✴︎

your gun shakes in your hands.

“sweetheart,” the one on the left says, breathless. “look at me.”

the one on the right flinches. “don’t call her that,” he snaps.

same voice. same rough edge. same wounded anger tucked under the words. your stomach turns. “stop,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you want. “both of you. stop talking.”

they do and it almost makes it worse.

the shapeshifter has dean’s memories. sam warned you, voice tight over the phone while you were still running through wet alleyways and trying not to throw up. it can know things. private things. motel rooms and bad jokes and the way dean hums under his breath when he thinks you’re asleep. the first time he kissed you. the first time he said i love you and then immediately panicked and pretended to check the car’s oil. all of it. stolen.

“ask me something,” left-dean says, stepping half an inch forward.

you lift the gun higher. “don’t.”

he stops.

right-dean’s jaw tightens. “ask me.”

your eyes burn. “you both know.”

“not everything,” right-dean says.

left-dean scoffs, and god, it sounds so much like him you feel sick. “that’s what i’d say too.”

your finger rests near the trigger. not on it. near.

you think of dean’s hands on your hips in the bunker kitchen, warm and grease-stained from fixing something that didn’t need fixing. you think of him stealing your fries, then pretending he didn’t. you think of the night he crawled into bed beside you without a word after a hunt went bad, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, silent until he finally whispered “don’t make me talk yet”.

you know him. you do. so why can’t you breathe? “what did you tell me,” you start, voice cracking despite the effort, “after jolene’s case? when i wanted to quit?”

both of them go still. left-dean answers first. “i told you that you could. that i’d drive you anywhere you wanted. no guilt trip.”

your chest caves a little. right answer. perfect answer.

right-dean swallows hard. “and then i said i was selfish.”

left-dean turns sharply. you freeze.

right-dean looks at you. “i said i was selfish because i wanted you to stay,” he says. “and then i got scared you’d hear that as pressure, so i made a joke about your terrible motel coffee and you threw a pillow at my head.”

left-dean’s mouth twists. “cute. doesn’t prove anything.”

no. it doesn’t. that’s the awful thing. it still doesn’t.

then left-dean softens his face, careful and familiar, and takes one slow step toward you. “baby, come on. you know me.”

baby. too easy. too clean. your dean almost never uses that when he’s scared. he gets rougher. quieter. meaner to himself.

right-dean’s eyes flick to your gun. then to you. “shoot me,” he says.

your heart drops. left-dean goes silent.

“what?”

right-dean’s voice is hoarse. “if you can’t tell, shoot me. leg, shoulder, whatever. silver’ll show you. don’t let him near you.”

“dean—”

“don’t argue with me.” his face breaks, just for a second. “please.”

there. not in the memory. not in the words. in the way he makes himself the sacrifice before he lets you become one.

your hand steadies.

left-dean sees the shift before you move. his expression hardens, dean’s face turning strange with something that is not dean at all. “you sure about that?” he says.

you aim at him. “yeah,” you whisper. “i am.”

the shot splits the rain. silver hits shoulder, not heart, because even now—stupid, stupid—you can’t shoot dean’s face without mercy. the thing screams with his mouth, skin rippling wrong under the streetlight, and then sam is there from nowhere, finishing it before your knees can give out.

after, dean catches you before you fall. the real dean. solid. shaking. warm. you grab his jacket with both fists and shove your face into his chest, furious at him, furious at yourself, furious that you ever had to learn him this way.

“you told me to shoot you,” you choke.

his arms tighten around you. “yeah,” he says, voice breaking at the edges. “i know.”

“i hate you.”

“yeah,” he whispers into your hair. “i know that too.”

you hold him harder anyway, because his heartbeat is under your ear and it is his. it is his. it is his.

The penthouse smelled like expensive leather and your father’s cologne, too heavy, too sharp. You were sprawled across the massive sectional sofa in silk lounge shorts and a camisole, scrolling through your phone with deliberate disinterest as your father paced in front of you.

“I’m not asking, I’m telling you,” he said, voice tight with stress he rarely let show. “There was another attempt last night. Closer this time. I’ve hired someone… different.”

You didn’t even look up. “If it’s another ex-Marine meathead who calls me ‘Miss,’ I’m jumping off the balcony.”

The elevator dinged.

Your father straightened like a man who knew exactly how dangerous his next decision was. “He’s already here.”

The doors opened.

He stepped into the penthouse like he owned the shadows themselves.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a simple black jacket. Sharp, angular face with a faint scar along his jaw. His eyes were cold and pale blue as they swept the room once, assessing every exit, every window, and finally landing on you with zero expression.

Your father cleared his throat. “This is Sierra Six. You can call him Six for short. Former CIA. He’ll be your personal security detail until I say otherwise. Twenty-four seven.”

You slowly sat up, letting your phone drop to the cushion. A smirk tugged at your lips as you dragged your gaze up and down the man standing ten feet away. He looked like a loaded weapon in human form.

You tilted your head.

“So… they sent you to babysit me?” You let out a soft, mocking laugh. “This should be fun.”

Six didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. His voice was low, rough, and completely flat when he finally spoke.

“Ma’am.”

Just that. One word. Dry as desert sand.

Your father exhaled, already exhausted. “I have meetings in Geneva. Try not to make his job harder than it needs to be.”

He gave Six one last nod and left.

The heavy door clicked shut, leaving you alone with him.

You stood up slowly, walking toward him with that signature sway in your hips you knew drove bodyguards crazy. Stopping just a little too close, you looked up at his impassive face and smiled sweetly.

“Rule one, Six,” you said, tapping one finger against his chest. “I don’t do rules. And I *especially* don’t listen to men who look like they’ve never smiled in their life.”

You arched a brow, waiting for a reaction.

Six stared down at you, completely unbothered. After a long beat, he said calmly:

“Rule one, Princess. You try to slip away from me… I’ll cuff you to something heavy. We clear?”

You stared at him for a long second, lips parting in genuine disbelief. He was supposed to get flustered. Or at least *annoyed*. Instead, Sierra Six just stood there like a damn statue, watching you with those flat, unreadable eyes.

