were outside before any of them replied, and you did just as you said, unlocking the vehicle and grabbing your scarf.

However, before you could talk yourself out of it, you were sitting in the driver’s seat and your key was in your ignition and you were turning it. You turned it twice. Then a third time, and a fourth time, and each time…it wouldn’t start.

It was quiet outside aside from the odd sound of an owl or two as you just stared at your dashboard. You could see your breath as you exhaled, telling yourself all kinds of excuses for what you were experiencing. It was cold and maybe it just needed a minute, but even after trying it again after a few minutes, there was no such luck. You swallowed, turning the key again, and you felt like you were having an out of body experience as it just wouldn’t start.

“What are you doing, doll?”

The scream you let out scared you more than Bucky’s sudden presence, and you dropped your keys to the floor of the car. You pressed your hand to your chest as you turned to look at him, unsure of how long he’d been standing there. You blinked a few times as you stared at him, heart threatening to beat out of your chest and lips parted.

Bucky was standing in the gap between your door and your car, one hand on the top of the door frame, the other at his side. The cold breeze ruffled his dark hair, and the moonlight glinted off of his blue eyes as he stared at you. It took you too long to remember he’d asked you a question, and you quickly came up with an answer.

“I wanted to see how much gas I have left in my car, but… It won’t start,” you softly said, still fighting to catch your breath. “I thought…I thought maybe the cold had something to do with the engine, but it’s just not starting.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, and when he hummed, a shiver crawled up your spine.

“I’ll look at it in the morning. Me or Steve one,” he said, offering his hand to you.

Nodding, you quickly grabbed your scarf and your keys, placing your free hand in his flesh one. Bucky closed your car door for you, and you thanked him when he took your scarf and put it around your neck.

“Just trying to keep you warm,” he said to you, rubbing your shoulders. “We don’t want you to freeze to death.”

You forced a chuckle at that, and Bucky joined you as you both stepped inside. Steve was just inside the door when you stepped through, and you watched him look between you two.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, her car won’t start,” Bucky answered for you.

The blond eyed you, a slight frown forming.

“Why were you trying to start your car?”

You told yourself that you were imagining his tone.

“I wanted to see how much gas I have left to get back home tomorrow…”

You shrugged at him, and Steve only nodded.

“Bucky or I will check it out in the morning,” he said, basically repeating Bucky’s words as he guided you back to the living room.

You sat on the couch as another conversation started up around you, and you chimed in here and there, but your mind was miles away. 

You told yourself that the car was a coincidence, but how many coincidences were allowed before you started putting pieces together that painted a sick picture? 

Steve said that Nat chose not to come this year, but Nat said Bucky told her they weren’t coming up to the cabin for the Purge this year. You were so sure that phone call was a dream, but Steve’s call history showed he’d absolutely been on the phone with someone and that someone was Tony…who also chose to sit at home with Pepper this year. It was that same phone call where Steve said Bucky had messed with your car…

Your car that wouldn’t start.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

Thor’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, and when you looked around you saw all three of them looking at you in concern. You only just realized that your heart was going crazy in your chest, and they could no doubt hear it. Their worried expressions were almost enough to have you rethinking this entire night, and you blinked back tears.

Bucky was the first to move.

“Hey, hey,” he gently said to you, placing a hand on your back. “What’s wrong, doll?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, placing a hand on your forehead.

“I think, um, I think…” you struggled to speak. “I don’t feel good. My head is all…”

You flailed your hands around your face.

“I don’t know, I just don’t feel good.”

“You want to take something?” Steve asked you, and you shook your head.

“No, I…” you heavily exhaled. “I just feel like I might be sick.”

Your voice cracked, and Bucky helped you stand.

“I just need some air.”

All of you were standing now, and Thor offered to go with you.

“No, I’ll just be a minute,” you hurried to tell him, placing your fingers to your temple. “I just need some air.”

You were stumbling towards the door before you were finished speaking, and you took deep breaths as soon as you were on the other side of it. The cold fresh air was definitely helping you clear your head, and you leaned back against it with your eyes closed. You thought that this would help you think more rationally, now…but it wasn’t working.

Everything you’d added up was going through your head over and over again. 

They wouldn’t. You told yourself that they wouldn’t, but what if they would? 

You recalled that one Christmas party that involved some Asgardian meade and a bold move from Thor that resulted in you having to let him down easily. The next morning he claimed to not have remembered a thing, but what if he did? What if something you’d written off as a drunken blunder was actually much more than that?

Like the time you and Bucky were undercover, and you swore he was getting a little too lost in the role but he assured you of otherwise? When you thought about the aggressive way he kissed you even now, it still sent chills down your spine, but he’d convinced you that it was nothing, that he was just trying to be convincing, and you’d believed him.

…and it was only a few months ago that Steve—under no influence of anything and under no false pretenses of a cover for some mission—had asked you out, and you’d told him no. It wasn’t because he wasn't a great guy or because he wasn’t handsome enough, but the two of you had been friends for so long that the thought of ruining that was something you couldn’t bear, and that was what you’d told him.

He seemed to believe you, but sometimes you still thought about that hint of something you swore you saw in his gaze. It had come and gone so quickly, and even now you still didn’t know if you imagined it or not, but it had scared you for a split second…and then it was gone and he was smiling, and you were just happy you hadn’t lost a friend.

Every single incident was at the forefront of your mind, now, and it was too many coincidences to keep you calm. You repeatedly told yourself that they wouldn’t hurt you—especially not over something as trivial as that—but you weren’t able to convince yourself. Every single nerve in your body was telling you something wasn’t right, and your internal conflict was driving you crazy. You told yourself they would never hurt you, and you wanted to be right. You wanted to be right so bad.

…but what if you were wrong?

You were unable to sit with your thoughts, and you didn’t know what part of you to listen to.

So…

You ran.

You hadn’t even been running for long when you heard your name being screamed through the trees, and it only made you run faster. There was some small part of you that told you you were being paranoid. After all, you were terrified and running based off of assumptions you came up with on your own, but a much larger part of you was telling you to run faster. A louder voice was in your head telling you that you were in danger.

Every time you faintly heard your voice traveling through the trees it only scared you more, making more tears fall at the predicament you were in. It didn’t seem real, and you wanted to believe it wasn’t happening, but nothing else made sense. The Purge had already commenced, even out here in the middle of the trees you knew that, and you were terrified of what would happen to you if you failed to make it through the night on your own.

But what if it was all in your head? What if you’d driven yourself crazy and took off in the middle of nowhere over nothing? What would you say to them tomorrow? How would you explain yourself? What if they were chasing after you because you took off like a crazy person and they were worried? 

A sob caught in your chest because you didn’t know what to believe, and you genuinely felt like you were losing your mind. Your tears were blurring your vision, and you felt like you couldn’t suck in air fast enough. When your foot caught on a rock, it sent you falling to the ground, and your forehead bounced off of the hard earth. Your already questionable vision was now slanted as you fought to push yourself to your feet, and you looked around, relieved that you were still alone.

You felt like you were on the verge of passing out when you stumbled into familiar arms.

The scream that escaped you echoed throughout the woods, bouncing off of trees and making you flinch. Thor’s hands were firm on your arms as you fought to get away from him, pushing at him and hitting his chest as he tried to calm you down. You were inconsolable as your back met a tree, and you struggled to speak.

“Please, don’t kill me,” you choked out. “Please…”

The blond frowned at you, and you shook your head.

“I don’t… I didn’t…” you couldn’t breathe. “I’m sorry.”

Thor only frowned at you as he looked over your face, one of his hands reaching up to gently touch your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you breathlessly repeated. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or made you think…”

Your words died in the air again as you struggled to catch your breath, and the gentle touch of Thor’s hand on your face and the way he was looking at you was a lot more calming than you wanted to admit. The blond seemed genuinely confused by your words and your demeanor, pressing his lips together as he ran his eyes over you.

“Is that what you think?” he gently asked you, and you swallowed. “Is that why you ran?”

Your silence was answer enough, and you watched him gently laugh to himself.

“You thought we were going to kill you?”

His question accompanied by his expression made you feel stupid all of a sudden, and you looked away just as Thor laughed again. He was careful in pulling you away from the tree, holding you next to him as he started to walk back in the direction of the cabin. He guided your head to lean against him, and you briefly closed your eyes, taking deep even breaths and feeling…insane.

“Why did you think we were going to kill you?” he softly wondered, and you couldn’t ignore that he was talking to you like some wounded animal.

“It’s…stupid,” you managed to whisper, not even wanting to say it all out loud now that Thor had managed to ease your fears. “I feel like an idiot.”

Thor rubbed your shoulder, and the sound of footsteps other than both of yours reached your ears.

“Is she okay?” you heard Steve ask, the blond closer to you than Bucky, a deep frown on his features.

“I’m fine,” you said the same time Thor told him you were fine. “I got too in my own head and...I don’t know, I just drove myself crazy.”

“She thought we were going to kill her.”

You felt even more embarrassed when Thor said it aloud again to them, and you started to frown at him when you were all too aware of his grip on the hair at the nape of your neck. Your frown deepened, wincing in pain as you reached back just as he leaned over.

“I do not know what gave her that idea,” Thor said seemingly to no one in particular just as he covered your lips with his own. 

The kiss took you by surprise, and you pushed at his chest as he stepped closer, forcing you to stumble back. Your back met a tree for the second time that night, and you were unable to speak as Thor moved his mouth against yours. Your brain felt even more jumbled than it did earlier in the night, confusion pouring into you as Thor kept you from pulling away.

Your mind had immediately jumped to murder that you had never even entertained the possibility of…something else.

When you finally managed to get away from Thor’s hold—or when he let you—you stumbled back into someone else’s waiting arms, and you yelped in a mixture of fear and shock. Bucky held both of your elbows to him as his lips found a home in the crook of your neck, tasting your sweaty skin as you struggled in his tight grip.

“Kill you?” Bucky chuckled. “Never.”

“This isn’t funny,” you told them, voice shaking. “If you’re trying to scare me because of something I did or didn’t do…”

Your eyes met Steve’s at that.

“I’m sorry–!”

You cut yourself off with a gasp, crying out at the feeling of Bucky’s teeth in your skin. Your efforts to get away from him doubled the moment Steve started to make his way closer to you. You frantically looked between him and Thor, understanding that if this was for real and they were serious, there was no getting out of this. Your heart was going crazy in your chest, and Steve confirmed that they heard it.

“Listen to how scared she is…”

“Steve, please,” you begged as he got closer and closer, and when he ignored your apologies and pleas entirely, you accepted that this was no joke. 

The blond caught your feet as you kicked at him, separating your legs and stepping between them. You were in an uncomfortable position as Bucky still held your elbows behind you. Steve’s fingers dug into your pants, and when his hands started to pull, you moved as much as you possibly could. Thor’s chuckle reached your ears as you found yourself dropped to the ground.

“I do believe she is besting you both.”

The teasing lilt to his voice made your stomach turn, and your attempt to crawl away was thwarted by hands on your ankles pulling you back. Your nails pressed into the dirt and leaves as you were dragged back, no match for the super soldier who flipped you onto your back. Every kick at Steve was futile, and tears blurred your vision again when he sat on your waist. You pushed at his hands as they reached for your sweater, the thick fabric ripping like paper at the mercy of his strength.

It seemed like no matter what you said to Steve, he didn’t hear a word of it, blue eyes locked in on his goal, and if you had any doubts about this being personal, they were gone the moment your gazes met. There was no give there, nothing in his stare even hinting that he could be talked out of this. In fact, you wouldn’t be shocked if the entire thing was his idea.

You screamed when he leaned down to take a hardened bud into his mouth, the cold air giving him exactly what he wanted.

“There’s no one around for miles, doll,” you heard Bucky say, making you cry harder. “...but by all means.”

He gestured to you as you turned to look at him through a tearful gaze.

“Scream as much as you’d like.”

You and Steve fought over your pants, the blond winning with hardly a fight, and you shook from both the cold and the turn the night had taken. To think it was only moments ago that you’d been so sure they were going to kill you. Another possibility hadn’t even been an option in your mind and why would it? What was tomorrow supposed to be like or hadn’t they thought that far ahead?

A silent conversation seemed to pass through Bucky and Steve as they briefly looked at each other, the brunette making his way over to you. Any fight you were able to give Steve was squashed the moment Bucky dropped to his knees and pinned your hands on either side of your head. You tearfully looked up at him, equal parts angry and defeated as Steve’s hand slid between your thighs.

