ILLITHID

this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)

the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)

he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.

however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.

he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.

this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.

(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)

this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.

whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.

(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)

—☆★☆—

“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.

“just going to go get some water, kuni.”

waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.

he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.

“you won't take too long?”

he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.

an unanswered question. you won't leave?

your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.

“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”

why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.

the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)

“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.

i love you too. goes unsaid.

your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”

anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”

“hey!”

shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.

because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.

it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).

“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”

“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”

once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.

everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.

# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies

it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.

really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).

and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.

yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.

he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.

but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.

and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)

(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.

a sly smirk was his only reply).

—☆★☆—

“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.

“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”

he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”

“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”

that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).

“uh huh, sure i am.”

“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”

so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”

your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.

“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”

“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.

kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.

and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”

“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.

you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”

“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.

wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.

and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”

“deny what?”

“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).

you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.

“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”

he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”

“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”

the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.

that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”

“well, i could hardly resist you.”

afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.

(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.

“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.

“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.

that little...)

# observation three: secretly? protective/considerate (green flag!!)

if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.

this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.

he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.

(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”

“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”

“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”

“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”

“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”

you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)

or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)

if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.

he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.

—☆★☆—

fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.

and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.

“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”

his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.

“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”

“...”

“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”

“...can we just stay here like this?”

“....”

“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)

it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.

“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”

if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.

because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)

returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.

with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.

he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.

i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.

(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.

“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”

“...was that flirting?”

“i will drop you.”

“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”

“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”

you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)

—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.

“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”

“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”

nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.

he'll let it slide for today.

(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)

# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)

saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.

getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him

he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.

but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.

(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)

because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.

(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.

he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.

“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”

silence. “i'm sorry.”

“.....”

his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.

“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”

i'm sorry i hurt you.

please stay.

please don't let go of me.

i need you.

i love you.

when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.

there are tearstains on his face.)

getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.

and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.

—☆★☆—

“what would happen if we ever broke up?”

dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)

you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.

rather, he looked scared.

“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.

am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....

the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.

perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?

or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-

“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”

“...what?” wanderer blinks.

“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”

and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?

“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”

- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.

“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.

but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)

“you're so unromantic.”

indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.

he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.

he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.

“hey, kuni?”

wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”

“thank you for letting me love you.”

....

“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”

(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)

i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.

so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.

because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.

and that is enough for him to never let go.

“I should’ve taken that damn serum.” Samuel murmured, his rough hands massaging his temples to gain some relief. Your frown continued to grow, as you heartbreakingly watched your husband doubt himself. You watched him pace around in your bedroom, as you sat on your shared bed.

“Sam…” You started, only to be interrupted by the distressed man infront of you.

“No, baby, I should’ve.” Sam reconfirmed, shaking his head as he turned to face you. “I had him right there. I had Sterns right there and he got away, because I wasn’t—“ He bit his lip, in anger and frustration, trying to find the right words.

Your heart continued to shatter as you heard the man you so desperately loved speaking so ill of himself. Your eyes stayed glued to him, who keep walking back and forth, dragging his feet a bit. You bit your bottom lip, trying to find the right words to say.

“What, Sammy?” You spoke after a few minutes of silence, tilting your head at him. He could’ve sworn every single one of his worries simply vanished by the sweet sight of your face. Sam sighed deeply, running a hand through his head, turning to look at you.

“‘Cause I wasn’t enough. I ain’t… him.” He uttered, your heart sinking at his words. He wasn’t Steve Rogers, and that seemed to be troubling him. How did you not notice? You even felt the air in your lungs thinning, genuinely worried for your distraught husband. His eyes watched your reaction, hating how anxious he seemed to be making you.

“Oh, baby..” You cooed, a deep sigh leaving your lips. “Come here.” You softly patted the bed, your eyes begging him to follow you to bed. And your gentle falcon complied, quickly yet hesitantly sitting across from you. Your small hand reached out to grab his tough hand, bringing it to your lips, placing a loving kiss to it. The sole action bringing comfort and peace to the troubled Samuel in front of you.

“He made a mistake with me, Y/N. Steve… he was wrong ‘bout me.” He sighed shakily, breaking eye contact and looking down at his lap. You felt your breach hitch as you heard him. You desperately shook your head, knowing he was wrong.

“No, hey—” You started, taking his head into your small hands, lifting it up to meet his sorrowful eyes. The sight was absolutely devastating. “No, he wasn’t.” You shook your head, your thumbs gently caressing his skin.

“Sam, you are the perfect fit for this role, to follow Steve’s steps and he knew of this.” You started, your voice tender and delicate. “He knew you were the hero this world needed, someone people can look up to, and rely on. He knew you could bring people together and actually give them hope; and all of that without any super soldier serum.” You continued, offering him a small grin, one which he reciprocated.

“It’s about who you are. Not what you’re not.” You felt Sam shiver a bit at your words, reluctantly nodding his head. Your hands released his soft cheeks, now holding his hands.

“You’re so much more than you could ever imagine. That serum is not a reflection of your abilities or your character, even less your worth, baby.” You stated, looking at him through your eyelashes. “That stupid serum ain’t got nothing on my man.” You shrugged, earning a genuine snicker from Sam, followed by a chuckle, throwing his head back.

“You really had to throw in a joke, woman?”

“It’s not a joke, I’m being serious!” You defended. Samuel shook his head, smiling from ear to ear, before wrapping his arms around your waist, engulfing you on a loving, grateful hug.

“I love you.” Samuel muttered, hiding his face into the crook of your neck. You nodded your head, planting a gentle kiss to his head. You knew. Samuel would tell you every single day, by both his actions and his words. You felt so loved all the time, so genuinely desired and wanted. You hoped he felt the same.