Your irritation flared hot and immediate.

“Excuse me?” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “Did you just threaten to *cuff* me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you one slow blink.

You huffed loudly, spinning on your heel and storming toward the open kitchen. The silk of your shorts rode up with every angry step, but you didn’t care. You yanked open the fridge, grabbed a sparkling water, and slammed it shut harder than necessary.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t need a glorified babysitter following me around like some shadow. Especially not one who thinks he can talk to me like that.”

You cracked the bottle open and took a sip, glaring at him over the rim. Six hadn’t moved from his spot near the elevator. He simply watched you, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture relaxed but clearly ready.

After another tense beat of silence, he finally spoke, voice low and even.

“Your father hired me because the last three agents couldn’t keep up with you. I’m not here to be nice. I’m here to keep you alive.” His eyes flicked over you once. “Throw your little tantrum if it makes you feel better, Princess. Just know I’ve got all night.”

Your cheeks burned with frustration. He wasn’t rising to the bait. Wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t even pretending to be intimidated. It made you even *more* irritated.

You set the bottle down with a sharp clink and stalked past him toward the hallway that led to your bedroom.

“I’m going out tonight,” you announced over your shoulder, voice dripping with challenge. “There’s a party downtown. You can either stay here and play statue, or you can try to keep up. Your choice, Six.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. You slammed your bedroom door behind you, heart pounding with a mix of anger and something else you refused to name.

You spent the next hour in your room, fuming the entire time. The fact that your father had actually done this, assigned some stranger to follow you around like a prison guard, made your blood boil. You weren’t a child. You weren’t helpless. And you definitely didn’t need *him*.

You changed into a tight black dress and heels anyway, not because you were trying to impress or provoke anyone, but because you refused to cancel your plans just because Sierra Six existed. You weren’t going to let this ruin your night.

When you finally came out, clutch in hand, you didn’t even glance at him at first. Sierra Six was still standing near the windows, silent and unmoving.

“I’m going out,” you announced flatly, voice laced with clear irritation. “I don’t care what my father told you. I’m not sitting in this penthouse like I’m under house arrest.”

Six turned around slowly. His expression remained completely neutral as he looked at you.

“Alright,” he said simply.

You frowned, thrown off by how easily he agreed. You’d expected an argument.

He walked over to the elevator and held the door open for you without another word. You huffed and marched past him, arms crossed tightly over your chest. The silence in the elevator was suffocating. You stared straight ahead at the doors, jaw clenched.

Once you reached the garage, he opened the back door of the black SUV for you. You climbed in and immediately looked out the window, refusing to acknowledge him.

As he started driving, the quiet only made you more annoyed. After a few minutes, you finally snapped.

“This is stupid,” you muttered. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve had security before and they were never this… *constant*. You’re just going to hover around me all night like some shadow?”

Six kept his eyes on the road, voice calm and low.

“My job isn’t to hover. It’s to make sure you don’t get killed. You can be as irritated as you want, Princess. Doesn’t change anything.”

You let out a sharp, frustrated breath and sank back against the seat, glaring at the back of his head.

“I hate this,” you said under your breath, loud enough for him to hear. “I hate all of it.”

A couple moments later you rolled up to the club. You had decided the best way to deal with this was to ignore him completely and headed straight in.

Since stepping into the club, you hadn’t looked at Sierra Six once. You joined your friends in the VIP section, forcing yourself to smile and act normal despite the heavy weight of his presence behind you. You danced with them, sipped your drink, and laughed at their stories like everything was fine, like there wasn’t a tall, silent man standing a short distance away, watching your every move.

But no matter how hard you tried to pretend he wasn’t there, you could still *feel* him. Every time you shifted or turned, he was somewhere nearby. Not crowding you, but never more than ten feet away. Calm. Focused. Unmoving.

It was exhausting.

You leaned against the railing overlooking the dance floor, nursing your second drink and chatting with your friends. You kept your back mostly to him, refusing to give him any acknowledgment. The music pulsed around you, but your mood remained sour and irritated. Having a constant shadow forced on you like this made everything feel stifling.

One of your friends glanced over your shoulder. “He really doesn’t take his eyes off you, huh?”

You shrugged, keeping your tone flat. “He’s just doing his job. I’m not going to pay attention to him.”

You took another sip of your drink and moved deeper into the VIP lounge with your group, still deliberately acting like Sierra Six didn’t exist.

You were tired of feeling his eyes on you.

While your friends were distracted laughing and ordering another round, you saw your chance. You slipped away quietly from the VIP area, weaving through the crowd without looking back. The main dance floor was packed, dark, and loud. It was exactly what you needed to disappear for a while.

The bass hit harder down here. Bodies moved all around you as you pushed deeper into the crowd. For the first time since arriving, you felt a small sense of freedom. No tall shadow right behind you. No constant reminder of your father’s overprotectiveness.

You found a spot near the center and let yourself move with the music. A server passed by with shots, and you took two, downing them quickly. The burn felt good. You grabbed a third drink from another tray and kept going, determined to enjoy yourself and forget that Sierra Six even existed.

Time blurred as the alcohol started hitting you. You danced harder, laughing at nothing in particular, moving with strangers and friends who had followed you down. The lights flashed across your face and the world felt a little softer, a little warmer.

You were definitely getting drunk now. Your movements were looser, your laughter louder, and your balance a little unsteady.

The alcohol had loosened you up significantly. The music felt louder, the lights brighter, and your usual sharp edges had softened into something reckless. You kept dancing, hips swaying, refusing to check if Sierra Six was still watching.

That’s when he appeared.

A tall guy in a fitted black shirt slid into your space on the dance floor, smiling confidently as he moved with you. He was attractive enough, sharp jaw, easy grin, and under normal circumstances you wouldn't have flirted back lightly. Tonight, though, with your annoyance still simmering, you let him get closer.