“Uh uh,” Steve tsk’d, harshly slapping your cunt the moment you squeezed your eyes shut, making you shout. “Eyes on him, sweetheart.”

Bucky had no problem at all holding your gaze while Steve slid a finger into you, quickly followed by another. You couldn’t swallow down the gasp that climbed out of your throat, eyes widening as he curled his fingers into you. You twisted your wrists in Bucky’s grip, angrily staring at him as you fought to swallow down every sound that wanted to escape your lips.

Your toes curled as Steve fingered you, a third finger sliding into you with ease as his actions forced you to drip around his hand. Your chest was heaving with every snap of his wrist, and you attempted to turn your head away when Bucky leaned in, but he stole a kiss anyway. The dark-haired man tasted the inside of your mouth as Steve continued to stretch you out around his fingers.

The sensations from both were too much, and you desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. Bucky only let you catch your breath for a second before diving in again, and for a brief moment, you felt empty and the heat between your legs was gone. That reprieve, however, only lasted for a second, and your chest arched at the feeling of thicker fingers slowly pushing their way into you.

You let out a shaky breath, and you felt Bucky smirk into the kiss.

Thor was not as gentle as Steve, roughly fucking you with his fingers and making your hips lift off of the ground. You were dripping around him, you could feel it, and the sound of his thick fingers pushing into you reached your ears, so you could only imagine what they could hear. The humiliation of it all warmed your cold frame, and you blinked back tears when Bucky finally pulled away.

You stared at him, but his blue eyes were focused instead on what Thor was doing to you.

You refused to look, closing your eyes and turning your head away. Evidently, Steve found that funny, chuckling to himself, and the knowledge that they all found this amusing filled you with an indescribable rage. The sound of Thor fucking you with his fingers was loud, a wet squelch reaching your ears every time he pushed his fingers into your walls.

“I want to see her come,” Steve said, and you pulled at Bucky’s grip.

“No,” you cried, but both Thor and Bucky tightened their holds.

You could already feel your stomach tightening from Thor’s hand, his thumb brushing gentle circles over you, a stark contrast to the movements from his other fingers. You were gone completely however when Bucky leaned back down to nip at your chest before tasting the same pebbled bud Steve had, tongue brushing over the sensitive flesh and making you gasp.

It was all too much, and you could feel and hear your breathing getting heavier. Your stomach was tight and your toes were curled and your chest was arched upwards. Your lashes kept fluttering as you tried so hard to fight it, but against your will, you were pushed over the edge and you came around Thor’s fingers with an embarrassing sigh.

You heard Thor curse and then you felt his mouth on your mound barely a moment later. That only prolonged your orgasm, eyes falling close as he tasted you, his tongue lapping up any and everything you had to offer. He hummed against you, the feeling vibrating throughout your entire body, and you were so lost in the feeling that you didn’t even realize Bucky had let you go.

When Thor finally pulled away too, you were a trembling mess, and you could feel tears kissing your eyes. You barely felt the cold now, your skin so hot and your face so warm. You could hear the rustle of fabric, but you weren’t able to put two and two together until a metal hand was turning you over.

“Bucky–!”

His name had barely escaped your lips before a hand was underneath your stomach and forcing you to your knees. The head of his cock was pushing into you barely a moment later, and the noise that left you was one you couldn’t name. His metal hand was in your hair while the other was tight on your waist.

Your fingers dug into the leaves and dirt as he repeatedly thrust into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the otherwise quiet woods. Your head weakly hung as he pulled you back to meet his every thrust, pulling out until only the tip of him remained before sliding his cock into you to the hilt.

Every time you leaned away, the brunette pulled you back, groaning behind you at the feeling of you wrapped around him. For a while, you forgot all about Steve and Thor, but then you heard the crunch of leaves, and when you forced yourself to look up, your eyes met familiar blue ones.

“It didn’t have to be like this, you know,” Steve told you, and you hated that haughty tone in his voice. “It really didn’t.”

His betrayal—all of theirs—made more tears spill over as you glared at him. 

“Fuck you,” you spat at the blond, and Steve only gave you a crooked smile.

You cried out when Bucky’s hand curled around your throat, pulling back and forcing your back to his chest. His other arm snaked around your waist, and you dug your nails into the skin of his arm. He pressed his face into where your shoulder and your neck met, and Steve took another step towards you.

“Be patient, and you will.”

Your vision started to tilt and blur as the result of Bucky’s tight hold on your throat, the dark-haired super soldier whispering in your ear.

“You take my cock so well,” he softly told you just before he came inside of you.

Unfortunately, you came with him, wholly embarrassed and upset as he told you to milk his cock, tightly holding you against him until you stopped trembling. He whispered something else in your ear that sounded a lot like ‘good girl’ before pulling out of you, practically handing you to Thor as if you were a glass of water and not a human being.

You learned that Thor liked to look at your face.

He wasted no time in forcing your legs over his arms and pushing your knees next to your head before sliding into you with ease. The new and uncomfortable angle had you clawing at the dirt in desperation, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. His chest brushed against yours with every surge of his hips, and you couldn’t bite back the whimpers that crawled out of your throat even if you tried.

His skin slapped against yours, and your lips were parted the entire time he was inside of you. Occasionally he kissed you, a gentle gesture that was the complete opposite of how he fucked you. The leaves and twigs of the forest floor scratched at your back with every movement, but the pain from that was almost nonexistent in comparison to the way Thor stretched you out around his cock.

The god amongst the three naturally had the most stamina, and sweat coated your skin after being with Bucky and now Thor.

“I should hope you’re not getting tired, little one,” he said to you, and you squeezed your eyes shut at the perversion of the affectionate name he sometimes gave you. “I don’t know about them, but I want to make the best use of these twelve hours.”

When Thor was close, he dropped one of your legs, a large hand coming up to cover your breast and massage the skin. His teeth nipped at your throat, and your nails dug into his arm. His hips started to slow, Thor torturously dragging his cock in and out of you, driving you crazy and making you lift your hips.

“Atta girl,” you heard someone say, and it sounded like Steve.

Thor slowly pumped himself into you, not minding at all that you didn’t come with him as he spilled himself into you. He didn’t stop thrusting until he was spent, satisfied with himself before pulling out of your limp frame.

Your eyes felt so heavy, and more than anything, you wanted to disappear, but all too soon you felt a familiar hand on your leg.

“No,” you mumbled, pushing at Steve.

“Don’t be mean,” Steve whispered to you, kissing you. “Everybody else got their turn.”

The slap was loud and unexpected, even by you, but it was more than deserved. Somehow, you knew that this was Steve’s idea, and tears skipped down your cheeks as he continued to press kisses along your face as if you hadn’t just hit him.

His lips traveled to your jaw and then your neck, and your attempt to sit up and back away from him was halted. Steve pulled you back by your hips, forcing your legs around him before leaning back and taking you with him. You let out a grunt when you settled on top of him, attempting to get away, but he was already forcing you down onto his cock.

You both let out similar noises but for entirely different reasons.

The blond wasted no time, getting a tight grip on your hips and bending his knees as he thrust himself up into you. A choked moan escaped into the air, and Steve tightened his hold on your hips. The palms of your hands were pressed against his chest, and against your will, you picked up a rhythm as he forced you to ride him. 

You heard footsteps behind you, and you shouldn’t have been surprised to feel lips on the back of your neck. Bucky kissed along your throat as he forced your head back, and it took everything in you to keep your eyes somewhat open. He nipped at the skin, his lips eventually traveling to your lips for a few moments before pulling away entirely. Steve did not stop you once, forcing you to roll your hips over his and push yourself down onto his cock. 

You were dripping around him, and when you managed to look down, you could see him staring at where you two met, his tongue poking at his bottom lip as he watched himself disappear into you. It both disgusted you and made your heart skip a beat, doubly so when Thor grabbed your arms, holding them behind you as it was his turn to press kisses along your neck and shoulders.

You shuddered at the feeling and he chuckled.

“I think she might come again,” Thor said, and the blond god kissed the tears on your cheeks.

When he let you go, Steve forced you down against him, his arms wrapped around your back as he roughly pushed his cock up into you. You gasped into his ear, your moans growing louder with every thrust. Your hands pressed into the dirt to steady yourself, but it was no use as Steve practically kept your chest glued to his.

One of his hands curled around the back of your neck, and his lips pressed kisses along your jaw. You couldn’t catch your breath, and Steve could feel you clenching around him.

“You going to come for me, sweetheart? Hmm?”

You couldn’t find a snarky comment to throw at him, simultaneously wanting this to be over and to never end. Steve was repeatedly hitting something inside of you that had you mewling on top of him, and when his hand wrapped around the front of your throat, you clawed at it.

“The sooner you come, the sooner we take you back…”

You shook your head.

“...and get you all cleaned up…”

You pressed your nails into his hand, more tears spilling over.

“...and fed and well rested…”

He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“...and ready to do it all over again.”

When you came around Steve you saw stars, vision going dark and heart skipping a beat as he fucked you through your climax. Even when you had long stopped rolling your hips against his, Steve lazily pushed his cock into you, forcing you to flutter around him as he coated your walls.

You were completely spent and out of breath, barely able to protest as Bucky grabbed you and swung you up into his arms. You were covered in dirt and sweat and God knows what else as the dark-haired man chuckled at the sight of you.

Your eyes are a single uninterrupted colour. No pupils. No whites. Just a strange, luminous stare fixed directly on his helmet.

Jason pulls both guns. You look at them. Then at him. “Those are small.”

There is a moment of complete silence.

Jason lowers one gun slightly. “Excuse me?” 

“Your weapons.” You gesture lazily. “Small.” 

“They’re guns.”

“I am aware.”

“Then why the hell did you call them small?”

“Because they are.”

Jason becomes personally offended before he remembers that he is being insulted by a giant forest creature sitting on one of his rooftops.

This is, unfortunately, the beginning of everything.

Unlike Bruce, Jason does not immediately start treating you like a case. He absolutely investigates you. He is not stupid. He just does it in a much more Jason way.

He watches where you go. Checks whether anyone goes missing around the areas you visit. Looks into reports of attacks. Searches for connections to Ivy, the League, occult activity, magical trafficking and any cult currently stupid enough to be summoning things beneath Gotham.

But when he talks to you, he does not interrogate you. Mostly because Jason hates being interrogated himself.

He asks direct questions. “You kill anybody?”

“Not here.”

Jason pauses. “That answer has layers I don’t like.”

You shrug. “You asked poorly.”

Jason points at you. “You and Batman would hate each other.”

You later meet Batman. Jason is delighted to discover he was correct.

Jason’s trust comes slowly, but his acceptance comes strangely fast. There is a difference. He does not trust that you are harmless. He does not think you are harmless. That would be ridiculous. He has seen you bend steel with one hand. He has watched roots split asphalt because you were annoyed. He knows your claws are not decorative.

But he accepts that you are not human without making it into a moral issue.

You are used to people doing one of three things when they meet you. Fearing you. Worshipping you. Studying you.

Jason does none of them. He looks at you standing in his apartment, hair covering almost the entire floor, and says, “Move your giant ass. You’re blocking the TV.”

You blink. “You speak very disrespectfully to me.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jason looks genuinely confused. “You want me to bow?”

“No.”

“Then move.”

You do.

You like him immediately.

Jason is probably the first human who insults you in ways that feel affectionate rather than cruel. Tree bastard. Swamp nightmare. Forest cryptid. Creepy flower freak. Overgrown houseplant.

You retaliate. Angry red mammal. Loud corpse. Territorial gun creature.

Jason hates the last one. “I am not a gun creature.”

“You carry eight weapons.”

“That doesn’t make me a creature.”

“You threatened a toaster yesterday.”

“It burned my fucking bread.”

You look at him. “Gun creature.”

Jason throws a cushion at you. It gets caught in your hair. Neither of you can find it for three days.

The first thing Jason really understands about you is that people treat appearance as evidence. He knows what that feels like. Not in exactly the same way. He can take off the helmet. Cover scars. Wear normal clothes. Pass as ordinary when he wants to.

You cannot. You walk into a room and people decide what you are before you speak. Dangerous. Monster. Freak. Bad omen.

Jason understands the rage of being judged by what someone thinks you represent. He sees it the first time someone crosses the street to avoid you.

You do not react. Jason does.

“Asshole.”

You look down at him. “They were afraid.”

“Yeah. Still an asshole.”

“Fear is instinctive.”

“So’s being stupid, apparently.”

You tilt your head. “You are angry.”