“Go shower, cap. I’ll prepare some dinner for you.” You whispered softly to him, starting to release your hold on him. He mumbled against your skin, disagreeing.

“You keep yo’ ass in bed.” Samuel said, shaking his head, and gently laying you down on your bed. He flashed you a grin, before leaning in to place a sweet, quick kiss to your red lips. You heard him hum into the kiss, feeling relaxed and overall happy to just have you. “I’ll be quick.” Sam mumbled, just hovering over your lips. You bit your lip to hide the smile that just begged to leave your lips, nodding your head.

You watched the lovely view of Samuel undressing in front of you. It was a sight you were used to, but still brought killer butterflies to your stomach. You sat up in your bed, placing a few strands of your hair behind your ear, as you enjoyed the view. You sometimes couldn’t believe he was yours. Captain America is yours. You couldn’t believe that those strong arms that protected the world, also wrapped around you lovingly at night. You didn’t even catch yourself staring until Sam’s chuckles brought you out of the trance you seemed to be in.

“You’re eyeing me up, sweetheart.” Sam said between chuckles, finding it absolutely adorable. He found it ever cuter as he saw your cheeks becoming red at his teasing. God, he loved you.

“I’m sorry; you’re just…” You started, not able to finish your sentence by the pure embarrassment. Sam chuckled yet again, starting to undo his belt.

“Just what, mhm?”

“Shut up.” You giggled, face completely flushed. Sam laughed even harder, now kneeling in front of you. You covered your face with your hands, flustered by his flirting.

“You still getting flustered by me? Baby, we’re literally married.” Sam continued to tease you, his hands resting on your thighs. You laughed at his comment.

“Yeah, well, I can’t help it.” You replied, your hands running to sit by his broad shoulders, feeling electricity as soon as your skin touched his. The feeling he brought you was unbelievable.

“I mean… I am married to America’s ass.” You decided to joke. A big, loud laugh left Samuel’s lips, his head dropping to your thighs, laughing hard. His heart was full. He couldn’t even remember why he seemed so doubtful and insecure. You made him believe in himself again. And he couldn’t be more grateful. He looked up once again, his laughter now dying down. He stared into your eyes, his gaze going between your eyes and your lips, just needing to show you how much he loved and appreciated you. He loved you so much it was overwhelming.

“Yeah, you are, baby.” Samuel replied, proudly admitting to his role as Captain America. His hands squeezed your thighs gently, before trailing his way up your waist. You smiled widely, watching him so full of confidence and security.

Aftercare | If one manages to get proper aftercare from Rick after he's been exposed to the engine, they deserve an award. Rick doesn't give a fuck. For most of the time. His game is to use and abuse his lover, and then maybe afterwards letting them stay around with their limbs intact. Oh, he won't kill that kind of a useful little thing, what would he do with a broken toy? But he might have to convince his lover to stay for a little while longer. Maybe binding them to a gurney and wheeling them around while whistling labouriously through his split lip. Just to show that while he's not gentle, he's at the very least merciful, right? Although, he's very fond of the idea of making his partner so dumb with orgasms that they can't really function after sex from the soreness, so that he has more control over them. Surface-level affection, almost mocking, cold baths and pushing his partner around on wheels since they're so weak. He gets a kick out of absolute control.

Body part | Fingers. No, sorry, but he has a hand fetish, and goes crazy watching his partner finger themselves and using their hands on themselves, specifically. On himself, he likes his ass. That's why it's always out. Easy, breezy, good to slap and grab at while he thrusts in. He laughs, feigning mild amusement but has to bite his tongue to not let out a needy moan when his ass is played with.

Cum | Dr. Trager has to make sure to give his favourite patient their daily injections, oh yes. He just needs to cum deep, deep inside, whatever hole he's thrusting into. He loves shoving his hips flush against his lover's face, forcing them to take his cum down their throat and seeing the tears and ugly gags as he chuckles and praises them; "Say ah - good, good job, sweets. That's it, take it all. Every last drop. Fuck, that's tight... Breathe through your nose. There we go. There we go."

Dirty secret | Nothing like being covered in blood and viscera and fucking animalistically on the floor, sweaty from running, skin bruised and lip split from the struggle. That's what Rick really likes.

Experience | Rick might be a little bit lost inside his own head and detached from reality, but he's still got it, so to speak. All that experience from beforehand is in his muscle memory. He knows what he's doing.

Favorite position | Any position where he can exercise control by being able to see his partner's face. He needs to see it all, see how the way he angles his hips makes his lover's eyes roll back, how their brows furrow as he's about to make them cum, how they grimace ever so slightly when he bends their body into an impossible angle, pushing his cock inside while gripping onto their thighs. So, anything with eye contact. Very important.

Goofy | Snarky but sexy, that's how he likes his fucking. He just doesn't shut up. It's like he has a fucked up porn parody script inside his head that never stops. He loves to hear his own voice if his mouth isn't occupied.

Hair | Little to no pubic hair left due to the state of his skin. He quips a lot about saving money on shaving products these days.

Intimacy | Like mentioned above, Rick is not very concerned about intimacy after being exposed to the horrors of Mt. Massive, however, he can't help but get a little lovey-dovey just as he's about to cum. A little bit of his former self slips out as his thrusts turn erratic and he bites back his whines and tries not to say "I love you, I fucking love you so much, fuck," as his fucktoy looks up at him adoringly. When his partner responds to his touch well, he can't help but soften up a little bit. Also, as he's desperate to cum and in a good mood, he's bound to say some teeth-rottingly sweet stuff.