He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you in as the beat dropped. You didn’t push him away. Instead, you let your body move against his, a small defiant spark flickering in your chest. *Let Six see this*, you thought hazily. *Let him deal with it.*

The guy’s hands grew bolder, sliding down to your hips, then lower, gripping you tighter as he pressed closer. His breath brushed your ear as he murmured something you couldn’t quite hear over the music. You laughed, tipsy and stubborn, and didn’t stop him.

You allowed it.

For a few moments, his hands roamed, one slipping down to grab your ass, the other staying possessively on your lower back. You were drunk enough to lean into the chaos of it, using it as quiet rebellion against the man you knew was somewhere nearby.

Then suddenly, he was gone.

A strong hand clamped down on the guy’s shoulder and yanked him backward hard. Sierra Six appeared like he’d materialized out of the crowd, his expression cold and dangerous. He shoved the guy away with enough force that he stumbled into other dancers.

“Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking arm,” Six said, voice low and lethal, barely audible over the music but clear enough to make the guy’s face go pale.

The stranger muttered something and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

Six turned to you. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed as he looked you over. You were still breathing fast from dancing, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the defiance.

He stepped in close, closer than he’d been all night, and spoke directly into your ear so you could hear him clearly.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

“No,” you mumbled, pulling your arm away from his grip as best you could.

Your voice came out weaker than you wanted, slurred around the edges from all the drinks. You tried to step back, stubbornness still burning through the haze in your head. “I’m not… I’m not leaving yet. You can’t just… drag me out.”

Sierra Six didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t argue. He simply looked down at you for a beat, taking in your unsteady stance and glassy eyes, then wrapped one arm firmly around your waist to steady you.

“You’re done,” he said calmly, voice low and final.

You huffed, irritated even through the fog of alcohol, and tried to push at his chest. Your hands felt heavy and clumsy. The shove you attempted barely moved him. “This is so stupid… I was fine. You’re ruining everything again.”

Six didn’t respond. He simply turned and started guiding you through the crowd toward the exit, his arm staying locked around you like iron. You kept loosely fighting him the whole way, half-hearted tugs, quiet complaints, trying to dig your heels in, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your heels wobbled dangerously with every step, and the room kept tilting slightly.

By the time you reached the club’s exit, you were mostly leaning against him whether you wanted to or not. The cool night air hit your face as he led you outside and straight toward the waiting SUV.

You muttered under your breath, “I hate this… hate you being here…” but the words were soft and blurry. Your balance was completely shot.

Six opened the back door and helped you inside with surprising patience. You half-fell onto the seat, dress riding up, head spinning as you tried to sit up straight. He closed the door, walked around, and got into the driver’s seat.

As the car started moving, you slumped against the window, still quietly huffy, watching the city lights blur past. Your attempts at rebellion had completely fizzled out under the weight of how drunk you actually were.

By the time the SUV pulled into the private garage beneath the penthouse, most of your fight had drained away. The alcohol made everything feel heavy and slow. You were still irritated, still resentful that Sierra Six had ruined your night, but you didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

You relented.

When he opened the back door and offered his hand, you took it without protest and let him help you out of the car. Your heels were unsteady on the concrete floor, and the world tilted dangerously with every step toward the elevator.

Six stayed quiet the entire ride up. You leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes half-closed, arms wrapped around yourself. The doors opened directly into the penthouse. You took a few wobbly steps forward before your balance completely betrayed you as the floor rushed up to meet your face.

Six caught you before you could stumble too far.

“That’s enough,” he said under his breath.

In one smooth motion, he bent down and lifted you, tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. A surprised sound escaped you, but you didn’t have the strength to fight it. Your head spun as you hung upside down, one of his arms locked firmly around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place.

“Put me down…” you mumbled weakly, more out of habit than actual protest. Your voice was soft and tired. “This is humiliating, Six.”

He didn’t answer. He simply carried you through the dark penthouse, his steps steady and quiet. You could feel the strength in his shoulder and arm, solid, unyielding. The silk of your dress had ridden up, but you were too drunk to care.

He carried you all the way down the hallway and into your bedroom. Only when he reached your bed did he carefully lower you onto it. You landed on your back with a soft bounce, staring up at the ceiling as the room continued to spin.

Six stood over you for a moment, looking down at your flushed face and messy hair. His expression was still mostly unreadable, but there was a faint trace of something, maybe mild exasperation, in the set of his jaw.

“Get some sleep, Princess,” he said quietly. “You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

You didn’t fight him anymore.

The second your back hit the bed, the exhaustion and alcohol pulled you under. You barely managed to kick at the covers half-heartedly before your eyes fluttered shut. The last thing you registered was the sound of Six’s footsteps heading toward the door.

Then nothing.

You woke up the next morning to sunlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Your head was pounding, mouth dry, and your body felt heavy with regret.

You were still wearing the tight black dress from last night, now wrinkled and twisted around your body. However, your sky-high heels had been carefully removed and placed neatly by the closet. Your face felt clean. No trace of sticky makeup or smudged mascara. Someone had taken it off for you.

On your nightstand sat a tall glass of water and two painkillers, right next to your phone which was plugged in to its charger.

You stared at the items for a long moment, a mix of irritation and reluctant surprise twisting in your chest. You knew exactly who had done this. Sierra Six.

You slowly sat up, wincing as your headache flared. The penthouse was quiet. For a second you wondered if he had left, but you doubted it. He was probably somewhere nearby, waiting like the constant shadow he was.

You swallowed the painkillers with the water, then swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looked rough, hair messy, dress disheveled, eyes tired.

Memories from the club came back in fragments: dancing, the random guy’s hands on you, Six yanking him away, being carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes…

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and lingering annoyance.

You stood up on shaky legs and made your way toward the bedroom door, still wearing last night’s dress. You weren’t ready to face him, but you needed coffee.

You padded out of your bedroom, barefoot and still in the wrinkled black dress from last night. The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below. As you entered the open living area, the smell of fresh coffee hit you immediately.

Sierra Six was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. He looked exactly the same as always, calm and composed. He was dressed in a simple black shirt and pants.