“No shit.”

“For me.”

Jason looks away. “Don’t make it weird.”

Flowers bloom around your ears.

Jason notices. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Jason is extremely cautious around your claws at first. Not frightened. Aware. There is a difference, and you notice it.

He watches your hands. The way your fingers flex. The way the claws retract only slightly but never completely. The way they sharpen when you are frightened or angry.

He does not ask you to cover them. He just learns. Eventually, the caution fades.

One night, you are sitting together while Jason cleans one of his guns. Your hand rests beside him. Without thinking, Jason grabs it and moves it slightly. “You’re blocking the light.”

You stare at him. He looks up.

“What?”

“You touched me.”

Jason looks at where his hand is wrapped around one of your fingers. “Yeah?”

“Without hesitation.”

Jason’s expression shifts. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No.” You look down. “Most people hesitate.”

Jason goes quiet. He releases your hand carefully. “I can start being dramatic about it if you want.”

You curl your fingers around his wrist. “No.”

Jason smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

Once he is comfortable with you, Jason treats your claws with a level of casualness that horrifies everyone else. You could tear through body armour. Jason uses one of your fingers to open delivery boxes.

“Jason.”

“What?”

“I am not a knife.”

“You’re literally sharper than one.”

“That is not the point.”

He also uses your claws to scratch his back.

The first time, you are appalled. “You want me to do what?”

“There.” He points. “Can’t reach.”

“I could remove your skin.”

“Don’t.”

You stare at him. Jason waits. Eventually, you carefully scratch the spot.

Jason nearly melts. “Oh, fuck, yeah.”

You immediately stop. “Do not speak like that.”

Jason starts laughing. “You’re such a prude.”

“I am centuries older than you.”

“And yet.”

Jason is deeply fascinated by your hair, though he pretends not to be. He notices everything. The way it changes texture depending on weather. The way vines twist through it when you are calm. The way thorns appear when you are angry. The way small animals sometimes hide inside it.

He once sees a bird emerge from your hair while you are reading.

Jason freezes. The bird flies out the window. He looks at you. “How long was that in there?”

“I do not know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“There could be anything in your hair.”

“Probably.” 

Jason stares. “That is deeply upsetting.”

Several days later, you catch him searching through it. “What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Treasure.”

“Leave.”

He secretly loves touching your hair. Not styling it. Not braiding it. Jason does not have Dick’s patience for that. He likes running his hands through the parts closest to your head, where the texture is softer and warm. He does it absentmindedly while reading. Sometimes you sit on the floor beside the couch and Jason rests one hand in your hair. His fingers move slowly.

You eventually ask, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Touch my hair.”

Jason shrugs. “Feels nice.”

“That is all?”

He looks down at you. “You want a poem?”

“No.”

“Then yeah.”

You later learn that Jason rarely touches things gently unless he feels safe. After that, you stop asking.

Jason is one of the few people who does not romanticise your connection to nature. Other people assume it must be peaceful. Gentle. Healing. You find this incredibly annoying. Jason understands immediately that nature is brutal.

He sees you kill a creature attacking civilians once. No hesitation. No speech. No remorse. Afterwards, someone calls your actions savage.

Jason looks at the body. Then at the person. “It was trying to eat a kid.”

“They didn’t have to kill it.”

Jason laughs once. It is not friendly. “Yeah, they did.” You look at him. Jason shrugs. “Predators understand consequences.”

That is the first time you realise Jason may understand parts of you humans usually struggle with.

You understand his violence in return. Not excuse it. Not praise it. Understand it. This matters more than Jason expects.

You do not flinch when he tells you what he has done. You do not tell him violence makes him monstrous. You also do not tell him that everything he has done was right.

One night, after an argument, Jason says bitterly, “What? You gonna tell me killing is unnatural now?” 

You look at him. “Why would I?”

“Because everyone fucking does.”

“Nature kills constantly.”

Jason laughs without humour. “Great.”

You continue. “Nature also destroys itself when balance is lost.” Jason goes silent. You look directly at him. “Understanding why you became violent does not mean I will always agree with what you do.”

His jaw tightens. “Then why stay?”

“Because disagreement is not abandonment.”

Jason does not know what to do with that sentence.

It stays with him.

Jason initially assumes something ancient and magical like you could never understand what happened to him. You are life. Growth. Flowers. Roots.

He is death. Lazarus water. A body dragged back into motion after it should have stopped. At least, that is how he sees it.

One night, he finally says it. You are sitting together on a rooftop after patrol. Jason looks at the plants growing between your fingers.

“You’re all about life.”

“No.”

He frowns. “What?”

“I am not.”

“You literally grow flowers out of your head.”

“And flowers die.” Jason goes still. You look out over the city. “Forests burn.” Your voice is quiet. “Trees rot. Animals kill. Rivers flood. Corpses feed the soil. Decay is not separate from life.”

Jason says nothing.

You continue. “Life and death are not enemies, Jason.”

He looks down at his hands. “So you don’t think I’m unnatural.”

You turn towards him. One claw gently hooks beneath his chin, lifting his face. “I think you are alive.”

Jason looks at you. For once, there is no joke. No deflection. No anger. Just something raw.

Then, because he is Jason, “You’re still a creepy tree bastard.”

You release him. “I am going to throw you from this roof.”

“You’d catch me.”

“Do not test me.”

Jason loves being carried. This information is classified. Extremely classified. He would rather be shot again than admit it.

You discover it by accident after a brutal patrol. Jason is bleeding. Limping. Irritable.

“I can walk.”

You look at him. “Poorly.”

“Still counts.”

You pick him up.

Jason immediately starts protesting. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“I mean it.”

“You are injured.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You are bleeding on my flowers.”

Jason looks at the petals near your shoulder. “...Okay, that’s fair.”

He settles reluctantly. Several minutes later, his head is resting against you. His eyes are closed. You say nothing.

After that, he starts finding excuses.

“My knee hurts.”

“You were walking normally.”

“Adrenaline wore off.”

“Jason.”

“What?”

You stare at him. Jason opens his arms. “Come on.” 

You sigh and pick him up. His smugness is unbearable.

Being held by you gives Jason something he rarely admits he needs. Safety. Your body is large enough to surround him completely. One arm around his back. Your hair creating a curtain around you. Your heartbeat is extremely slow. Deep. Steady.

Jason sleeps better against you than almost anywhere else. The first time he wakes after accidentally falling asleep in your arms, he panics. Not visibly. But you feel the tension shoot through his body.

“You are safe.”

Jason goes still. “Didn’t ask.”

“No.”

Your hand rests against his back. “But you wondered.”

He does not answer. You continue holding him.

Jason is probably the most defensive of your physical appearance. Not because he thinks you need defending. He has watched you turn a man’s gun into a flowering branch.

You are fine. Jason simply takes insults personally.

Someone calls you ugly. Jason turns around. Slowly.

You immediately know this will become a problem. “Jason.”

“No.”

“Leave it.”

“I just want to talk.”

“You have removed the safety from your gun.”

“Conversation starter.” You pick him up under one arm. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“I was handling it.”

“You were threatening murder.”

“Different thing.”

You carry him away while he continues shouting over your shoulder. “YOUR FACE LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING TAX AUDIT.”

“Jason.”

“I’M DONE.”

He is not done.

Jason can call you names. Nobody else can. This becomes an unspoken rule.

Roy once calls you tree freak as a joke. Jason’s head snaps around.

Roy slowly raises his hands. “Oh, so you can say it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jason gestures vaguely. “I’m allowed.”

“Based on what?”

“Seniority.”

“In what?”

“Shut up.”

You watch the exchange silently.

Later, you ask, “Why were you angry?”

Jason looks uncomfortable. “I wasn’t.” 

“You were.”

“Different context.”

“Explain.”

Jason sighs. “When I say it, you know I don’t mean it.” You look at him. Jason adds quickly, “Not that I think you’re normal.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re objectively weird as hell.”

“Thank you.”

He looks relieved.

Jason understands body shame more than he wants to. He notices when you hide certain parts of yourself. Burn scars. Places where bark has been torn away and regrown wrong. Branches that snapped and never returned symmetrically. Maybe one horn or antler grows unevenly. Maybe a section of your hair no longer blooms after an old magical injury.

Jason notices. He does not ask immediately.

One night, you catch him staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were looking.”

Jason hesitates. “Does it hurt?” His eyes are on an old scar.

You look down. “Not anymore.”

Jason nods. That is all. He does not tell you scars are beautiful. He hates when people do that to him. He simply treats them as part of you. Not ruined. Not sacred.

Yours.

In return, you are careful with Jason’s scars. Very careful.

The first time you see the worst of them, he becomes defensive. “You gonna stare?”

You look at him. “You are staring.”

“At your face.”

“Why?”

“Because you are speaking.”

Jason glares. “You know what I mean.”

You do. But you refuse to let him turn the moment into a fight. “May I touch you?”

Jason goes still. After a long pause, “Yeah.”

Your claws are dangerous. Your touch is not.

You trace around the scar rather than directly over it.

Jason’s breathing changes.

“You do not have to like them,” you say.

He looks at you. “What?”

“Your scars.” You continue carefully. “You do not have to hate them either.”

Jason laughs bitterly. “That simple?”

“No.” Your hand settles against his chest. “Few important things are.”

Jason likes sleeping near you before he is comfortable sleeping with you. The distinction is important. He has nightmares. You discover this early. Jason falls asleep on the couch. You are sitting nearby. His body jerks. Breath catches. Hands clench. You do not touch him. You simply remain close.

When he wakes, his eyes find you immediately. “How long?”

“A few minutes.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No.”

He looks relieved.

You ask, “Would you like me to leave?”

Jason looks at you. Then away. “Nah.”

So you stay. 

The next time, he falls asleep faster.

Eventually, Jason realises your presence helps with the nightmares. He hates this. Not because he dislikes you. Because needing things frightens him.

He starts making excuses. “You staying?”

“Why?”

“Just asking.”

You stare. “You wish me to stay.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then I will leave.” You stand.

Jason immediately says, “Okay, wait.” You look down. Jason scowls. “Don’t be annoying.”

“I have done nothing.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

He throws a cushion at you. You catch it.

“Stay.”

You soften. “Yes.”

Jason loves your voice. He never tells you. Your voice is strange by human standards. Too layered. Sometimes carrying faint harmonics underneath ordinary speech. When angry, it echoes. When using magic, it sounds like branches bending in wind. 

Jason pretends not to notice. But when he cannot sleep, he asks you to read.

“Why me?”

“Because I’m tired.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“Your voice is boring.”

You narrow your eyes. “Boring.”

“Knocks me right out.”

“I will leave.”

Jason grabs your wrist. “Okay. Fine.”

You wait. He looks deeply uncomfortable.

“I like your voice.” Flowers bloom near your ears. Jason points. “Don’t make this weird.”

He reads to you, too. Jason’s relationship with books becomes one of the easiest bridges between your worlds. You have ancient stories. Oral histories. Songs older than Gotham. Jason has novels. Poetry. Plays. Books filled with humans trying desperately to explain what it means to be alive.

He starts reading aloud when he realises you enjoy listening. His voice changes when he reads. Softer. More measured. You like watching him become absorbed.

One evening, he looks up. “You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You look happy.” 

Jason goes quiet. Then returns to the page. “Shut up.”

You smile.

Jason is the person most likely to ask you about the uglier parts of being ancient. Other people ask what history you witnessed. What lost kingdoms looked like. Whether myths are true.

Jason asks, “How many people have you lost?” You look at him. He shrugs. “You don’t have to answer.”

You do. “Many.”

Jason nods. “Does it get easier?”

You think for a long time. “No.”

He looks at you. “Really?”

“You become better at carrying it.” Your voice is quiet. “That is not the same thing.”

Jason understands.

You and Jason argue about revenge. Frequently. Not because you are morally opposed to it. You understand revenge. Your species has songs about vengeance that last longer than some human wars. The problem is that Jason sometimes uses vengeance as a reason to destroy himself. You hate that. 

“You are not angry because you value justice.”

Jason’s eyes flash. “Careful.”

“You are angry because you believe suffering is all you have left to offer the dead.”

Silence. 

Jason stands abruptly. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know grief.”

“Not mine.”

“No.” Your voice remains calm. “But grief is possessive. It often tells us we are the first person to feel it.”

Jason looks furious.

You continue. “You can honour your dead without joining them.”

He leaves. You do not chase him.

He returns two days later. He does not apologise. Neither do you.