Jack off | He doesn't really need to masturbate since he has his little assistant wherever he goes, except as a punishment. He'd definitely strap his misbehaving partner into a wheelchair or another contraption where they couldn't touch him, and just to tease them, he'd stand a few feet from them and give them a show. Stroking his cock languidly with a feral grin, just giggling and grunting, talking filthy as he watches his partner wriggle against their restraints. The struggle only turns him on more. Maybe he'll cum on their face, not bothering to clean it up and leave them all tied up, check up on them later, leaving his partner to grind their teeth in frustration. Jacking off is one of his tools of power, not a relieving of his urges.

Kink | Medical and surgery play, but times a hundred. Bondage, bloodplay, humiliation, exhibitionism - oh, he's going to make the other variants watch. Just to show them what they're missing.

Location | Honestly, any place in the asylum where he can wrestle his partner against a piece of rickety furniture is good enough for him - however, he prefers a more... medical setting, if it's available. Stirrups, hospital beds, wheelchairs, autopsy tables, any vertical surface in the male ward. The more bloodstained the better. His "consultation office" is one of his favourite places to fuck in, but he's not opposed to sneaking around to other places in the asylum. He just wants it to be dirty and forbidden.

Motivation | Torture. There, it's out there. Nothing like a good, adrenalizing chase or surgery to get the blood pumping. If his partner is an autassassinophiliac or just enjoys a good chase - even better, he might not even have to cut them up, the enthusiasm will certainly make up for the blood.

No | He doesn't like submitting to his lover. Just because he needs the control, needs the power, after he lost so much of his power and influence, his ego demands that his partners submit to him in all aspects. Even if they're on top, he's the one who's in control.

Oral | After being exposed to the engine, Rick gives oral like a starved man. It's like he's sensitive to and even somewhat addicted to his partner's pheromones. While he also loves to bury his cock into his partner's throat as a little stress reliever, he loves to hear his partner moan as he dives between their legs. That tongue can do wonders, and he can exercise control over his partner's pleasure while getting a proper taste of them. He always gets achingly hard when he gives oral, and loves when his lover pulls on his hair and digs their nails into his scalp. Loves it. Might even cum hands-free.

Pace | Fast and rough. When he's inside his lover, he can't be bothered to be all slow and sensual - that's what torture foreplay is for.

Quickie | Rick likes quickies. Just the thought of a free-use fucktoy he can use before going off to do his work gets him going. Quickies are definitely convenient when he has to attend to his patients. An office quickie with an assistant - what's not to like?

Risk | Sex with Rick after he's been through the engine is in and of itself a huge risk. Not to be gross, but he doesn't really think of the consequences of anything, he's just here to satisfy his own sadistic urges. He's willing to experiment with all kinds of things.

Stamina | Rick is nearly insatiable, and can go for several rounds without feeling exhausted or spent. Most of his motivation for rounds two, three and four come from overstimulating his partner without him solely chasing his own pleasure, and he's good at what he does, and takes his sweet time doing it, making sure his partner can't stand up straight after their treatment.

Toys | "What do you mean 'did you wash that speculum'? Do I look like I don't know what I'm doing? I'm the professional here, sweetheart."

Unfair | Rick is extremely sadistic, and any chance he gets to tease his partner, he takes it since it fuels his sadism to see tears of frustration run down his pretty toy's flushed face. So, lots of teasing, edging, all that, if he's in the mood to savour his prey.

Volume | His volume depends on his mood. When he's mad or in another kind of negative mood, he'll be pretty quiet, but most of the time, he's pretty loud and talkative. Lots of teasing, filthy words, groans and cursing. He doesn't have a filter.

Wild card | He's going to press those bone shears, blade against tender skin, on his lover's neck, grinning as he fucks them in rough, deep thrusts while their eyes dart from his undulating hips to the rusted tool in his hands, its hinge creaking dangerously as he presses it further against their throat. He loves the little red pearl necklace that forms on his lover's skin. Just a little bit of pressure, a desperate gasp, but not a slice, not the sound of gushing blood, just the sound of his prey struggling - and he cums. Deep, hard, with a feral growl.

X-ray | His cock is more responsive to stimuli than ever, getting painfully hard with even a little bit of action. It's sensitive, shapely, with bulging veins and a throbbing, prominent underside. Not to be disgusting (yet here we are) but the texture of his skin is different from before. Massages one's insides in a most lovely way.

Yearning | His sex drive is through the roof. Being so pumped full of hormones and having so much destructive energy, he needs to release all of it. He's very spontaneous and will get aroused from pretty much anything. The primal need to empty himself into his lover as roughly as possible is always there.

Zzz | Rick rarely sleeps. He can't stomach the nightmares anymore. Even though they excite him, sleep is not rest anymore, so he'll go without sleeping for as long as he can. Grumpy and groggy before a total shutdown. If this happens after fucking, he might let his lover curl up beside him, too tired to protest the cuddles. But he secretly likes it. He feels safe, in an almost animalistic, instinctual way.

×

You were playing a dangerous game, but you wanted to see his breaking point. Richard was a challenge, and you had to be strategic. Play your cards right and hope you'd come out on top.

He closed the distance, his hand pulling you in by the hip. The heat of his breath against your neck made you shiver involuntarily. Then, his lips brushed your ear.

“Desperately,” he groaned, his body pressing firmly into your side. “Achingly.”

He surged forward, the momentum driving you back until you hit the corner. His hands boxed you in, slamming against the wall as he crowded your space, his hips moving against yours with restless need.

“I’m so hard I’m practically stabbing you,” he groaned, bucking upward. “Ah, fuck—pleasepleaseplease.”