You stopped near the island, arms crossing over your chest. The sight of him made your lingering headache feel worse. He had taken your heels off. Removed your makeup. Left water and pills like he had any right to touch you while you were passed out.

You hated how thoughtful it was.

Six glanced over at you, his expression unreadable as always. He slid a second mug of coffee across the counter in your direction without saying a word.

You stared at the mug for a moment before reluctantly walking over and picking it up. The warmth felt good against your hands, but you refused to thank him.

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that,” you said quietly, voice still rough from sleep and the hangover. “The makeup. The shoes. The pills.”

Six took a slow sip of his own coffee, leaning against the counter.

“You were barely conscious,” he replied evenly. “Figured you’d be more comfortable without the heels digging into your feet and that makeup caked on your face.”

You huffed softly, looking down into your mug. Part of you wanted to snap at him, but the hangover made it hard to muster up the energy. Instead, you settled for cold irritation.

“I don’t need you playing caretaker, Six. Just… doing your job and staying out of my way would be great.”

He watched you for a long beat, those sharp blue eyes steady.

“Staying out of your way almost got some idiot’s hands all over you last night,” he said, voice low. “You can be annoyed with me all you want, Princess. But I’m not going anywhere.”

You tightened your grip on the mug, cheeks warming with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. The worst part was knowing he was right but you weren’t about to admit that.

You scoffed under your breath and walked away without another word, disappearing into your bathroom. The hot shower felt like the only thing you had control over right now. You stayed under the water until your fingers pruned, letting the steam and heat wash away the headache and the lingering embarrassment from last night.

By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you felt slightly more human.

**Three months later**

Three months had passed, and nothing had really changed.

Sierra Six was still there. Constant, quiet, and impossible to shake. He followed you everywhere: to dinners, events, shopping trips, late nights out with friends. You had tried everything to make his job difficult. You ignored him for days at a time. You ditched him in crowds. You stayed out until dawn just to test how long he’d wait. You gave him one-word answers and cold shoulders whenever he tried to speak to you.

And still, he never cracked.

He never raised his voice. Never lost his patience in front of you. He simply did his job with that same calm, steady presence that somehow managed to irritate you more than if he had yelled back.

Tonight was no different.

You were getting ready for another event, some high-profile charity gala your father insisted you attend in his honor since he had some other business meeting to attend to. You stood in front of your mirror in a sleek, backless black gown, putting the finishing touches on your makeup. Six was already waiting in the living room, dressed in a tailored black suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous than usual.

You could feel his presence even from down the hallway.

When you finally stepped out, heels clicking against the floor, his eyes lifted from his phone and landed on you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you. His gaze was slow and assessing before giving a single, short nod.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer right away. You walked past him toward the elevator, the long slit in your dress flashing skin with every step. Only when the doors opened did you finally speak, voice cool and distant.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Six followed you inside without another word.

The gala was exactly what you expected, loud, glittering, and full of people who smiled too wide and talked too much. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, champagne flowed freely, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and money.

You had barely stepped inside before you started putting distance between yourself and Sierra Six.

He stayed close, as always. He was close enough to reach you in seconds, but far enough that it didn’t look like he was hovering. Still, you could feel him. That quiet, steady presence at your back no matter where you moved in the ballroom.

You made your rounds with a polite smile plastered on your face, greeting people you barely knew and accepting compliments on your dress. Every so often you’d glance over your shoulder and catch Six watching you from across the room, hands clasped in front of him, expression unreadable.

You were in the middle of a conversation with some politician’s son when you noticed Six had moved closer. Not close enough to interrupt, but close enough that you knew he was listening.

Irritation flickered in your chest.

You excused yourself from the conversation and made your way toward the bar, hoping the crowd would make it harder for him to stay right on top of you. You ordered a glass of champagne and took a slow sip, letting your eyes scan the room.

Six appeared at your side, close enough that his arm brushed yours when someone bumped into him from behind. He didn’t apologize. He just stood there, calm and solid, like he had every right to be in your space.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you muttered under your breath, not looking at him.

“What thing?” he asked quietly.

“Hovering.”

Six was quiet for a beat. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“Someone’s been watching you from the east side of the room for the last ten minutes. I’m not hovering. I’m doing my job.”

You finally turned your head to look at him. He was close, closer than he usually allowed himself to be in public. The suit made him look sharper, more dangerous. His eyes were steady on yours, unreadable as always.

You hated how your stomach flipped.

You took another sip of champagne and looked away.

“I don’t need you to save me from every person who stares,” you said coolly. “I’ve been handling myself just fine for three months.”

Six didn’t argue. He simply stayed where he was, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne.

“Three months of you trying to lose me,” he said quietly. “And I’m still here.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been.

The night had been moving in that same tense rhythm it always did with him around, you ignoring him and him watching you from a distance. You were standing near the tall windows, half-tuned out of whatever the man beside you was saying, when something in the air shifted.

It happened fast.

You caught the movement in your peripheral vision, a man in a dark suit cutting through the crowd with purpose from the east side, his hand already reaching inside his jacket. Your stomach dropped the second you saw the gun.

Before you could even open your mouth, the attacker raised his arm and fired.

The shot was deafening in the crowded ballroom.

The man standing right in front of you, the one who had been talking about stocks, jerked violently as the bullet tore through him. Blood sprayed in a hot, violent arc across your chest, neck, and face. You felt it hit your skin instantly warm and wet.

The man collapsed at your feet.

Screams erupted around you. Pure chaos.

You stumbled backward with a broken, choked sound, hands flying up. Your heart slammed so hard it hurt. You could still feel the warmth of someone else’s blood on your skin, on your dress, dripping down your collarbone. The metallic smell flooded your nose.

The attacker was already moving again, gun swinging toward you now that his first target was down.

Sierra Six hit him like a freight train.

He came out of nowhere, slamming into the man with brutal force. There was a violent struggle, fists, a grunt, the gun skittering across the floor. Six drove his elbow hard into the attacker’s face, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into a marble pillar with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, unconscious or worse.

It was over in seconds.