He sits beside you. You lean against him. For now, that is enough.

Jason is strangely good at caring for you when you are sick. He complains constantly. But he is good. If your leaves start browning unexpectedly, he is immediately researching. If you become dehydrated, he brings water and complains that you are “the world’s most inconvenient houseplant.” If you are injured, Jason stays nearby.

“I am capable of healing.”

“Yeah, cool.”

“You do not need to remain.”

“Also cool.”

“Jason.”

“Shut up and regenerate.”

You stare at him. “That is not how it works.”

“Then do whatever weird tree shit you do.”

He does not leave.

Jason has no patience for people treating your pain as less serious because you heal differently. He learns very quickly that magical healing still hurts. The first time he sees bark growing across an open wound, he nearly throws up. Not because of the sight. Because you are clearly in agony.

Afterwards, someone says, “At least they heal fast.”

Jason turns around. “Say that again.”

You touch his shoulder. “Jason.”

“No. I’m curious.” His voice drops. “Say it again.”

They do not.

Jason loves feeding you. This begins as practicality. You can eat human food, although some things do not agree with your body.

Jason starts experimenting. He cooks. Watches your reactions. Pretends not to care.

“This is good.”

“Yeah?” His face brightens before he can hide it. “I mean, obviously.”

“You were worried.”

“No.”

“You checked the oven four times.”

“That’s called being responsible.”

“You threatened the timer.”

“It was annoying.”

You smile. Jason starts cooking for you more often.

He gets offended if you eat sunlight instead of dinner.

“That does not count.”

“It provides energy.”

“So does a battery. Sit down.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You’ve been standing by the window for four hours.”

“I was resting.”

“You were photosynthesising.”

“Yes.”

Jason puts a plate in front of you. “Eat.”

You stare at him. “You are strange.”

“Says the person who eats UV radiation.”

Jason’s apartment slowly becomes overrun with plants. He complains. Constantly.

“This one is in my shower.”

“It enjoys humidity.”

“It’s watching me.”

“It has no eyes.”

“That you know of.”

“Jason.”

“Move it.”

You move the plant. Two weeks later, Jason buys it a larger pot.

You say nothing. Jason notices you saying nothing.

“Shut up.”

“I did not speak.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“Your flowers are judging me.”

Jason absolutely names your plants. Bad names. A carnivorous flower becomes Bruce. A small angry cactus becomes Damian. A dramatic fern becomes Dick.

“Why is that one Timothy?”

Jason points towards a plant hanging limply over the edge of a shelf. “Looks sleep deprived.”

You stare. “You are disrespectful.”

“I’m right.”

You develop a strange relationship with the Lazarus residue inside him. Depending on your magic, you can feel it. Not control it. Not remove it. Feel it.

The first time you touch him and react, Jason notices. “What?”

You hesitate. “There is something within you.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Yeah.”

“It is old.”

“Yeah.”

“Angry.”

Jason looks away. “Sounds about right.”

You do not call it evil. This matters. You call it wounded. Jason hates that word more. He thinks about it for weeks.

When the Pit rage becomes bad, you do not try to overpower him emotionally. You ground him physically. Your hands are large enough to hold his wrists without hurting him. Your body is stronger. Your voice cuts through noise.

“Jason.”

He struggles. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“I said—”

“Look at me.” He refuses. You wait. “Jason.”

Eventually, his eyes find yours. Solid colour. No judgement. No fear. Just presence.

“You are here.” 

His breathing is ragged. “I know.”

“Say it.”

“I’m here.”

“Again.”

“I’m here.”

You hold him until he believes himself.

Jason hates being seen as fragile afterwards. You never treat him that way.

Once he has calmed down, you ask, “Tea?”

He stares at you. “That’s it?”

“Would you prefer soup?”

“No. I mean—” Jason gestures angrily. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

“Do you wish to speak?”

“No.”

“Then tea.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Tea’s fine.”

You nod. Jason loves you a little more for not making his worst moments into a spectacle.

Jason’s humour around your appearance becomes softer over time. Early on, he jokes because he does not know what else to do. Later, the jokes become intimate. He calls flowers pretty when he thinks you are not listening. He learns which parts of your hair are sensitive. He memorises what different colours mean.

One day, flowers bloom after he kisses you.

Jason freezes. “Was that me?”

You look away. “No.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Seasonal response.”

“It’s February.”

“Climate change.”

Jason starts laughing so hard he has to sit down.

You threaten him. This makes him laugh harder.

Jason’s first kiss with you is almost certainly awkward. Mostly because of the height difference.

Jason is tall. This has never been a problem before. Then you arrive.

The first time he tries to kiss you, he stands on a step.

You stare. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have elevated yourself.”

“Shut up.”

“Why?”

“Do you want me to do this or not?”

You realise. Flowers begin opening.

Jason points at them. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your entire body is laughing at me.”

You bend down.

Jason kisses you before you can tease him.

Afterwards, he says, “We’re never discussing this.”

You discuss it frequently.

Jason is surprisingly shy about genuine affection. Sexual jokes? Fine. Threats? Easy. Sarcasm? Constant. Saying something sincere? Horrific.

You compliment him once. “You are beautiful.”

Jason nearly chokes. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but—” He looks genuinely suspicious. “Why are you saying that?” 

You stare. “Because it is true.”

Jason looks away. His ears turn red.

You lean closer. “Your skin changes colour.”

“Shut up.”

“Interesting.”

“I swear to God.”

“Your ears are very bright.”

Jason leaves the room.

Jason is the person who most understands when you need to disappear for a while. Not abandon him. Retreat. Forests call you. Magic sometimes becomes overwhelming in cities. Too much concrete. Too much noise. Too little earth.

Jason notices when you become restless. “Go.”

You look at him. “What?”

“You’re miserable.”

“I am fine.”

“You’ve been glaring at the wall for two days.”

“The wall is offensive.”

“Exactly.”

You hesitate. “You will not mind?”

Jason shrugs. “I’ll miss you.” The honesty surprises both of you. Jason immediately looks annoyed. “But yeah. Go.”

You lean down and touch your forehead to his. “I will return.”

Jason’s expression softens. “Better.”

He struggles when you leave for too long. Jason is not good with absence. He will not say that. Instead, he gets mean. Restless. More reckless on patrol.

When you return, he is angry. “You said three weeks.”

“It was four.”

“Yeah. I can fucking count.”

You look at him. “You were worried.”

“No.”

“Jason.”

“You didn’t call.”

“There was no signal.”

“Then send a bird or some Disney shit.” You stare. Jason’s voice drops. “Just tell me you’re alive.”

You understand then. “I am sorry.”

Jason looks away. “Yeah.”

You wrap your arms around him. He pretends to resist for approximately two seconds.

Jason is the Batfamily member most likely to sleep outside with you. Not camping. He insists there is a difference. You lie beneath trees. Jason lies beside you with a book and a gun.

“Why do you have that?”

“Gun?”

“Yes.”

“We’re outside.”

“I am here.”

Jason looks at you. “Yeah?”

“Nothing will approach.”

“That’s ominous.”

“It is true.”

Jason thinks about it. Then puts the gun away. “Fine.”

You smile. He opens the book. “If a bear eats me, I’m haunting you.”

You meet Jason’s neighbourhood before you properly meet the family. Crime Alley knows him. Knows Red Hood. Knows Jason Todd in ways the Manor often does not.

At first, people are afraid of you. Fair enough.

Then Jason starts bringing you around. Kids are the first to get comfortable. Children are like that. One little girl asks whether flowers hurt when they grow. You crouch down to answer. Another child asks whether your claws can open cans.

Jason says, “They can.”

You look at him. “Do not volunteer me.”

Within a month, local children are bringing you dead plants to revive.

Jason acts annoyed. He is secretly delighted.

The first time he sees you surrounded by kids, Jason just stops. You are sitting cross-legged in an alley garden. Even seated, you tower over them.

Children have put ribbons in your hair. One is painting one of your claws. Another has fallen asleep against your side.

Jason watches. Something in his chest hurts.

You look up. “Jason.”

“Yeah.”

“Come here.”

He does.

Jason loves you most in domestic moments. He will never say that. He thinks it would sound stupid. But his favourite version of you is not powerful. Not magical. Not terrifying. It is you standing in his kitchen, trying to understand a can opener. You asleep in sunlight. Your hair covering the couch. Your claws carefully turning pages. You complaining about television plots. Flowers blooming because he made you laugh.

Jason has had enough grand tragedies. Ordinary happiness feels more miraculous.

He worries he will ruin you. This fear appears late. After he already loves you. Jason knows what happens to people around him. At least, he thinks he does.

One night, after a particularly bad argument, he says, “You should find somebody easier.”

You stare. “No.”

Jason laughs bitterly. “That’s not romantic.”

“It was not intended to be.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He turns away. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yes.”

Jason whips around. “Jesus Christ.”

“You are.” You step closer. “So am I.”

“Not like me.”

“No.” Your eyes hold his. “I am not you.” Jason goes quiet. “You are not required to become easy to be loved.” His face changes. You continue. “But you are required to stop deciding for me what I can survive.”

Jason’s deepest fear is that you see him as something temporary. A human life. A brief relationship in an ancient existence. He hides it badly.

One night, he finally asks, “How many people have you loved?”

You look at him. “Why?”

“Just answer.”

You do.

Jason goes quiet. “And they all died.”

“Some.”

“You moved on.”

You understand what he is asking. “Eventually.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “Right.”

You take his face between your hands. “Do not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn mortality into insignificance.”

Jason looks at you. 

“You will not matter less because I survive you.”

His eyes lower. “Easy to say.”

“No.” Your voice is very soft. “It is one of the hardest things I know.”

Jason makes peace with the lifespan difference slowly. Not completely. He never loves the idea. But he learns that impermanence does not make love pointless. Maybe because he has already died once. Maybe because every day after death feels stolen anyway.

One night, lying against you, he says, “Guess I’m already on bonus time.”

You look down sharply. “Do not call your life bonus time.”

“Why?”

“Because you speak as though it is less real.” Jason goes still. You touch his face. “This life is yours.”

He looks away. “Yeah.”

You wait.

Eventually, “Yeah. Okay.”

Jason is absolutely the kind of person to collect things you shed. He denies this. You find a drawer. Leaves. Flowers. A small piece of bark from an old injury.

You hold up a dried blossom. “Jason.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Why do you have this?”

“Found it.”

“In your drawer.”

“Storage.”

“There are nineteen.”

“Coincidence.” You stare. Jason gets defensive. “Maybe I like them.”

Flowers immediately bloom around your face. Jason groans. “Oh, fuck off.”

He likes pressing your flowers into books. He would never admit this to anyone. Especially not Dick.

You discover one while reading. A dried flower between pages. You recognise it. “This came from me.”

Jason, across the room, does not look up. “Probably.”

“You kept it.”

“Don’t start.”

“Jason.”

“I said don’t.”

You sit beside him. “That is very sweet.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“Watch me.”

He does not. 

Jason is surprisingly sentimental about your seasonal changes. Spring makes him complain because of pollen. Summer makes him complain because you steal all the sunlight near windows. Autumn makes him quietly sad. Winter scares him the first year.

You become slower. Flowers disappear. Leaves fall. Your body becomes more rigid. Jason knows this is normal. He still watches you constantly.

“I am not dying.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You have checked my breathing six times.”

“You breathe weird.”

“I always breathe this way.”

“Exactly.”

You stare. “That makes no sense.”

“Go back to sleep.”

He stays nearby until spring.

Jason’s favourite season with you is probably autumn. Though he would claim otherwise. Your leaves change colour. Your hair darkens. Your energy becomes quieter. Jason likes the calm. He likes walking with you when the city is cold. Likes the way fallen leaves gather around your feet.

One evening, he says, “You look good like this.”

You glance down. “Half dormant?”

“Moody.”

“You like that?”

Jason looks at you. “Have you met me?”

Jason is the person who understands that being loved for being strange can still feel lonely. People often tell you they love your magic. Your appearance. Your flowers. Your power. Jason eventually realises there are days you hate all of it. Days when you wish you could disappear into a crowd. Wear normal gloves. Enter a building without ducking. Sit in a chair. Be overlooked.

He understands. “You don’t have to love being different every day.”

You look at him.

Jason shrugs. “Sometimes it fucking sucks.”

That simple permission almost makes you cry.

You give Jason the same permission. He does not have to love being a survivor every day. He does not have to call his death a gift. He does not have to be grateful he came back. He does not have to forgive everyone involved. He does not have to turn pain into something inspiring.