You bit your bottom lip until you tasted blood. watching him unravel. It was a power trip you hadn't expected—who knew the key to making him weak in the knees

was testing how far he’d submit just for a taste of you? It was intoxicating.

A low moan caught in your throat as he grew desperate, his mouth finding your neck. He whispered against your skin, his begging dissolving into raw sounds while he continued to grind against your hip.

You hummed, the dopamine rush hitting you like a drug. “Okay, Richy... you can—”

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who holds your hand during sex, no matter what he’s doing his hand will always find its away to intertwine with yours. He’ll hold and squeeze it, his big hands almost covering the entirety of yours.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who leans in close to you when fucking, forehead against yours, but his eyes flutter close a lot. Usually, he’d be able to keep his eyes open, but he allows himself to get lost in the feeling of you.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who has low groans, he barely even moans, but you can make him if you push his buttons in all the right ways. If he moans audibly then you know he’s enjoying way too damn much.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who makes you cum more than once before filling you up, he doesn’t mind how, fingers or mouth, he’ll find a way to make you just about content and then make you lose all sensation in your legs with his cock.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can switch his pace anytime, whatever suits your mood. You wanna go slow, gentle, drag it out? Done. You wanna go faster, deeper, harder? Your wish is his command (and he’s more than happy to grant it)

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can joke around during sex, he’ll get you laughing in the middle of it of course, he can’t help it.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who whispers sweet nothings in your ear, praising you, complimenting you before and after sex. You are his and he is yours, he likes to remind you of that.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who doesn’t leave many marks on you like hickeys, but he does have his own way of showing off that you’re his. That little hobble in your step when you went to training the day after you spent the night with him? Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a coincidence.

Sam Wilson the kind of guy who can hold out, he refuses to let himself cum before you, he has to know that you’re fully satisfied before he lets himself go.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Sam Wilson Masterlist

For if L was the brains, then you were the eyes and the ears.

And the force needed you both, because the Kira case was the most maddening thing it had ever known.

After all, it was a case of endless reports and unexplained deaths, following such precise patterns that were so precise that the whole situation just felt… wrong, in a way that wasn’t natural. You’d seen criminals with all sorts of egos, vendettas and levels, but this was something far more complex and isolated.

It managed to shake even the most hardened veterans on the force nationwide.

Except L—who sat there from day to day—seemingly unfazed.

When you first met him, he was midway through spooning a horrendous amount of sugar into a cup of milky tea, studying patterns on a whole spread of screens that were stretched around a dark room. You thought he looked almost ghostly then, pale with wide, staring eyes with tired bags beneath them that begged him for respite.

His indifference annoyed you at first.

Until you understood that it was just all… focus.

Real and raw determination that glinted behind his tired eyes, that was so strong that he had forgotten how to sleep, how to eat, let alone anything else. His attendants were the ones who were shoving food directly into his mouth when he stayed in there too long—and for cases when he stayed up far beyond what should have been healthy—he was forced to sleep then, too.

And as frustrating as he was, you found yourself admiring him.

Which was why, when he cracked a crucial lead, you decided to do something nice for him:

Something small.

You were so careful with it, too, setting down a plastic container beside him on his desk the first thing in the morning.

“That flaw you caught out in Kira’s behaviour was incredible,” you softly praised before clearing your throat. “Heard you have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I got you something as a sign to keep it up.”

However, L didn’t seem too pleased—turning his nose at the offering—pushing it away.

“I don’t like caramel,” he stated flatly.

You blinked in disbelief. “What? But I was told that—”

“I like sweet things, yes,” he clarified in a tone that was not unkind, tucking his knees against his chest to hide his discomfort in the confrontation, “but… I don’t like caramel. It is too sweet.”

“H-hang on,” you stammered, “I’ve seen you eat sugar cubes straight from the jar.”

L simply shrugged at your accusation. “That’s a different type of sweet.”

You inhaled sharply at his words, forcing yourself to take a long, deep breath, because the alternative meant losing your composure on the spot and potentially getting taken off the case.

“Alright,” you said with a strained smile, “I’ll go for something else next time. Like… a nice, plain sponge.”

“Not plain,” he corrected you without missing a beat.

Your eyes twitched slightly. “Please.”

He shakily blinked at you. “I would actually prefer if you didn’t bring me cake at all, if you intended to reward me.”

“But you did a good job, and I wanted to do something nice for you,” you quickly replied, defending your actions.

“And it was unnecessary,” he corrected you.

Another deep breath passed through you. “Alright. It won’t happen again.”

L tilted his head to the other side that time. “You sound irritated.”

“I wonder why,” you muttered.

He paused for a moment before attempting to continue the conversation. “Did I do something wrong? I don’t always read people so well.”

You forced a smile and shook your head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you admitted, blinking away from him for a moment. “Maybe I was the one who overstepped.”

Then, as the silence settled between you both, and you returned to work as normal, a deep sense of horror rooted in your gut. It was a feeling so uneasy that it shocked you. A sweeping sort of realisation that vibrated beneath your skin, as you understood that his pushing you away didn’t make you angry, nor sad, but quite the opposite—it pulled you closer.

Had anyone else dared to interact with you in such a manner—had they challenged your gesture, your patience, your kindness—you would have marched into the office of your superior and would have demanded reassignment, the consequences be damned.

L didn’t give you that feeling, though.

He left you wanting him.

Which infuriated you, because you could not understand for the life of you, as to why.

~*~

Fast forward to a couple of days, and the mood inside the workspace felt more suffocating than ever before. A crushing tension had risen and filled the air with an unseen humidity which was thick as it was draining. The Kira investigation had stalled yet again, and the silence between everyone directly working on it had turned brittle; even breathing or clearing one’s throat felt like it might trigger something volatile.