Six turned to you immediately, eyes sharp as he took in the blood covering your chest and face. He stepped in fast, hands gripping your arms.

“Hey. Look at me,” he said, voice low but urgent. “It’s not yours. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You couldn’t stop shaking. Your breathing came in short, panicked gasps. The image of the man dropping right in front of you kept replaying. You could feel the blood cooling on your skin.

“I-I felt it hit me,” you managed, voice cracking. “He was right there-”

“I know.” Six’s grip tightened just enough to ground you. “But you’re not hit. We need to move. Right now.”

He didn’t give you time to fall apart. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist as he started moving you through the screaming crowd. People were scrambling in every direction. You stumbled once in your heels and Six caught you without slowing, half-carrying you toward the exit while keeping his body between you and the room.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said as he hurried you forward, voice steady even as he moved fast. “Don’t look back. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

The cold night air hit your face when he finally got you outside, but it didn’t stop the shaking. Your legs felt weak. Six opened the SUV door and guided you inside with careful urgency, one hand on the back of your head so you didn’t hit it.

The second the door shut, the noise cut off.

Six slid into the driver’s seat and immediately turned toward you, his expression tight but his voice calmer now.

“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time. “It’s over. Just keep breathing for me. I'm going to get you somewhere safe. Okay princess?"

Six didn’t waste a second.

He threw the SUV into drive and pulled out fast, tires squealing slightly as he merged into traffic.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low and steady as he weaved through cars at dangerous speed. “You’re okay. You’re not hit. That blood isn’t yours. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”

You were still shaking. Your hands trembled in your lap, and you could feel the blood drying on your skin and the front of your dress. Every time you blinked, you saw the man drop in front of you again.

“I-I can’t stop shaking,” you whispered, voice thin.

“I know.” Six’s eyes watched you through the rear view mirror as he took a sharp turn. “Adrenaline. It’ll pass. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one’s getting to you while I’m here.”

He kept talking the entire drive. His voice calm, low, and constant. Reassuring you that you were okay, that he had you, that they were almost to a safe house. He didn’t raise his voice once. He just kept driving like a man who had done this a hundred times, while still making sure you didn’t spiral.

When he finally pulled into an underground garage beneath a nondescript apartment building, he killed the engine and was out of the car before you could even reach for the door handle.

He opened your door, took one look at how badly you were still shaking, and didn’t even ask.

In one smooth motion, he slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you bridal-style against his chest. You made a small sound of surprise but didn’t have the energy to protest. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you quickly through the garage and into a private elevator.

He moved fast, like every second counted. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. He didn’t put you down when the elevator doors opened. He just carried you straight into the safe house apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.

Only once you were inside did he finally slow down. He carried you over to the large couch and carefully set you down, but he didn’t step away immediately. His hands stayed on your shoulders for a moment, steadying you as he looked you over.

“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter now that you were behind locked doors. “We’re safe here. No one knows about this place.”

Six stayed close for a few minutes, watching you carefully. You were still trembling, eyes glassy, blood drying on your skin and dress. He eventually spoke, voice low and gentle.

“You should go take a shower. Get that blood off you. It’ll help.”

You didn’t answer. You just nodded weakly and stood up on shaky legs, making your way down the short hallway to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t even bother undressing.

You stepped straight into the large walk-in shower, still in your blood-stained black gown and heels. The second the hot water hit you, something inside you cracked. You sank down onto the tiled floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The water poured over you, turning pink as it washed the blood from your skin and dress. You stayed there, curled up tightly, shaking as the events of the night finally crashed over you in full.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there when the bathroom door opened again.

Six stepped inside quietly. He had a change of clothes in his hands, one of his own shirts and a pair of soft sweatpants. He set them on the counter without a word, then paused when he noticed you on the floor of the shower, still fully dressed, water soaking through your gown.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you for a moment, jaw tight.

Then your voice came out small and broken.

“…Six?”

He stepped closer to the shower door.

“Yeah.”

You lifted your head slightly, eyes red and wet. Your voice cracked when you spoke again.

“Can you… can you get in with me?”

He went still.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I-I don’t want to be alone right now. Just… stay with me. I just need help getting it off.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, without a word, Six stepped into the shower with you. The water immediately soaked through his black button-up and slacks. He crouched down in front of you, not touching you yet, just making sure you were okay with him being this close.

You reached for him with a trembling hand.

He took it gently.

Then he started helping you clear the blood off. His careful, steady hands wiping the blood from your arms, your collarbone, your neck. The water ran pink between you as he worked quietly, his clothes plastered to his body, completely focused on you. He didn’t speak. He just stayed there with you under the spray, letting you lean into him when your shaking got too bad.

The water eventually ran clear.

Six stayed crouched in front of you until your shaking had eased into something smaller, quieter. Then he reached over and gently turned the shower off. The sudden silence felt heavy.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He stood first, water dripping from his soaked clothes, and offered you his hand. You took it without hesitation this time. He helped you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobbled, then stepped out of the shower first. He grabbed a large towel from the rack and handed it to you before turning his back respectfully.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “Take your time.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. Once he stepped out and closed the door behind him, you peeled off the ruined black gown and let it drop heavily to the floor. Your hands were still unsteady as you dried off and changed into the clothes he’d brought you, his soft black t-shirt that hung loose on your frame and the gray sweatpants that were far too big but comfortable.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, Six was waiting in the hallway, now changed into dry clothes himself. He didn’t say anything. He just looked you over once, checking that you were okay, before gently guiding you down the short hallway with a hand on your lower back.

The bedroom was simple and clean. He pulled back the covers on the bed without a word, then turned to you.

“Lie down,” he said softly. “You need rest.”

You were too drained to argue. You climbed into the bed and he carefully pulled the blankets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders with surprising gentleness. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at you like he was making sure you were really okay.

Then he reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he said quietly. “Door’s open. Just call for me.”

He started to turn away, but your hand shot out and caught his wrist before he could leave.

“Please,” you whispered, voice small and raw. “Don’t go. I… I don’t want to be alone right now. Please stay.”