One night, Jason says, “People always want the comeback story.”

You look at him. “What?”

“Like surviving makes everything worth it.” He laughs bitterly. “Like I gotta be grateful.”

You answer, “Survival does not justify suffering.”

Jason goes quiet.

You continue. “You are allowed to be glad you lived and angry that you had to survive.”

Jason looks at you for a long time. “Yeah.”

Jason loves fiercely but quietly. Unlike Dick, he does not say things constantly. His affection appears in actions. Food already waiting. A blanket thrown over you even though you do not need one. A repaired piece of jewellery. Checking which plants are safe for you. Buying books about ancient botany and pretending they were cheap. Standing between you and strangers. Cleaning blood from your claws after a fight.

One night, you say, “You care for me often.”

Jason freezes. “What?”

“You care for me.”

“Yeah, well.” You wait. Jason looks away. “Somebody has to keep you alive.”

You smile. “Of course.”

Cleaning your claws becomes strangely intimate. After patrol, blood sometimes dries beneath them. You can clean them yourself. Jason knows this. He does it anyway.

You sit together in silence. Jason takes one enormous hand in his. Uses a cloth carefully. Checks for cracks.

“You damaged this one.”

“It will heal.”

“Still.”

His thumb traces the base of one claw. You watch him.

“You are gentle.”

Jason immediately scowls. “Don’t spread that around.”

“Your reputation?” 

“Exactly.”

You clean his guns in return. Jason is horrified.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because your hands are huge.”

“I am capable of precision.”

“You broke a door handle yesterday.”

“The door was weak.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Eventually, he teaches you. You become very good. Jason is both proud and concerned.

The relationship works because neither of you tries to make the other less dangerous. Jason never asks you to dull your claws. You never ask him to become soft. But both of you learn restraint. Not because you are ashamed of what you can do. Because love gives power somewhere careful to go.

Jason learns he can put down a weapon without becoming helpless. You learn you can retract thorns without becoming weak.

Loving Jason is not about healing him into someone else. He would hate that. You would never try. You love him angry.Loud. Difficult.  Gentle when he thinks nobody is looking. Funny in ways he pretends are accidental. Exhausted. Alive.

Jason loves you in exactly the same way. Not as a mystical creature. Not as some beautiful exception to humanity. Not as something pure enough to redeem him.

Just you. Strange. Sharp. Ancient. Occasionally carrying wildlife in your hair.

The most important thing between you is that neither of you uses the word monster. Not seriously. Other people might. Jason knows better. So do you.

A monster is not something with claws. Or scars. Or blood on its hands. 

A monster is a choice. A pattern. An absence of care.

Jason cares too much. That has always been his problem.

One night, he says, “You ever think we’re kind of fucked up?”

You look at him. “Yes.”

“Wow. Immediate answer.”

“You asked.” Jason laughs. You continue, “But damaged things are still living things.”

Jason groans. “There you go being poetic again.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Jason spent years thinking love would either leave him or try to save him. You do neither. You stay. You argue. You hold him when he cannot sleep. You let him be angry without letting him be cruel. You remind him that death is part of nature, but so is returning in spring.

Jason, in return, teaches you something you never learned in centuries of living. That being seen does not always have to feel like being studied. Sometimes being seen looks like someone sitting beside you at three in the morning, eating leftovers from the fridge, looking at your claws wrapped around a coffee mug and saying, “You know you’re weird as hell, right?”

You look at him. “You are a dead man wearing a red helmet.”

Jason considers this. “Fair.”

You continue eating. His shoulder rests against your arm. Your hair covers half the kitchen floor. Somewhere behind you, one of your flowers opens.

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.

You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.

Leon’s already caught on.

A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.

You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.

The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –

It throws you.

Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.

Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.

Leon’s already running.

The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.

The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.

You haven’t come up for air.

“Fuck.”

He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.

The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.

The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.

Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.

He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.

You do not.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.

You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.

It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.

Get up

We need to move

Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”

As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.

“Run!”

It’s a bit much to ask.

You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.

Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.

You’re almost there.

You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.

Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.

“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.

You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.

The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.

“Almost there. Come on.”

Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.

“Get in. Get in!”

You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.

“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.

You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.

“Fuck!”

There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.

Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.

“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?

Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.

“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.

“No.”

“No?”

“The keys are in my coat.”

“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”

“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”

He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.

Fuck.

You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.

It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.

Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.

“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.

“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."

“How bad?”

“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”

“Deep breath in.”

You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.

“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.

His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.

“You gotta get down on me."

You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.

"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."

“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.

Fuck.

"I don't know where you think my knees are going."

You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.

He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.

“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”

You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.

“You can’t be wearing that.”

“Leon–“

"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."

Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.

"Do you trust me?"

You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.

"Yes."

It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.

"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.

It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.

“Yeah. Fine."

It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.

He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.

“Do you know you're doing that.”

He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.

“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.

“Yes ma'am.”

Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.

Your eyelids are heavy.

“Is it bad to fall asleep?”

He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.

“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.

And you register why.

His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.

And something else is different.

“…Where are your hands?”

You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.

“Good boy.”

You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–

He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.

“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.

He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”

“You be careful with my side.”

“Damn.”

“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.

“You’ve got a fixation.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”

“Don’t be rude.”

You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”

“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.

“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?

He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.

“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”

“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”

He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.

“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.

“What do you want?”

Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.

“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”

The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.

“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.

“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”

“Mm. Lucky day.”

“I know.”

“Any last words?”

“What?”

You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.

“Be careful,” he says.

“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.

“Are you okay?”

You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”

He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.

Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.

“Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.

“Think you can come like this?”

“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.

“Tip your hips down,” he says.

You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.

“Fuck, like that Leon!”

He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”

“Do you want me to be?”

You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.

“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.

“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”

He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.

When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.

"I think that did the trick,” he says.

You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.

“How’s your side?”

“Stings.”

He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.

“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.

“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”

He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.

“Worked out fine the first time.”

You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.

“Beginner’s luck.”

There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.

But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.

On AO3

Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💙

Her fingers running over her lips in contemplation, the way her movements simply glide through a space.

​

If only my mouth could match the way I feel... 

"Buy Something or leave. We don't need any loiterers." As soon as Rolan said it and your eyes met his, he was kicking himself.

​

Of course, you just smile,"I'm sorry, Ro. I promise to buy something after my lessons today. "

​

Ah, yes, your lessons . That's why you've come by; it's not that you're not a loyal customer, but that you have even more of a reason to come around. Not that he's complaining, just more opportunity to make an ass out of himself.

​

Rolan tries to look busy as he reshelves some tomes while staying close to your side. "How has learning infernal been going for you?"

​

You do that tail curling pout of your lip, almost as if you're guilty of something. "It's been going alright, I just need to study more."

​

Of course, you should be studying more. If you had asked Rolan to teach you, he would have given you so much to study and read that you would be fluent by now.

​

“Tmyh wmafdv qujy haf wapyzmulq za ryiv... “ (They should give you something to read... )

​

“zmyh vory zrhulq zmyur kywz” (they are trying their best). Rolan holds back his laugh at your rusty, unpolished infernal, but can't hold back his smile. 

“voryl'z haf erytuafw” (aren't you precious ). He didn't mean to let it slip, but judging by the look on your face, you didn't have a clue. Thank the gods.

​

Before you can ask what he said, Lia is rushing down to gather you for your lessons. Lia shoves past Rolan, making sure to give him a playful bump before grabbing your hand.

​

"Rolan, stop bothering our student. We have a busy day ahead of us."

​

He can't help but roll his eyes, "Yes, drinking tea and gossiping before learning a little infernal does take quite some time.”

​

Lia jabs his shoulder, "We have been teaching more than that. Just because we don't run a boot camp like you do doesn't mean it's not working.”

​

You pause at the foot of the stairs, gripping your hands onto the railing tightly, "If you wanted, you could join us?"

​

The slight redness in your cheeks wasn't lost on Rolan; it was like you were embarrassed to even ask. Teaching you, helping you, it sounds like a perfect day... "Though I think you would benefit from it, I can't. I have to go to the market.”

​

You looked disappointed before quickly masking it with that chipper smile of yours that makes his chest twist. “Well another time then…” 

Rolan cursed himself as he watched you head up the stairs. Why must he always say the opposite of what he wants? 

He looks down at his journal, it has it all, everything he wants to say to you written down in his native tongue. When he writes it’s so easy to just get all his thoughts off his chest. How you enchanted him, how the scent of your perfume makes his heart swell when he catches whiffs of it lingering in the air, and how he so badly wants to be the one spending so much time teaching you, getting closer to you… 

Rolan signs before snapping his fingers and blipping his journal back to its rightful place. One day maybe he will get the courage, but not today. 

​

​

The market is always a headache, but it's a necessary one. How else are they supposed to have any supplies? Bags in hand, he walks up the steps to the tower: It's been a few hours now, so he's sure you have left, but that doesn't stop him from hoping just a bit to see you before you go.

​

But as he reaches the top of the stairs, he only sees Cal and Lia pacing nervously. From the second their eyes met, he instantly knew they were guilty of something. 

​

He sighs as he puts the bags down "Alright, what did you two troglodytes break?" 

Both immediately tried to talk, in a confusing, bombarded manner, about parts of the story and multiple apologies. 

​

It’s enough of their crowding and rambling that leaves his ears ringing, finally Rolan has had enough. "Silence, you two! Just tell me, calmly.”

​

Lia and Cal look at each other, seeming to draw mental straws, til finally Lia relents with an exasperated sigh. "Alright, but you have to swear not to get upset ... "

​

Rolan rolls his eyes , "Upset? What exactly - "

​

Lia’s sharp nail comes close to his nose as she holds up her finger to silence him. "Just promise."

​

He relents, "Alright, I will remain composed, but if you keep me with bated breath, I will lose it."

​

"Well, we had lessons with Tav today, and towards the end she asked if she could take home a book written in Infernal. Well, as you know, that can be limited, so we were helping her look. Then she found one, and we didn't think anything of it ... until we looked over at your desk later... "

​

Rolan feels his blood run "You're not saying…”

​

Cal's voice is pleading,"We think she took your diary! "

​

Normally, Rolan would be snapping that it's a journal, not a diary... but the news has his whole body frozen. Then he nods with an eerie calm hum.

​

"Rolan, you okay?" Rolan's, unsure who had even asked the question, as he turned back towards the stairs, then, in a blink, he was running down them.

​

Cal and Lia look at each other before Cal smiles, "Well, his reaction could have been worse."

​

​

Rolan can only hope that by some miracle you haven't read his secret desires. If you haven't, it will be simple enough to just take it back, but if you have read it, this could uproot everything.

​

Rolan urges his feet to move faster over the cobblestone, ignoring how he almost trips and falls. Finally, down your street, he slides as he comes to your front door. Before he can think better of it, he rushes up your steps and knocks feverishly on your door.

​

As soon as he sees you open the door with that shocked look on your face, he feels that familiar stirring in his gut. Then he sees his journal in your hand, and his heart sinks. He is breathing heavily and knows that the look on his face is pleading, "Did you understand it? "

​

Red fills your cheeks as you nod, “Majority of it … enough to get the gist.”

​

Great, this is even worse than he thought … What should he do? What should he say… Swallowing down his pride, he averts his gaze, "I'm So-"

​

He feels himself pulled forward by his collar. Before he can ask he feels your lips on his. As soon as it happened, that moment of bliss was over as you pulled away. Rolan watches as your own panic fills your eyes, your lips forming words of 'sorry,' but he can't hear it over his racing heartbeat.

​

It's the rush, the quick spur of the moment and their blood rushing with adrenaline, Rolan’s mind tries to reason, but as always, he betrays his thoughts with his actions. Rolan keeps his eyes on yours as he walks through the threshold of your door. Your beautiful eyes widen as he steps towards you, and when his hand touches your face, you practically melt for him becoming a puddle of want as his lips softly brush over yours again and again.

​

"I should've told you sooner.” He says, before caressing his hands down your back and taking in the scent of your neck.

​

"Tell me now ."

​

More of a whine than a demand, it still has its tail and ears twitching. He betrays himself by giggling, "Didn't you read it?"

​

You breathe into his ear, and he feels himself moan, "But I want to hear it."

​

Rolan, for a moment, doesn't get it ... till he feels your teeth on his neck and you mutter, “Pdyiwy” (Please)

So he lets out a shaky sigh as he peppers your skin not only with the caresses of his kiss but with the warmth of his words.