You felt it the most through L, strangely enough. Not that he was too big on talking to begin with, but he had his tells. You just so happened to understand what exactly they were. What you once perceived as an unwavering calm was not the case at all. The fact that he remedied his stressed state with short hums, and fingers that tapped impatiently on his desk with creased brows and bleeding lips—was clear that he was not feeling like himself either.

Then, suddenly, when everyone else had surrendered to the quiet, L stood upright at once.

It made almost everyone, but especially you, jump.

“This might be it,” he muttered, quietly at first, then again, louder that time so that everyone else could hear. “I think that I might have a lead.”

Quickly, he brought up a seemingly insignificant pattern in the timestamps displayed on his screen. At first glance, it seemed like nothing, but in the context of an ongoing investigation, it was a solid thread that could threaten to unravel everything else.

It was a connection.

“Incredible,” someone else leaned in, their words becoming hazy and muffled as you fixated on L with an almost devoted focus, “whoever Kira is… this narrows down the potential identity to a mere handful of candidates.”

The room shifted, and everyone around you seemed to breathe for what felt like the first time in days.

However, you just about collapsed with relief.

All of that pressure—all of that dread—the sleepless nights, the fear that the case was slipping further and further away—broke something inside of you and before you could register what you were even doing, before your thoughts caught up to what you had just committed to—you—you—

—kissed him.

Kissed L.

On the mouth.

His lips were soft, parted slightly in surprise, staring at you with his wide, exhausted, but ultimately shocked eyes.

You froze.

You stumbled back a short moment later, staring back at him with a look that could have perfectly mirrored his own. A bright and furious blush spread across his cheeks—so vivid that it looked almost scalding—as if you had scorched him.

“I’m—I-I I’m so sorry—” you began, gasping wildly, your breath catching on every word. “I-I didn’t— I-I mean, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Within a flash, you bent over to grab your documents, dropping them a few times in the process. Several curses left your lips as you struggled to retain your composure. Even Watari turned away quietly, avoiding your gaze, like he hadn’t seen what just happened at all.

L, meanwhile, remained quiet.

You tried to skirt around the desks, tripping over nothing, apologising so quickly that the words came out all jumbled. Your voice rose in pitch, and tears pricked at your eyes over the sheer amount of embarrassment you felt right then and there.

“I didn’t mean it—no—I did mean it, but not like—not like that—I wasn’t thinking—I’m so sorry—pretend that it didn’t happen—or—no—”

At that point, too, you were almost ready to fake your own death.

Maybe even move overseas to somewhere new.

Then, you heard a soft voice behind you, just as you were about to leave entirely.

“Wait,” L called out.

You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.

“So… it’s like that,” he followed up, not quite talking to you that time, rather to himself.

You weren’t sure what he meant, but truth be told, L didn’t fully understand either—because it was his first time feeling something like this, too.

Giving it a few more agonising seconds, you slipped out completely that time, letting the door click shut, leaving everyone behind in the awkward, now-charged silence.

All the while, L stared at the space where you had been, his fingers pressed to his lips, a furious blush staining his cheeks, and wondered why, for the first time in his life, his thoughts felt like an unsolved case.

~*~

The next time you saw L, you made sure to set your expression to something that looked professionally unavailable. If anyone would tease you for it, or bring it up at all, you would tell them that it was their tired mind playing tricks on them—anything to disguise the fact that you had kissed him and then fled the room.

You even arrived early, hoping to set the record straight, but then your superior officer intercepted you on your way in.

“Heard you and L had a moment,” he brought up.

Your soul just about left your body, a small, unheard curse uttered out of your lips as your eyes screwed shut for just a moment. You blinked up to meet his gaze, your face suddenly unsure and ashamed. “S-Sir, I can explain—”

Though all he did was wave his hand dismissively. “It’s alright. You’re not in trouble. It’s surprisingly common in high-pressure environments.”

You blinked again. “...What?”

He left out a soft laugh. “But L? That guy? Really? I’m just surprised that’s all. Didn’t think he would be your type.”

“This is so humiliating,” you said, bowing your head in continued shame. “I’d rather have you fire me.”

He patted your shoulder with a shrug. “Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just… surprising. That guy doesn’t notice much beyond the pixels on his screen. If he even looked up from it, then…” he trailed off, his weathered face wrinkling with thought, “perhaps it isn’t as one-sided as you think.”

Then, just like that, he walked off, leaving you frozen in the middle of the hallway, looking mortified.

Swallowing your pride, your panic, and everything else since that fateful incident, you marched back to L’s surveillance room, trying to move on without sacrificing what was left of your dignity even more.

L was sitting inside like usual, hunched over his keyboard, in deep focus. Or, no, he wasn’t. You knew him well by now: his tapping was off-beat, his posture was rigid, he wasn’t even working, but rather staring at a blank spot on his screen.

You cleared your throat. “I’ve managed to triangulate the possible operation zones based on Kira’s patterns. If we combine it with the previous analysis, then maybe we can narrow—”

L nodded quickly. “Yeah. You can leave the files here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “But you’re not even looking.”

“I am,” he replied, almost mechanically.

You placed down the documents anyway, taking a moment to observe him and just see in general how he was doing. L sifted through the data, skimming idly through the files, but his fingers twitched whenever he heard you shift or breathe or exist. His brain was just as addled as yours, because, well, you kissed him.

He tried throwing himself back into work, just like you did, but every single thought in his head was stuck on that instance.

He had never been this distracted in his entire life.

Not that you were doing any better—no matter how much you tried to move on—your mind drifted to the very same thought, too.