Six went still. He looked down at where your hand held onto him, then back at your face. You could see the hesitation in his eyes — the way he was weighing everything. Three months of you pushing him away. Three months of him keeping his distance. And now this.

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he exhaled slowly.

“Just this once,” he said, voice low.

He didn’t make you ask again.

Six walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers. He climbed in beside you without another word, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stayed on top of the blankets at first, like he was still trying to keep some kind of line between you, but when you instinctively shifted closer, he didn’t stop you.

After a beat, he lifted his arm and let you curl into his side. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his arms came around you, careful and warm, holding you there.

He didn’t say anything else. He just stayed.

You could feel the warmth of him through his shirt and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to fight the contact with him.

You closed your eyes, exhaustion finally pulling at you.

Six’s hand moved slowly up and down your back in soothing strokes.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

***

You must have fallen asleep first.

The steady rhythm of Six’s heartbeat under your ear, the warmth of his arm around you, and the exhaustion from everything that had happened pulled you under quickly. At some point during the night, he must have pulled the covers over both of you, because when you slowly blinked awake the next morning, you were completely wrapped up in him.

Your legs were tangled with his. One of your arms was draped across his chest, and his hand was resting low on your back, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of the shirt you were wearing. Your face was tucked against the side of his neck, and you could feel the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing.

He was still asleep.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just laid there, listening to the quiet of the safe house and the sound of him breathing. The events of last night felt distant now, like a bad dream, but the memory of how he’d carried you, stayed in the shower with you, and climbed into bed without hesitation was still fresh.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him.

Even in sleep, he looked calm. The sharp edges of his face were softer in the morning light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still securely around you, like even unconscious, he was making sure you were safe.

Something in your chest tightened.

For the first time in three months, you didn’t feel that sharp, irritated urge to push him away. You didn’t feel the need to be difficult or cold. Instead, there was something quieter. Warmer. A strange, reluctant softness you weren’t ready to name yet.

*Maybe he’s not so bad*, you thought.

The realization settled over you slowly as you stayed curled against him, not wanting to move just yet. His hand flexed slightly on your back, like he could sense you were awake, but he didn’t open his eyes.

You closed yours again and let yourself stay there a little longer, limbs tangled, breathing in sync.

You didn’t move.

Instead, you settled in deeper against him, letting your body relax fully into the warmth of his chest. Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt as you closed your eyes again, breathing him in. For once, you didn’t feel the need to create distance. You just wanted to stay exactly where you were.

A few minutes later, you felt him stir.

Six’s breathing changed slower, then deeper as he started to wake. His arm tightened around you instinctively before he even opened his eyes. When he finally did, he blinked a few times, gaze soft with sleep as he looked down at you still curled against him.

He didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel his heartbeat pick up just slightly under your cheek. Then his hand moved slowly up your back in a gentle stroke.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You didn’t answer right away. You just hummed quietly, still not ready to move.

Eventually, Six shifted and sat up slowly, careful not to jostle you too much. You followed, sitting up beside him. The blankets pooled around your waist as you rubbed at your eyes. The events of last night felt heavier in the daylight, but the fear had dulled into something quieter.

Six ran a hand through his hair, then glanced over at you.

“We’re going to lay low here for a while,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Until we know it’s safe. No going out. No contact with anyone outside this place. Just us, until I get word that the threat’s handled.”

He looked at you for a moment, studying your face.

“You okay with that?”

You nodded slowly, still feeling the ghost of his arms around you from the night before.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay with that.”

Six gave a small nod, then stood up from the bed.

“I’ll make some coffee. You can take your time.”

He headed toward the door, but before he left, he paused and looked back at you.

“You did good last night,” he added, softer this time. “You stayed calm when it mattered.”

Then he was gone, leaving you sitting in the quiet bedroom with your thoughts.

**A couple of days later**

The safe house had fallen into an easy, quiet rhythm.

Mornings started slow. You’d wake up tangled in the sheets, sometimes alone, sometimes with the faint smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. Six would already be up, always early, making breakfast or checking in with whoever was handling things on the outside. You’d sit at the small kitchen island in his oversized shirts, sipping coffee while he moved around the space with calm efficiency.

Afternoons were quiet. You read, watched movies, or sat by the window while Six worked on his tablet or cleaned weapons you pretended not to notice. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. The silence between you had changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It was comfortable.

Evenings were when things felt most natural. You cooked together (or rather, you tried while he actually cooked). You’d eat on the couch, knees touching, the TV playing something low in the background. And every single night, without fail, the same thing happened.

You would look at him across the couch or from the bedroom doorway and ask, voice soft but insistent:

“Can you sleep in the bed with me tonight?”

Six would usually pause, that familiar hesitation flickering across his face. Sometimes he’d say no, gently, but firmly. “Not tonight.” Other times he’d just look at you for a long moment before giving in with a quiet sigh.

But on the nights he said no, you didn’t argue.

You just waited until he was asleep on the couch or in the spare room, then climbed into his bed anyway. You’d curl up against his back or press yourself into his side, and every single time, he would eventually give in. His arm would come around you. He’d pull you closer and let you stay with him.

Tonight was no different.

You stood in the bedroom doorway in one of his shirts, watching him as he finished checking the locks on the front door. When he turned and saw you, he already knew what you were going to say.

“Six…” you started, voice quiet. “Please sleep in the bed with me tonight.”

He looked at you for a long moment, that unreadable expression softening just slightly at the edges.

Then he exhaled, running a hand over his face.

“Just this once,” he said again, the same thing he’d told you that first night.

But you both knew it wasn’t just this once anymore.

He followed you into the bedroom without another word. You climbed into bed first, and when he slid in beside you, you immediately moved into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t fight it. He just wrapped an arm around you and pulled you against his chest, his hand resting warm and steady on your back.

Neither of you spoke.

You just laid there together in the dark, breathing in sync, the rest of the world locked outside.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

You were curled against his side like you had been every night for the past few days, your head on his chest, one leg draped over his. His arm was around you, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns on your back. The safe house was dark and still.