​

“Yaf mijy miflzyv ph yjyrh zmafqmz orap zmy vih xe pyz haf ul zmiz mydd ao xe qrajy” ( You have haunted my every thought from the day I met you in that hell of a grove.)

As he feels your body tremble and your heart race even hotter he growls in your ear, his voice heavy and dark. Rolan smiles, watching the goose bumps roll over your skin. "Nas edyiwy. dyz py xe'jy afz ph yjyrh vywury al haf…” (Now please. let me live out my every desire on you... )

​

He's unsure if you even understand these words, but his want must somehow translate and match yours. Rolan tries to say more, but every infernal growl is stifled by heated lips and desperate hands. It's udder bliss that has him just falling into your lead. That utter bliss lands him in your bed.

​

Rolan chuckles as you stand before him, sheading your clothes. He leans up on his elbows, feeling himself twitch as your soft skin is slowly revealed to him. “nyyvh vory sy?" ("Needy are we?")

​

Grinning, you position yourself on top of him, beginning to undo his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

​

“Xe safdv wih qryyvh..”  ("I would say greedy.. ")

​

With those words, it clicks that you have been doing extra studies.... Gods, you're mesmerizing …

Straddling over him with hooded eyes. Rolan couldn't help but roam his eyes all over your body. He wanted to burn this image in his mind to hold onto forever. Then he felt his whole body twitch as your soft hand grasped his cock, working him, teasing him till his tail was thumping and sweet started to bead against his brow. Part of him thought this must be torture for how hard he was on you during certain lessons... but your face, you were totally amazed by watching his arousal grow harder and harder.

​

Then you pressed yourself against him, and his eyes widened as you slowly eased his textured girth inside you. Rolan felt his nails shredding into your sheets as he mentally prayed for this to last forever. You moved your hips slowly, your face close to his, stealing kisses from his softly panting breath. But then your hips started rolling over him faster and faster till his nails were digging into your soft flesh and his lips caressed your slick skin.

​

Your skin is cool against his, and he can feel your pulse racing as he kisses your neck and rocks you against him harder and harder. The sensual sounds of his cock filling your slick pussy fill the room as he fucks into you. As he growls in your ear, he feels your pussy pulse against him.

​

You can barely think as he fills and stretches you as far as you can go. You start to feel your legs start to tremble, that overwhelming feeling of him nudging against your G-spot. It was an insanely euphoric feeling being so full, you just can't help but whine.

​

Everything about you drives him crazy, but hearing you whine and watching how your body shudders with every bounce on his cock. He squeezes as his cock throbs inside you, and as your cunt is fluttering around him, you feel your body shake as the pleasure rushes over you, and your mind hazes as you feel him spill inside you.

​

As you're coming down, you slide down and settle yourself beside Rolan and take in his warmth as you feel yourself slowly coming down from your high .

​

“Yafr wa dajydh... “ (You're so lovely ... ), he brings his hand to your cheek, gently brushing back your hair. 

You're the one giggling and before he knows it you're pushing his journal into his hands, he looks at you confused and that's when you nug him on. “Go on, read me the ones I missed…” 

That was usually a good thing. It meant you could feel the heat of his leg between yours when you hitched your knee over his thigh in your sleep. It meant you woke up with his skin everywhere around you. It meant that, sometimes, when you were both half asleep, you found him slipping inside of you with an unconscious, needy groan, his hips rocking into you just two or three times before stilling, like he couldn’t be close enough to you, even when he wasn’t awake. 

But as you woke up with the foreign yet strangely familiar feeling between your thighs and in your stomach, you realized that there was a downside to sleeping naked. 

You carefully, hesitantly, reached down to your slit and cautiously tucked two fingers inside yourself and confirmed what you already knew: it wasn’t come leaking out of you. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, looking behind you to find Joel nestled against your back, his sleepy breaths hot on your neck, one of his thick, heavy arms draped around your waist. 

You carefully disentangled yourself him and tiptoed to the bathroom with your thighs held as tightly together as you could manage. 

The light felt blinding when you turned it on and it took your eyes a moment to adjust enough that you could see the smears of red over your legs. 

“Shit,” you groaned quietly, sitting on the toilet, trying to figure out what to do, your cheeks getting hot as you realized that you’d probably bled all over the man who’d let you in his bed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” 

If this had been 25 years ago when you were a college student and the world was still what it had once been, it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. You’d have tampons near by and plenty of clean clothes and sheets so if something got wrecked, throwing it away was hardly a tragedy. Hell, you’d even have a Snickers bar to help make you feel better about the whole bleeding on someone thing. 

But that was 25 years ago and this was now, more than two decades into the apocalypse. It had been years since you’d last had a period and, since you were well into your 40s, you’d assumed it was menopause. It hadn’t occurred to you that it might have been just another way your body tried to help you survive as the people you’d been with struggled to find food and were eventually nearly wiped out by raiders. That was how you’d come to be in Jackson to begin with. Joel’s brother, Tommy, found you a few miles away while on patrol as the threat of infected grew worse and you were alone. He convinced you to come back with him and you’d just stayed. 

You’d only been in Jackson about eight months, which both seemed like so much time and none at all. It was hard to remember what life had been like before this, it was hard to believe you’d been here any time at all. You and Joel and his would-be daughter, Ellie, had arrived just a few weeks apart. You’d wound up spending time with him out of convenience more than anything else. Everyone else in town already knew each other, you and Joel had naturally drifted together. It didn’t take long before you were fucking. 

You still weren’t entirely sure how it started or why it had kept going or how Joel actually felt about you beyond friendship. He wasn’t the most forthcoming man. He kept his hands to himself when others were around, he seemed to less seek you out more than just run into you as the cadence of your lives brought you together. It was like he just chose to move alongside you for a while before going his own way. When you were alone, it was different. The way he touched you, explored your body, moaned in your ear made you feel like it meant something. You hoped it meant something. You’d grown attached to him, more than you really wanted to admit to anyone, including yourself. Because what good was there in loving someone who didn’t love you back? It was the end of the world, you’d take whatever small pieces of kindness and pleasure and care you could get, you weren’t about to be greedy and ask for more. 

So you had Joel in his stoic, strong way of being, and you treasured that. But you weren’t together, not really. He didn’t have any reason to tolerate something like you fucking bleeding all over his bed with no warning. And the last time like this had happened, you’d been in your 20s and that guy had practically bitten your head off, pissed at you for not knowing you were about to start your period and wrecking his sheets. Why would you expect Joel to be any different? 

What were you supposed to do? It was the middle of the night, did you wake him up to check the sheets? Did you see if there was scrap cloth to put in your panties to soak up the blood? Did you use his shower and hope that you could get cleaned up without staining something else he owned? 

You weren’t sure when you’d last felt this mortified, tears stinging at your eyes. Why couldn’t this have happened when you were alone? Or at least in your own damn bed instead of his? 

You heard the creak of the floorboard only a second before the gentle knock at the door made you wince. 

“Baby?” Joel said, his voice thick with sleep. “Everythin’ alright?” 

“Fine,” you said, trying to keep your tone from sounding wet. It was easier said than done. 

“Don’t sound fine,” he said. “Can I come in?” 

“Um…” 

“Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said gently. “C’mon, baby. Lemme in.” 

You sighed and stretched to unlock the door before staring determinedly at your clasped hands as you sat, dripping blood into his toilet while it was still smeared and drying over your thighs. 

Joel had pulled on his flannel pajama pants before seeking you out and he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as you felt his eyes on you. 

“You OK?” He asked after a moment. 

“Fine,” you sniffed, trying to get your shit together. You were a middle-aged woman, for fuck’s sake, you had no business crying over a goddamn period. You sat back and really looked at him for the first time since he’d come into the bathroom and watched as his face shifted when he saw your legs, blinking in shock for a moment. 

“Oh,” he said. “I thought you just weren’t feelin’ well…” 

“I’m really sorry,” you cut him off, your chest getting tight. “I can clean it up, I…” 

“S’OK,” he said quickly. “Just… uh… get yourself cleaned up.” 

He left before you had a chance to respond, closing the door behind him and you just sighed, leaning on your knees again, trying not to cry. 

***

Joel tried to not be too loud knocking on his brother’s door. He knew the baby would be asleep, the last thing he wanted to do was send the whole house into a tizzy. He wasn’t trying to be a problem, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to go. 

He knocked, hoping it was loud enough to rouse Tommy or Maria but let their child sleep. 

Just as he was going to knock again, the porch light flipped on and Tommy opened the door, squinting against the brightness of it as he glared at Joel. 

“It’s 3 a.m., Joel,” he said, his voice groggy. “You know what 3 a.m. means, right? It means people are fuckin’ sleeping…” 

“It’s an emergency,” Joel said. Tommy stood up straighter then, reaching behind him to grab his jacket but Joel shook his head. “Not that kind but… is Maria awake?” 

“She is now,” he muttered and then sighed. “Come in, I’ll get her. She’ll really love you after this…” 

Joel hovered in their living room, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets, thumbs drumming against his hips as his brother went to get his wife. 

It had been years since he’d had to worry about anything like this with a lover. Ellie, of course, had needed to keep up with a supply of tampons and they worked their way across the country and he’d gotten accustomed to looking for them any time they stopped somewhere to scavenge supplies but, since they’d come to Jackson and she’d been supplied with… some other solution Joel didn’t ask for details about, it had been far from his mind. 

As far as he knew, you didn’t have periods anymore. You hadn’t said as much but there were clues. You sure as hell weren’t worried about pregnancy. You’d told him as much after the third time the two of you had slept together and he lost control, not pulling out like he knew he should have, apologizing to you over and over as he cleaned you up. 

“It’s fine,” you’d laughed. “That’s not something I need to worry about.” 

He didn’t ask for details. He just relished the freedom and intense pleasure that came with coming in you all the goddamn time. He tried to remember, over the last six months, if there was a time where the two of you had gone more than just three days without sleeping together that he just hadn’t noticed but he couldn’t place one. 

“This had better be good,” Maria grumbled, shuffling into the room, her hair in a bonnet and her arms crossed over her robe. “Lucky you didn’t wake up my kid…” 

“Believe me, ain’t tryin’ to cause trouble,” Joel said. “And this is… it’s kinda awkward but… well… I… I got a… uh… lady friend…” 

“Jesus, everyone knows who you’re fucking, Joel,” she rolled her eyes.

He just blinked at her for a moment. 

“They… they do?” 

“It’s not like you spend time with anyone but her, Tommy and Ellie,” she said. “It’s obvious. Just get on with it so I can go back to bed.” 

“Right,” he said. “Well, she’s over and… uh… she started bleedin’…” 

“OK,” she looked at him incredulous and he just raised his eyebrows at her. It clicked into place then. “Oh! Oh. OK, and I take it she needs… supplies?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t know where else to go.” 

“No, you did the right thing,” she said. “Just… two minutes.” 

She left him standing there again, not gone long before she returned with a brown paper bag and a hot water bottle. 

“Give her this,” she said, handing him the bag. “It has what she’ll need, plus instructions. This,” she passed him the bottle, “you fill with hot water, it’ll help with the cramps.” 

Joel nodded, an odd sense of almost peace coming over him as he did. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate it. Sorry for waking you up…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled a little, reaching out and giving his bicep a small squeeze. “Go take care of your girl.” 

Joel smiled a little back. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

He went back across the street, looking up to the sea of stars for a moment as he did. 

In so many ways, Joel was still adjusting to life in Jackson. He’d been here the better part of a year now but it was so different than the lives he’d led over the last two decades it was still a strange reality for him. No more scrounging to survive, no more constant threat of death and misery, no more constant feeling hopelessness and dread. Life was different here. It made him want something different. 

It made him want you. 

He knew it was hard for you, too. You were new to this life, too, more used to the harsh and cruel realities of the world. Falling into you had been like gravity, a force beyond what he could really control pulling him in. He wanted connection here, he wanted understanding and there you were, so like him in so many ways. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was your beauty, your kindness, your passion that drew him in. He’d resisted at first, the lingering fear of what caring for someone would mean heavy inside him, but the safety of Jackson made it safe to care about you, too. Soon, he just did everything he could to be around you, seeking you out at every opportunity, finding a sense of security and contentment unlike anything he’d really known since the world ended every time he fell asleep with you in his arms. 

He just wasn’t sure how to say that or how you felt. He didn’t want to pressure you, he sure as hell didn’t want to scare you off, so he just kept the warm feeling you gave him in his chest where it belonged. You let him be close to you, he wasn’t about to ask for more, especially when he didn’t deserve it. 