Then, finally, after roughly half an hour of excruciating and tense silence of trying to function and work side by side like professionals, the silence finally broke.

L took a deep breath, sighing.

“About last—”

You froze. “—Oh, that was nothi—”

“Wait,” he tried to catch you again before you dismissed him entirely.

Though you could still only shake your head. “I’m so sorry, okay, I really am. It was unprofessional of me, and I didn’t think—”

Your breath caught, and you couldn’t quite finish your words, nor could L reply for a long time, but then, his throat cleared. “It was… mutual,” he went on to reveal.

You went silent, staring at him, unable to respond at all.

Then finally, you managed to blurt something out. “Wait… what?”

L didn’t dare to look up anymore, choosing to return to work, or at least try to do so.

“No, wait,” you called out, taking a step closer. “Can you please elaborate on that?”

Though he didn’t reply. His knuckles might have tensed and his jaw might have tightened, but he didn’t act on anything else.

“Fine,” you softly scoffed, letting out a frustrated sigh, refusing to be humiliated a second time. “We’ll just move on from this, alright? It never happened. Let’s just… focus on work and then I’ll be reassigned and… you’ll never have to see me again after.”

L’s breath caught and he gulped down everything that raced in his mind that he just couldn’t tell you. He wanted to reciprocate with equal indifference, to pretend that it was all fine, but he internally battled with the part that struggled to confess, because he just wasn’t good with expressing his feelings.

Therefore, L remained quiet, unable to tell you anything else. What he couldn’t tell you was that he was focusing on you—but all of you—your lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered, the way your clothes sat on your body and what must have been underneath. That’s right. He couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t tell you that just the kiss left him wondering what more there was.

And beyond even the lust, how he didn’t want you to be reassigned, how he wanted to work more with you. How he wanted to see you every morning now, how you could probably now get him cake if you wanted to. How he liked having someone that for once, he got along with. How he liked your mind and how it worked—but—he was left frozen on the spot.

Though, it wasn’t just him who was grappling with oneself, for you too, were overcome with all sorts of things.

Had you been a little bolder or if had he hinted towards anything at all that could be deciphered as reciprocated interest, then…

You swallowed it all down, even if you did want to know…

More of what he was like, whether he would be shy in bed or if he would be gentle or if that’s where he would show his passion—whether or not he matched the stereotype of a shy nerdy guy with an absolutely big cock—if he would finish quickly or focus too much on you.

Or, if he was loving, if he was gentle, if he’d notice all the little things about you like he did while at work and life with him would be easier than every other guy you’ve ever come across. You wondered how you’d spend your time with him if you were together, if you’d be more of the indoorsy type or if you’d quietly go places and just… exist together.

That sounded nice.

(But then you choked on your own breath.)

You exhaled deeply, crossing your arms in irritation, trying to hide how you were overcome with a new realisation—different from the one from before—because you had just learned that L liked you too, and that he was equally as terrible at dealing with it.

Which meant that this case just got a hundred times more complicated.

(Because what did that mean for you both from now on?)

Lucifer didn’t do comfort.

Not because he didn’t understand it. Because he understood it too well.

Comfort was leverage. Comfort was how you got people to lower their guard, how you convinced them the knife wasn’t coming. It was a tool, like fear or faith or love. Useful. Dangerous. Best handled with care.

And yet, lately, it kept happening to him anyway.

Not in any dramatic, end-of-the-world sort of way. No declarations. No lines crossed loudly enough to set off Dean Winchester’s hair-trigger instincts. It crept in quietly, disguised as normalcy. As routine. As the kind of human behavior that slipped under the radar until it was already embedded.

You sitting beside him instead of across the table during research, chair angled just a little toward his. You handing him a mug of coffee without commentary, already knowing he wouldn’t drink it but doing it anyway because humans were weird like that. You lingering after conversations ended, not rushing off, not filling the silence either, just… staying.

Lucifer noticed all of it.

He noticed the way your knee brushed his when you leaned in to read over a passage. The way you didn’t flinch when he reached across you for a book. The way you treated him less like a volatile supernatural threat and more like a deeply unpleasant coworker you’d decided to tolerate.

It was irritating.

Worse, his grace reacted.

Not with fire or fury or anything suitably apocalyptic. Just a low, constant awareness, like static under the skin. When you leaned closer, something in him settled. When you pulled away, it left behind a faint irritation, like someone had moved his chair an inch to the left without telling him.

He told himself it was nothing.

Humans were tactile creatures. Social. Invasive. You bumped into people. You shared space. You got comfortable too easily.

That didn’t mean anything.

Except habits formed patterns.

And patterns had consequences.

Angels weren’t supposed to crave touch. They were supposed to inspire it. Awe. Fear. Worship. Lucifer had been very good at all three once. But warmth? Ease? Casual familiarity offered without expectation?

That was new.

He handled it the only way he knew how. With humor. With deflection. With the same relaxed superiority he used when dismantling someone’s worldview without raising his voice.

Lucifer stayed conversational, dryly amused, just this side of indulgent. He teased. He provoked. He poked at your logic and smirked when you pushed back. He spoke like someone who already knew the ending and was enjoying watching everyone else struggle through the middle.

It worked. Mostly.

Until Dean Winchester started paying attention.

Lucifer caught Dean in the hallway one night, slowing mid-step as his eyes flicked between the two of you seated at the table. Too close. Too comfortable. Dean’s jaw tightened, shoulders squaring like he was mentally lining up contingencies.

Dean didn’t say anything.

Which, honestly, was rude.

Sam noticed too, eventually. Sam always took longer, but when he spoke, it was never without intent.