You’d been thinking about it for hours. About how different things felt now. About how you didn’t hate having him around anymore. About how you actually looked forward to these quiet nights.

Your voice came out small in the dark.

“I used to hate you being here,” you admitted quietly. “Like… really hate it. I thought you were just another one of my dad’s control freaks. Another babysitter.”

Six didn’t say anything, but you felt his hand pause on your back for a second before continuing.

You swallowed and kept going, voice even softer.

“But these last few days… I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to come to bed. I’ve been climbing in with you even when you say no. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m scared anymore.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His face was half-lit by the moonlight coming through the curtains.

“I think I just… want you here. With me.”

The words hung in the air between you.

Six was quiet for a long moment. His expression didn’t change much, but you could feel the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed slightly under you.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and careful.

“You shouldn’t.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at you.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Me staying in this bed with you every night. You curling up against me like this. It’s a bad idea.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“Why?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Because I’m not supposed to be doing this,” he said, still calm, still quiet. “I was hired to protect you. Not… whatever this is turning into. And I’m not good for you. You know that.”

He finally looked at you then. His eyes were steady, but there was something tired behind them.

“I’ve done a lot of ugly things in my life, Princess. You don’t need to get caught up in that. You deserve better than someone like me sleeping in your bed just because you’re scared.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, heart sinking a little.

“So what?” you asked softly. “You’re just going to keep pretending you don’t feel anything?”

Six’s jaw tightened.

“I’m going to keep doing my job,” he said. “And right now, my job is keeping you alive. Not letting this get more complicated than it already is.”

He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering for just a second too long.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

But you both knew he was hoping there wouldn’t be another time.

He didn’t pull away from you, though. His arm stayed around you. His body stayed warm against yours. He just closed his eyes and let the silence settle again.

You were quiet for a long moment after he told you to go to sleep.

Then you pushed yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.

“So all this touching?” you asked quietly. “All these nights with me in your bed, you holding me… that means nothing to you?”

Six’s eyes opened. He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

You swallowed, throat tight.

“I’m just a job to you?”

The words hung there, sad and heavy.

Six didn’t answer right away. He stared at you for a long moment before exhaling slowly.

“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re not just a job. That’s the problem.”

He sat up a little, one hand gently cupping the side of your face.

“I care about you. More than I should. But this… it’s a bad idea. I’m not supposed to want you like this.”

You leaned into his touch, eyes never leaving his.

“I want you,” you whispered. The confession felt terrifying and freeing at the same time. “I don’t care if it’s a bad idea. I want you, Six.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw tight, clearly fighting with himself.

Then you asked, voice barely above a whisper:

“Kiss me.”

Six’s eyes opened again. You saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.

“Fuck it,” he breathed.

He surged forward and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. The second his lips met yours, all the months of restraint disappeared. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head as he claimed your mouth completely.

You moaned softly against him and he responded with a low groan, rolling you onto your back and pressing you into the mattress with his body weight. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he settled between your thighs.

When he finally pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, breathing ragged.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’ve been trying so fucking hard to stay away from you.”

You pulled him back down into another kiss, legs wrapping around his waist. His hand slipped under your shirt, warm palm sliding up your bare skin as the kiss grew hotter, more desperate.

This time, he didn’t try to stop.

Six kissed you like he was finally allowing himself to let go.

His mouth was demanding, almost punishing in its intensity, but his hands were surprisingly careful as they moved over you. He pushed your shirt higher, palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. When he finally broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, he sat back on his knees and just looked at you for a moment.

His eyes darkened as they dragged slowly down your body.

“Been thinking about this for too long,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He leaned down again, mouth finding your neck, then your collarbone. His hand cupped one breast, squeezing gently before his thumb brushed over your nipple. When you arched into his touch, he let out a low sound of approval and lowered his head, taking your nipple into his mouth.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a moan, but a soft, breathy sound still escaped.

Six glanced up at you, eyes sharp even in the dark.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice rough. “I want to hear you.”

You gave him a small, defiant little smirk, even as your breathing was already uneven.

“Make me,” you whispered.

Something flashed in his eyes, equal parts amusement and warning.

He moved lower, kissing down your stomach, hands gripping your hips as he settled between your legs. He peeled your sweatpants and underwear down slowly, tossing them aside. For a moment he just looked at you, completely bare beneath him, his hands running up your thighs.

You shifted restlessly, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Six…” you started, a bratty edge slipping into your tone, “are you just going to stare all night or-?”

He cut you off by spreading your thighs wider and dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, firm stroke.

Your words died instantly, turning into a sharp gasp.

He did it again, slower this time, savoring you. When your hips twitched, he pressed one strong arm across your lower stomach, holding you down.

“Stay still,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you shiver.

You tried to move again anyway, just to test him, and he responded by sucking on your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch.

“Fuck- Six,” you moaned, one hand fisting the sheets.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark with heat.

“You’re still being a brat even when I’ve got my mouth on you?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Careful, Princess.”

Then he lowered his head again, this time sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue worked your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You couldn’t help the needy sounds that kept falling from your lips, even as you tried to keep that teasing edge.

Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you harder, forcing you to take what he gave you.

He was exploring every inch of you with patient, devastating focus, like he’d been imagining this for months and was determined to make it count.

"Six please. Harder. I need more-" You whined, hips twitching.

Six pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening, eyes dark with heat and something dangerously close to amusement.

“You’re still running your mouth?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Even with my fingers inside you?”

You gave him a breathless, defiant little smile, hips twitching against his hold.

“Maybe you’re just not doing it well enough to shut me up,” you teased, even as your voice shook.

Six let out a low chuckle, dark and full of promise.

“Oh, Princess…” He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that perfect spot that made your breath hitch. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

But he didn’t stop you.

In fact, the bratty little challenge in your voice seemed to spur him on. He lowered his head again, sucking on your clit with slow, deliberate pressure while his fingers kept that steady, devastating rhythm. Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you down harder with his forearm.

You moaned, head falling back against the pillow, but you still managed to gasp out:

“Is that all you’ve got, Six?”