This, though, was something different. It was oddly comforting, having a way to take care of you. He understood himself best, it seemed, when he was caring for someone. If he could protect them, provide for them, hold them when they needed it, he was doing his job. He’d just never had a way to do that for you. While it had been a long time since he’d had to worry about a period in this way, this was familiar territory. He loved you, it felt good to have the chance to look after you. 

The shower was running when he got home and he quickly filled the kettle and put it on the stove before heading to his room. He turned the lights on and pulled back the sheets, finding a bloodstain on the side of the bed that had become yours in the months you’d been together. He quickly stripped the bed - balling up the sheets and tucking them out of sight to wash once you weren’t in the shower - and put fresh bedding on before throwing a clean pair of his boxers over his shoulder and going back downstairs to fill the hot water bottle and make a cup of tea for you just as he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. 

Joel took everything - the paper bag, the boxers, the hot water bottle, the tea - and knocked softly on the bathroom door. 

“Sorry,” you called to him. It still sounded like you’d been crying. He frowned at that. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute, I…” 

“Not worried about that,” he said, frown deepening. “It OK if I come in?” 

You sighed. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

You had a towel over your front when he came in and your eyes were red but you were, at least, not actively crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I haven’t… I had no idea that was going to happen, I’ll clean up whatever mess there is and…” 

“Why do you keep apologizin’?” He asked, setting the brown paper bag and the boxers on the edge of the sink, near the toilet. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about, baby. Shit happens. I just want to make sure you got what you need and that you’re feeling alright.” 

You just looked at him for a moment, blinking in shock. 

“Really?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Course,” he said, nodding to the bag. “Ran out and grabbed… whatever that is. I’ll be honest, I ain’t sure, I didn’t look. But I got something to help with the cramps, made tea… just take care of what you need to in here and come back to bed, OK baby?”

You just nodded and he turned to go before thinking better of it. Instead, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, breathing in the smell of his soap on your skin before heading back to bed. 

It didn’t take you long before you came in, closing the door quietly behind you, wearing his boxers, your hair still wet. You seemed surprised when you saw that he was sitting up in bed, the lamp on his side of it on as he flipped idly through the book about space he was trying to work his way through so he could talk about it with Ellie. 

“You doing OK?” He asked, marking his place and setting the book aside. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. Your eyes weren’t red now but your arms were crossed over your chest protectively as you came over to the bed. He pulled the covers back and you froze for a moment. “You needed to change the sheets?” 

He shrugged but you didn’t climb in beside him. 

“I really am sorry,” you said, your hand on the bed. “If I knew that…” 

“Baby, I really need you to stop acting like you did somethin’ wrong here,” he said. “You think this is the first time I cleaned up some sheets or ran out and got tampons or whatever was in that bag in the middle of the night? I’ve loved women before, this ain’t new. Besides, you’re the one who has to deal with all the pain and shit. Think I can handle cleaning up some sheets now and then.” 

Your eyes met his then, an odd, almost misty expression on your face. 

“What?” He asked. 

“You love me?” You asked quietly. 

It was his turn to freeze then. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure how you felt, he didn’t want to pressure you or freak you out but… the way you were looking at him made it seem like that may not be a bad thing. 

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I do. Is… Is that OK?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed, smiling for the first time since this whole thing had started. “Yeah, it is because I love you, too.” 

He smiled, too, something warm and comforting starting in chest and spreading over his whole self when you said it. You loved him, too. 

“Well, should get in bed with me then, woman,” he said and you laughed before climbing in. 

You snuggled against his side before putting the hot water bottle over your lower stomach and drinking your tea, Joel’s arm around your shoulders, fingers trailing over your bared skin. When you were done, he turned out the light and the two of you settled in, you on your back, Joel on his side, one arm below you, his other hand resting on the hot water bottle, holding it in place over your skin. 

“I haven’t had a period in forever,” you said quietly. “I thought all that was done for me.” 

“Place like Jackson can change a lot,” he said. “Having enough to eat makes a hell of a difference.” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Should probably… probably start being more careful now that… well, you know.” 

Joel was going to agree but something stopped him. 

He’d meant it when he’d said that a place like Jackson can change a lot. Before be came here, before Ellie, before you, he’d have agreed. He wouldn’t want to bring a child into this world, wouldn’t want to know what he could lose if he did. 

Now, things were different. There was still the twinge of fear at the thought of having a child, the same one he’d have if the world had never ended, especially given his age, but it wasn’t the same terror there would have been even just a year ago. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said instead. “But… I wouldn’t be against the other option.” 

“Really?” You said, turning your head to look at him in the dark. “You… you would want that?” 

“With you?” He smiled softly. “Yeah. I… I think I would.” 

You snuggled closer and he pressed his lips to your temple, his hand still holding the hot water bottle in place. 

The first time it happened, Daryl thought maybe he was sick.

You’d only joined the group a few days earlier.

Quiet thing.

Soft-spoken. Polite. Always trying to help with chores before anyone asked.

The kind of person who apologized when other people bumped into you.

Daryl noticed you mostly because you kept sneaking food to Sophia when the adults weren’t looking.

One evening near the campfire, he watched you split your last granola bar in half because Carl looked hungry.

You didn’t even hesitate.

Just handed it over with a tiny smile like it was nothing.

Something strange happened in Daryl’s chest then.

Not bad strange.

Just…

Warm.

Uncomfortable.

He ignored it immediately.

Then came the incident with the frog.

Daryl was cleaning a rabbit near the edge of camp when he heard your voice nearby.

Very serious.

Very soft.

“You are very handsome.”

Daryl frowned.

Who the hell were you talking to?

Then he glanced over.

You crouched in the grass staring solemnly at a tiny green frog perched on a rock.

The frog blinked.

You blinked back.

“I hope you know that,” you informed it gently.

Silence.

Then the frog jumped directly onto your shoe.

You gasped like you’d just been chosen by royalty.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl’s brain stopped functioning immediately.

Just—

Gone.

Entirely.

Because your whole face lit up so brightly it physically hurt to look at.

Pure excitement. Pure softness.

Cute.

Cute enough that Daryl forgot he was holding a knife.

The knife slipped.

“Shit.”

You startled violently and looked over.

“Oh no, are you okay?”

Daryl stared at you.

You stared back.

The frog remained on your shoe.

Then slowly, heat crawled up Daryl’s neck for absolutely no reason at all.

“…M’fine.”

You smiled in relief.

Daryl nearly dropped the knife again.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

After that, it kept happening.

Constantly.

In increasingly ridiculous ways.

You laughed at one of Glenn’s terrible jokes?

Daryl forgot what he was saying mid-sentence.

You tucked your knees to your chest while sitting by the fire looking sleepy?

His brain buffered like a broken computer.

You absentmindedly hummed while hanging laundry?

Death.

Immediate death.

The worst part?

Other people noticed.

Mostly because Daryl Dixon, renowned antisocial menace, had apparently developed the survival instincts of a concussed raccoon whenever you were nearby.

“Hey Daryl,” Glenn said one afternoon, visibly trying not to laugh, “you know you’ve been holding that empty water jug for like five minutes, right?”

Daryl looked down.

Shit.

You stood twenty feet away talking to Carol.

Smiling.

That explained nothing.

“Ain’t your business.”

Glenn grinned.

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

Daryl scowled harder.

Unfortunately, the scowling didn’t really work anymore because the second you glanced over and smiled at him—

His entire expression softened automatically.

Glenn looked delighted.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl looked horrified.

The thing was, you weren’t trying to be cute.

That would’ve been easier.

If you were flirting or showing off or acting intentionally charming, Daryl could’ve dealt with that.

Probably.

But no.

You just existed like that naturally.

Which meant Daryl got ambushed constantly.

Like the morning he woke up early and found you asleep beside the dying campfire wrapped in one of Carol’s blankets.

Your cheek squished against your folded arms. Hair a mess. Tiny sleepy frown on your face.

Daryl stopped walking entirely.

His chest did something deeply alarming.

Then you shifted in your sleep and made this tiny soft noise.

Daryl’s soul left his body.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself.

“What?”

He jumped six fucking feet.

Rick stood nearby holding coffee and looking concerned.

Daryl pointed vaguely at you.

Rick blinked once.

“…She’s sleeping.”

“I got eyes.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Daryl struggled violently to explain something he didn’t understand himself.

“She’s just…”

Rick waited.

Daryl gestured helplessly.

“…Like that.”

Rick stared at him for a long moment.

Then slowly:

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You liked Daryl immediately.

Not in a dramatic way at first.

Just quietly.

Because beneath the gruffness and the constant glaring, Daryl was kind in strange little ways.

He always walked closest to the walkers during runs. Always gave food to the kids first. Always noticed when somebody needed help before they asked.

And he never made you feel stupid for being shy.

Other people sometimes pushed.

“Speak up.” “You’re too quiet.” “You don’t gotta be nervous.”

Daryl never did.

If anything, he seemed to understand instinctively when you needed space.

You appreciated that more than he realized.

Though you did notice something odd eventually.

Daryl acted… weird around you.

Not bad weird.

Just—

Weird.

You’d catch him staring sometimes before he abruptly looked away.

Sometimes he’d walk directly into things while talking to you.

Once, you handed him a canteen and he dropped it immediately after your fingers brushed.

You honestly thought maybe he disliked you at first.

Until Carol nearly laughed herself unconscious after witnessing one interaction.

You’d offered Daryl part of your apple during lunch.

He stared at you for three full seconds before taking it like you’d handed him a live grenade.

Then you smiled.

And Daryl walked directly into a support beam afterward.

Carol had to physically leave the room.

The problem got significantly worse once Daryl started developing feelings.

Because suddenly every tiny thing you did became catastrophic.

You smiled at him across camp?

His stomach flipped.

You touched his arm while thanking him for something?

Cardiac arrest.

You laughed softly at one of his sarcastic comments?

Daryl immediately forgot how human conversation worked.

One afternoon, you sat beside him while he repaired arrows.

Quiet comfortable silence settled between you.

Then after a while, you leaned slightly against his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book.

Daryl stopped breathing.

Actually stopped.

You noticed after a second.

“…Daryl?”

No response.

“Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard.

“…Yeah.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“You seem tense.”

Tense.

Right.

Because a pretty girl casually using him as a pillow was definitely a normal experience he handled well.

Daryl looked straight ahead rigidly.

“M’fine.”

You hummed softly and kept reading.

Then after a moment, you smiled to yourself.

Cute, you thought.

Daryl nearly died because of the smile he couldn’t even see properly.

Everyone else suffered alongside him.

Mostly because Daryl became incredibly stupid whenever you were involved.

“You volunteered for laundry duty?” Maggie asked suspiciously.

Daryl scowled.

“So?”

“You hate laundry.”

Daryl glanced toward where you stood hanging clothes nearby.

“…Ain’t that bad.”

Maggie looked at Glenn slowly.

“Wow. He’s gone.”

Or:

“Why are you helping organize the pantry?”

Daryl blinked.

You stood inside the pantry with Beth.

“Oh.”

Beth snorted.

“Hopeless.”

Even Carl noticed eventually.

“You act weird around her.”

Daryl looked offended.

“Do not.”

“You smiled.”

“…Shut up.”

The breaking point came because of a cat.

A tiny orange cat wandered into camp one afternoon during watch duty.

You spotted it first.

Your entire face transformed instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl, who had been sharpening a knife nearby, looked over automatically.

Big mistake.

Because there you were kneeling in the dirt holding this scruffy little cat against your chest while it purred loudly.

Your smile was soft and delighted. Your eyes bright. The cat pressed its face against your chin.

Daryl’s brain completely shut down.

Blue screen.

System failure.

Gone.

“Daryl?”

He blinked slowly.

You looked up at him with the cat still in your arms.

“Look how cute she is.”

Daryl stared.

At you.

Not the cat.

You noticed eventually.

And slowly your cheeks pinked slightly.

“…What?”

Daryl opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because the truth was horrifying.

The truth was that you looked so cute holding that cat that something deep inside him genuinely malfunctioned.

“Yer…” he started.

Then stopped.

You waited.

Daryl rubbed aggressively at his face.

“Jesus.”

You blinked in confusion.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

Too fast.

Too intense.

You startled slightly.

Daryl immediately looked horrified with himself.

“Not bad,” he muttered quickly. “Didn’t mean— shit.”

The cat meowed loudly.