“You and Y/N seem… close,” Sam said one evening, voice carefully neutral.

Lucifer didn’t bother looking up from the book in his hands. “Yes. It’s called social interaction. Very popular among humans.”

Sam didn’t smile. “That’s not what I meant.”

Lucifer sighed, dramatic and put-upon. “It never is.”

The tension settled into the bunker slowly, like a bad smell no one wanted to acknowledge. Dean’s looks got sharper. Sam’s questions got subtler, wrapped in concern and laced with warning. You felt it too. Lucifer saw it in the way you hesitated before sitting beside him when the boys were watching, the way you put space between you like distance might make things easier.

It annoyed him more than it should have.

If they wanted to hate him, fine. He could work with that. Hatred was honest. Predictable.

This cautious, protective hovering?

That was messier.

The night you came to him, the bunker was quiet in that low, humming way that made even him slightly restless. Lucifer was in one of the unused rooms, perched on the edge of a table, flipping a coin over his knuckles. A habit he’d picked up somewhere along the line. Humans liked fidgeting. It helped them think.

“You’re stalling,” he said without looking up when you paused in the doorway. “Whatever it is, just say it. I promise not to smite you. Probably.”

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

“They don’t trust you,” you said.

Lucifer snorted softly. “That’s their best instinct.”

“They’re worried about me.”

That got his attention.

The coin stilled. He looked up, expression sharpening just a fraction. “Ah. And that bothers you.”

You hesitated.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Being close to you… it complicates things. With them. With everything.”

Lucifer slid off the table and crossed the room at an easy pace, stopping just shy of you. Close enough to feel your warmth. Not close enough to touch.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “That tends to be my brand.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it is accurate.”

You exhaled. “They think you’ll hurt me.”

Lucifer tilted his head. “And do you?”

Another pause.

“Not intentionally.”

He smiled at that. Not cruel. Not mocking. Almost… appreciative.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m usually very intentional.”

You frowned. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest,” he countered. “Big difference.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “And if I still choose this? Choose you?”

Lucifer’s jaw tightened. His hand lifted on instinct, hovering near your wrist before he stopped himself. He covered it with a shrug.

“Then,” he said, casual as if discussing weather, “I’ll try something wildly out of character.”

“What’s that?”

“Not ruining it.”

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just charged.

You stepped closer.

Lucifer felt it immediately. The decision in your movement. Your fingers brushing his sleeve, then his wrist. Warm. Sure. Not afraid.

That surprised him.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t hesitant. It was careful, deliberate, and unmistakably your choice.

For a split second, Lucifer froze.

Then instinct kicked in. His hand snapped up, closing around your wrist, grip firm enough to stop you if you wanted to pull away. You startled—

—and then you relaxed. Leaned into it instead. Your other arm slid around his shoulders like this was where you meant to be.

Something cold and sharp ran through him.

“Well,” he thought dryly, this is new.

He kissed you back.

Slow. Controlled. Just a little smug, because of course he was. His thumb rested against your pulse, grounding himself more than you. He hated how easy it felt. Hated how human it was to enjoy the warmth, the closeness, the fact that you weren’t pulling away.

When he pulled back, it was with visible effort.

He rested his forehead against yours, breath steady.

“You know,” he murmured, “this is the part where I’m supposed to pretend I planned this.”

You smiled. “Did you?”

Lucifer scoffed softly. “Please. If I’d planned it, it would’ve been much more dramatic.”

He brushed a second, softer kiss against your lips. Brief. Almost gentle.

Then he stepped back, composure sliding neatly into place like a well-worn suit.

As you left the room, Lucifer stared at the empty space you’d occupied, tongue pressing briefly to his teeth.

Touch-starved. Distracted. And profoundly annoyed that he liked it.

God was absolutely laughing somewhere.

And that, more than anything, made him want to do it again.

─────────────── 𓆩✧𓆪 ───────────────

You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”

“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”

He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago. 

You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.

“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”

He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-” 

“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”

He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”

“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”

He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”

“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.

“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”

You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”

“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”

“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”

“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.

You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.

Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.

Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.

“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”

You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”

He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”

“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”

He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.

“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”

You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”

Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”

You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.

He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.

Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.

“He get ambushed again?” he says.

You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”

Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.

“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.

You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.

“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter. 

You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?” 

You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”

You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.

The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.

You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops. 

Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.

“This place is a dump, huh.”

“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”

Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”

“Want a hand?”

“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”

You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.

The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.

You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.

More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.

Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.

The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.

“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”

Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.

“Christ, Dean,” you choke.

“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”

“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.

He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”

“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”

“That so?”

You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.

His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”

He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”

Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”

“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.

But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.

“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”

You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.

“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”

“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.

“Not a good time.” 

“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”

You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.

Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.

“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”

“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”

You study him for a second longer. 

He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”

You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”

Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”

“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”

“He admitted it. Multiple times-”

“He was drunk.”

He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”

“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.

“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”

“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”

“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”

“And?”

He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.

“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”

“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”

He frowns. “Yes you did-”

“I said there’s nothing going on.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”

“No, there couldn’t.”

Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”

“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.

“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”

You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.

“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.

You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”

You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.

It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.

Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.

“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”

“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”

“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”

“How?” Dean says.

You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.” 

“They’re destroying people’s homes.”

“But they haven’t killed anyone-”

“Yet.”

You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”

You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”

Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”

You give him a grateful smile. 

Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”

You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”

“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”

“Low blow.”

He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-

“Excuse me.”

This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”

You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.

Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”

Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.

To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel. 

You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time. 

You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to. 

“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.

You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.

“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”

Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.

There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.

Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.

Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.

You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him? 

You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.

“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”

He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”

You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”

“Call it an act of kindness.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”

“What’s your line of work?”