Somewhere behind Daryl, Glenn quietly whispered:

“Oh, this is painful.”

Daryl ignored him.

Mostly because he was too busy staring at you.

Still holding the cat. Still looking confused and shy and unbearably cute.

Then, to make things infinitely worse, you smiled nervously.

Tiny little thing.

Soft.

And Daryl blurted:

“Yer too cute.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Glenn made a choking sound behind him.

Your eyes widened hugely.

Daryl froze solid.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Because he had not meant to say that out loud.

You stared at him.

He stared back looking deeply alarmed.

Then your face went bright red.

“…What?”

Daryl wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You heard me.”

His voice sounded rough now.

Embarrassed.

Glenn looked one second away from exploding.

You still held the cat frozen against your chest.

“I’m cute?”

Daryl barked out one short disbelieving laugh.

“Sweetheart, ya got no idea.”

The endearment slipped out naturally.

And somehow that made your expression soften instead of embarrass harder.

Daryl swallowed hard.

Then admitted quietly:

“Think m’losin’ my damn mind over it actually.”

Your heart skipped violently.

Because Daryl looked genuinely distressed.

Like finding you adorable was a legitimate medical emergency.

You stepped closer slowly.

The cat jumped down and wandered away immediately ignored by both of you now.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you know I like you too, right?”

His entire face went blank.

“…What?”

You smiled shyly.

“I thought maybe you knew.”

Daryl stared at you for a long moment.

Then looked genuinely offended.

“How the hell would I know that?”

“I stare at you constantly.”

“That ain’t evidence!”

You laughed softly.

Daryl’s brain short-circuited again immediately.

“There!” he pointed accusingly. “That! That thing ya do!”

“What thing?”

“Exist!”

You burst into startled laughter.

And Daryl—

God.

Daryl looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

Then suddenly he was laughing too.

Half embarrassed. Half relieved.

“You are deeply weird,” you informed him fondly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Probably yer fault.”

Then finally—

Finally—

He kissed you.

The group called you many things.

Rick called you a liability.

Carol called you “resourceful.”

Glenn called you “the human equivalent of a lit firecracker.”

Michonne once stared at you for a full thirty seconds after catching you trying to teach Judith how to throw knives and simply said:

“No.”

You’d smiled innocently.

“Okay.”

Five minutes later Daryl found you in the yard showing Carl how to pick handcuffs with a bobby pin.

“You ever listen?” Michonne snapped from the porch.

“Not particularly!”

Daryl nearly choked trying not to laugh.

That was the problem.

Nobody else saw it.

To everyone else, you were chaos incarnate. Tiny disaster. A gremlin in human form who somehow survived entirely on caffeine, spite, and poor decisions.

But Daryl saw the little things.

The way you made Judith laugh when she cried.

The way you always gave someone else the bigger food portion when supplies got low.

The way you stayed awake beside people having nightmares because you knew what it was like to wake up afraid.

You hid kindness under sarcasm and recklessness.

Daryl knew something about that.

Which was probably why he kept ending up near you.

Even when he swore he wouldn’t.

“You are banned from traps.”

“I don’t think you can legally ban me.”

“I ain’t askin’ legal permission.”

You sat cross-legged on the floor of the church, pouting dramatically while Daryl dismantled the horrifying contraption you’d built from fishing wire, a soup can, and what looked concerningly like a fork.

“It was defensive.”

“It was pointed at the bathroom door.”

“In case of intruders.”

“It nearly took my damn eye out.”

“You still have both eyes.”

“Woman…”

You snorted.

He tried to stay irritated.

Then you smiled at him.

Daryl hated that smile.

Not because it was bad.

Because it wasn’t.

Because it made something inside his chest go soft and stupid.

You leaned back on your palms, watching him work.

“You’re pretty when you’re grumpy.”

Daryl almost stabbed himself with the screwdriver.

“I ain’t pretty.”

“You kinda are.”

“Shut up.”

“You blush really easy for a scary redneck.”

“I ain’t blushin’.”

“Your ears are red.”

“Cold.”

“It’s August.”

He glared at you.

You grinned wider.

And Christ.

That grin was going to kill him someday.

You had absolutely no survival instincts.

That became obvious during a run when you found an abandoned toy store.

“Absolutely not,” Daryl said immediately.

“But—”

“No.”

“There could be useful supplies.”

“You’re lookin’ at a stuffed giraffe.”

“It could contain medicine.”

“It contains fluff.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know exactly that.”

Twenty minutes later, Daryl walked out carrying ammunition, canned food, and somehow three stuffed animals because you’d shoved them into his arms with an expression so heartbreakingly hopeful he physically could not say no.

“You’re manipulative,” he informed you.

“You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You carried the giraffe.”

“…Shut up.”

You beamed like you’d won something.

Maybe you had.

The prison changed things.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

Quietly.

Daryl got used to hearing your footsteps beside his.

Got used to your voice drifting through cell blocks.

Got used to finding little stupid things left for him.

Half a candy bar.

A sharpened hunting knife you’d spent hours fixing.

A note that said:

found this. thought of your grumpy ass.

You never signed them.

You didn’t have to.

And Daryl—

Daryl started smiling more.

Not big smiles.

Tiny ones.

Rare enough that the entire prison noticed.

“You like her,” Glenn said one evening.

Daryl nearly walked directly into a wall.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“She’s literally sitting in your lap.”

Daryl froze.

You were.

Somewhere during game night, you’d apparently climbed onto the bench beside him, gotten comfortable, and eventually ended up sprawled half across his lap while arguing with Maggie about card rules.

Neither of you had noticed.

Or maybe you had.

Because when Daryl looked down, you tipped your head back to look at him upside down and smiled sleepily.

“You comfy?”

Every thought left his head.

“…Yeah.”

Glenn made a face like he wanted to scream.

The thing about you was that you trusted Daryl completely.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

You’d hand him your weapons without thinking twice.

Fall asleep against his shoulder.

Reach for his hand automatically in crowds.

And Daryl, who’d spent most of his life feeling unwanted, didn’t know what to do with that kind of trust.

Especially because he wanted more of it.

Wanted all of it.

Every smile.

Every laugh.

Every terrible impulsive idea.

Every moment.

It scared the hell out of him.

“You ever gonna tell her?”

Carol sat beside him on the prison tower roof while Daryl cleaned his crossbow.

He didn’t look up.

“Tell who what.”

Carol snorted softly.

“You’re hopeless.”

“Ain’t ask for commentary.”

“You look at her like she hung the moon.”

Daryl immediately scowled.

“I do not.”

“Mmhm.”

“She drives me insane.”

“You’re smiling right now.”

His face flattened instantly.

Carol laughed outright.

Below them in the yard, you were attempting to roller skate using scavenged children’s skates two sizes too small.

“You’re gonna bust your ass!” Daryl yelled.

“I believe in myself!”

“You shouldn’t!”

Two seconds later you crashed directly into a fence.

Carol nearly cried laughing.

Daryl was already climbing down the ladder.

“Y’alright?”

You sat in the grass blinking up at him after your spectacular wipeout.

“One day,” you announced solemnly, “my athleticism will reveal itself.”

Daryl crouched beside you, trying and failing not to smile.

“You got a death wish.”

“You caught me last time.”

His expression softened before he could stop it.

Because he had.

Months earlier.

You’d slipped climbing a shelf during a supply run and Daryl had caught you before your head hit concrete.

You’d stared at him afterward like he’d hung the stars.

Daryl remembered every second of it.

Now you looked at him that same way again.

Open.

Warm.

Fond.

Dangerous.

“You always catch me,” you said quietly.

Something painful tugged in his chest.

He looked away first.

“C’mon. Let’s get ya cleaned up.”

You took his hand immediately.

No hesitation.

Never hesitation.

The first time Daryl kissed you happened because you almost got bitten.

Which honestly felt fitting.

You’d split from the group during a run after hearing a dog barking somewhere nearby.

Because apparently your survival instincts had fully evaporated.

Daryl found you cornered in an alley with three walkers closing in.

Afterward, after the blood and panic and violence, after he killed the last walker with brutal fury, he grabbed you by the shoulders hard enough to make you stumble.

“The hell were you thinkin’?!” he shouted.

You looked startled.

“There was a dog—”

“You coulda died!”

“I didn’t—”

“You don’t get to run off like that!”

Your face changed then.

Not angry.

Hurt.

“I said I’m sorry.”

Daryl stopped breathing.

Because your voice had gone small.

And he hated that.

Hated being the reason for it.

You looked down, rubbing your arm awkwardly.

“I just thought maybe if it was alive—”

Before he could think better of it, Daryl grabbed your face and kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

Like he’d been holding it back for months and finally snapped.

You made a tiny surprised sound against his mouth before kissing him back instantly.

Like you’d been waiting too.

When he pulled away, both of you were breathing hard.

Daryl looked horrified with himself.

You looked delighted.

“Well,” you whispered. “That’s one way to communicate.”

“I—”

“You really need healthier coping mechanisms.”

He groaned and dropped his forehead against yours.

You laughed softly.

Then kissed him again.

And Daryl Dixon, perpetually grumpy survivalist, realized he was completely and utterly screwed.

Dating you was a nightmare.

Not because you were difficult.

Because you were impossible.

You stole his shirts constantly.

You hid plastic spiders in his bedroll.

You once convinced Glenn to help you paint tiny smiley faces on all of Daryl’s bolts.

He discovered them mid-run.

“What the hell is this?”

You looked unbearably pleased with yourself.

“Morale.”

“You vandalized my weapons.”

“They’re happy weapons.”

“Why are they winkin’?”

“Artistic flair.”

Daryl stared at the bolt.

Then at you.

Then back at the bolt.

And despite every effort not to—

He laughed.

A real laugh.

Rough and rusty from disuse, but real.

Your entire face lit up.

There it is, your expression seemed to say. There you are.

And God.

Nobody had ever looked happier to hear him laugh.

You loved him loudly.

Openly.

Without shame.

Daryl had no idea what to do with that at first.

You kissed his cheek in passing.

Curled against him at night.

Told him you missed him after short supply runs like he’d been gone for years instead of hours.

And every single time, Daryl looked vaguely stunned.

Like love was something he still didn’t fully believe belonged to him.

One night, lying together beneath a threadbare blanket while rain hammered the prison roof, you traced the scars on his arm gently.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” you murmured.

Daryl shrugged.

“Nothin’.”

“Liar.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment.

Then finally:

“Ain’t never had… this before.”

You looked at him carefully.

“This?”

“Someone carin’ this much.”

The honesty in his voice nearly broke your heart.

You shifted closer immediately until your forehead touched his.

“Then I’ll care enough for all the years nobody else did.”

Daryl stared at you like he physically didn’t know how to process that sentence.

Then he kissed you slow and deep and aching.

Like he was trying to memorize the feeling.

The prison fell.

Everything broke after that.

But not you two.

Never you two.

Even separated, even terrified, even covered in blood and grief and exhaustion, Daryl searched for you like breathing.

And when he found you again—

God.

He nearly collapsed from relief.

You ran toward him through the trees so fast you almost tripped.

Daryl caught you around the waist as you slammed into him.

“You idiot,” you choked out, crying and laughing at once. “You’re alive.”

He buried his face against your neck.

Couldn’t speak for a second.

Because you were alive too.

And that was everything.

Absolute everything.

“I gotcha,” he muttered hoarsely.

Your arms tightened around him instantly.

“I know.”

And you did.

You always did.

Years later, after Alexandria, after wars and grief and rebuilding, after all the ugly parts of surviving finally softened around the edges—

Daryl still woke up every morning with you tangled around him like a sleepy octopus.

Still found random objects hidden in his vest pockets.

Still watched you climb things you absolutely should not climb.

Still heard your laughter carrying through whatever place became home next.

And every single day, Daryl loved you more.

Even when you filled his motorcycle saddlebags with stolen candy.

Even when you taught Judith swear words “educationally.”

Even when he found you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning trying to train a possum you’d found outside.

“You cannot keep that thing.”

“He likes me.”

“It hissed at me.”

“That’s just his personality.”

“You said that about me once.”

“See? Soulmates.”

Daryl stared at you holding the possum like a proud mother.

Then he shook his head slowly and stepped between your knees, hands settling automatically on your hips.

“You’re a damn menace.”

You smiled lazily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“But I’m your menace.”

And there it was again.

That feeling.

That soft helpless warmth that had started the first day he found you hanging upside down from an RV roof.

Daryl pressed a kiss to your forehead.