You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.

“You here with anyone?”

You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.

“Either of them your boyfriend?”

You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”

You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.

“Which one?”

“Blonde.”

“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”

“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”

It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.

Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.

“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”

“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.

“Not particularly…” you start slowly.

“No? Sure looked like it.”

You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.

Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”

“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”

Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you. 

You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.

Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you. 

You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.

And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.

But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”

You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”

“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”

You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.

He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”

“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”

You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”

You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”

He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”

You hesitate. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.

“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.

“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”

He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t… want me.”

It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.

“I…”

You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.

You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.

But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.

“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”

His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”

You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”

“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”

“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”

He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”

You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”

“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.

“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”

Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears. 

“You’re not expecting what?”

“For it to mean anything.”

“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.

“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”

The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.

“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.

“Dean-”

“I love you too, angel.”

It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face

You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“The women, Dean-”

“No women. There’s no women.”

You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”

“Not for a damn long time.” 

You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.

His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.

“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”

Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”

“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”

It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”

“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”

You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying. 

And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did.”

You roll your eyes. “Sober.”

He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”

You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”

“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”

You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”

Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”

Dean kisses you.

“What were you thinkin’, huh?”

You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.

“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”

“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him. 

“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”

Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”

“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.

“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“

“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.

He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”

You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”

You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.

“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”

You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.

He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”

You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.

“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”

You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”

He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”

A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?

You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.

“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.

You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.

“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.

His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own. 

Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs @mollyherondale

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni @spaghettiwoes @suckitands33 @/buckmybarnes @lostdragonqueen13 @moralgraymatter @love-stucky @sourgummieworm @annoyingrebelsoul @roseblue373

“that smells friggin’ awesome.” Dean’s gruff voice comes out next to your ear, his chin coming down to rest against your shoulder. The warmth from his body presses against your back, strong form enveloping your backside. He molds himself to you, as if the gods had sculpted your bodies to fit perfectly together. His hands come down to rest against your hips. 

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, his stubble scruffing against your cheek. The kitchen light above your head illuminates your workspace. The neat piles of sliced vegetables are on the cutting board, waiting to be dropped into the pot on the stove. Remnants of flour are still freckled on the sleeves of your shirt.

“Pasta?” He questions, tilting his face to take a deep breath of your skin. You smell like something sweet; something familiar; something he spent years searching for. His nose pressed into your skin. The stubble on his chin tickles your neck, leaving your skin tingling. Dean loved these domestic moments. Being pressed up against you while the world around them - and the darkness that lurked around the corner- melted away. 

The two of you had the bunker to yourselves for a while. Sam went out to grab groceries- even after your explicit promise of having enough food for dinner. Of course, in usual stubborn Winchester fashion, he had declared there were only ingredients. Nothing to actually make things. You had held your tongue. The possible argument was not worth it. 

It was obvious the apple never fell too far from the Winchester tree.  Dean was just as stubborn. As soon as the man put his mind to something, it would be like talking to a wall to change his mind. Hell, the man laughed in the face of heaven and its strongest warriors. You’d never met their father, but you had a sneaking suspicion that they were just as stubborn as him. 

The bunker halls were quiet, except for the low hum of the tv playing one of Dean’s favorite Old Western films. It was a kind of tranquility that neither of you had known in forever. Perhaps if you close your eyes just long enough, you could pretend to be living a normal life. A life where you and Dean would get up for work and kiss each other goodbye. One that led to the both of you coming home to have a family game night and have cheesy holiday parties. 

But your life is full of monster guts, creaky motel beds, and cosmic manipulation. 

A soft hand tapping your bum brought you back to the present. Dean grinned into your neck, nuzzling his nose into your skin. He pressed a kiss to your neck. His hand squeezed your buttcheek, his grin widening. “You’re perfect, ya know that?” He whispers into your skin like a prayer, quiet enough for just the two of you to hear.

His hand moves back to your hip, thumb rubbing soft circles over your shirt. Despite his gruffness Dean is always gentle with you. Well, unless you ask for something different. 

“Makin’ dinner from scratch.” He mumbles, not even talking to you anymore. Just giving a voice to his inner thoughts. “Keepin’ our asses alive. Shit, sweetheart. I oughta get on my knees and ask for your hand.”

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, dumping the cut vegetables in the sauce pan. “Proposing already?”

When the cutting board finds its place back on the counter, Dean spins you in his hold. His eyes sparkle with affection, a calmness washing over his features. “I really appreciate you, Sweetheart. Need you to know that.”

A fuzzy feeling blossoms in your chest, spreading down to your nerves. Your face heats from his words, the soft tone bringing color to your cheeks. “I know.” 

Your lips curl into a smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. It’s soft, sweet, and full of adoration. He kisses you back. There’s a thousand words in his kiss, slow and full of appreciation. 

When you pull away, a pout turns his mouth upside down. Dean pulls you closer to him again, kissing all around your face. He does so until you’re a laughing mess, pawing at his chest to get him to let up. 

“Dean, the gravy!” You grin as he kisses your cheeks, jaw and forehead. 

“Just a second. m’lovin’ on my woman.” He mumbles the words between each kiss, hands drifting to settle lovingly against your hips.

The two of you stay like that. Entwined in each other, your arms around his neck and his around your waist. The flood of kisses had slowed. Now, you were just holding each other. 

“I love you.” Your words are a soft, gentle truth. 

“You’re my world, sweetheart.” He murmurs back, hugging you a little tighter. 

“The onions are burning.” You whisper, cracking the moment you were in.

Dean laughs. Shakes his head against your shoulder. “Let ‘em. Sam’s coming back with more.”