He pulled his mouth off you with a wet sound and looked up, eyes narrowed in that calm, predatory way that made your stomach flip.

“You really want to play this game right now?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. He added a third finger, stretching you as he pumped them deeper. “Because I can keep you right here on the edge for hours if you keep acting like a spoiled little brat.”

You bit your lip, trying to fight the whimper that wanted to escape, but still managed to shoot back:

“Maybe I want you to try.”

Six’s eyes flashed with heat. He clearly liked your attitude more than he wanted to admit, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk.

He crawled back up your body, fingers still buried deep inside you, and hovered over you. His face was inches from yours, eyes locked on you as he worked his fingers faster.

“You’re lucky I like that mouth of yours,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours teasingly. “But keep pushing me… and I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you.”

You shivered at the promise in his voice, but still gave him a sweet, defiant smile.

“Promises, promises…”

Six groaned low in his throat and kissed you hard, swallowing your next bratty remark as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm between your legs.

He was definitely enjoying this.

And you both knew he’d make good on his threat to tame you eventually.

He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, making you whine at the loss. Before you could complain, he flipped you onto your stomach with ease, like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips and yanked them up so you were on your knees, face pressed into the mattress.

“You’ve had your fun running that mouth,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm. “Now I’m going to fuck that attitude out of you.”

You barely had time to react before he lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, deep stroke.

A sharp moan tore from your throat. The stretch was intense, and the sudden fullness made your fingers clutch the sheets. Six didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving immediately, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked your whole body forward.

“Fuck- Six, please” you gasped, still trying to sound defiant even as your voice cracked.

He leaned over you, one hand fisting your hair and pulling your head back slightly as he kept driving into you.

“Still talking?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “Thought I told you I was done with that bratty mouth tonight.”

Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting deep inside you. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room along with your broken moans. Every time you tried to push back or say something smart, he fucked you harder, effectively cutting you off.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he muttered, voice rough as he pounded into you. “All those months of teasing me… sneaking into my bed… acting like a spoiled little princess.”

He reached around and rubbed tight circles on your clit, making your legs shake.

“Well now you’re going to take what I give you.”

Your bratty attitude started crumbling fast. The overwhelming pleasure mixed with the way he was dominating you completely made it harder and harder to talk back. Your moans grew louder, needier, and more desperate.

Six felt the shift. He released your hair and wrapped his hand around your throat instead, not squeezing hard, just holding you possessively as he fucked you deeper.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice low. “Getting quieter already. Where’s that smart mouth now, Princess?”

You whimpered, pushing back against him despite how overwhelmed you were. He rewarded you by slowing his pace just enough to grind deep, making you feel every inch.

“Beg me to let you come,” he said calmly, still thrusting steadily. “And maybe I’ll be nice.”

You were panting hard, fists clenched in the sheets, the last bit of brattiness quickly disappearing under his relentless rhythm.

Six kept his brutal, steady rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass as he drove deep inside you. His hand was still wrapped around your throat, possessive and firm.

“Beg me,” he repeated, voice low and commanding. “Beg me to let you come.”

You tried to hold onto the last scraps of your brattiness. Even as your body trembled and your walls clenched around him, you gasped out:

“I don’t- fuck- I don’t beg…”

The words barely left your mouth before Six slammed into you harder, punching the air out of your lungs. A broken moan ripped from your throat.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he growled:

“Yeah? Then I guess you don’t get to come.”

He slowed his thrusts deliberately, dragging every inch in and out torturously slow, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over it.

You only lasted a few seconds.

The overwhelming need won almost immediately.

“Okay- okay, please,” you whimpered, voice cracking as you pushed back against him desperately. “Please, Six… I’m sorry. Please let me come.”

A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.

“There she is,” he murmured, sounding pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He immediately picked up the pace again, fucking you hard and deep, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, tight circles. His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin in the best way.

You broke completely.

Moans and pleas spilled from your lips without filter as he drove you toward the edge. The bratty attitude you’d been clinging to vanished in seconds under his relentless control.

“Come,” he ordered, voice rough against your ear. “Right now.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body so hard your arms gave out. You moaned loudly into the mattress as pleasure ripped through you, thighs shaking violently. Six fucked you through it, groaning as your walls clenched tight around him.

Only when you started to come down did he let himself go. He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, hips pressed flush against you as he filled you up.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was both of you breathing hard.

Six finally pulled out slowly and flipped you onto your back. He hovered over you, brushing damp hair from your face as he looked down at your flushed, wrecked expression.

His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke.

“Good girl.”

Your face instantly flushed a deep, burning red. The praise hit you harder than you expected. A shy, flustered warmth spread through your chest and down between your legs. You tried to look away, embarrassed by how much you liked it, but Six gently caught your chin and made you meet his eyes.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, voice low and knowing. “Look at you… blushing like crazy just from being called a good girl.”

You bit your lip, cheeks still flaming, but you couldn’t deny it. The way he said it made you feel small and wanted at the same time.

Six leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding against yours. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened, but the hunger was still there.

“Think you can handle one more?” he asked.

You nodded, still flushed and a little shy now.

He shifted between your legs, spreading them wider as he settled into missionary. This time there was no rushing. He guided himself back inside you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. You both let out a soft moan at the feeling.

Six braced himself on his forearms, caging you in as he started moving. His thrusts were deep and slow, making you feel every inch of him. His face hovered just above yours, eyes locked on you the entire time.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, kissing you between thrusts. “So warm and tight just for me, princess.”

You wrapped your arms around his back, nails lightly dragging down his skin as he moved inside you. The slower pace felt more intimate, more intense in a different way. Every deep stroke made your breath hitch.

Six pressed his forehead to yours, voice rough but gentle.

“That’s it… just take me. No more attitude tonight, yeah?”

You blushed even harder at his words, but nodded quickly, melting under him.

“Good girl,” he praised again, voice low and warm against your lips.

The words sent another rush of heat through you. You whimpered softly and pulled him closer, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as he continued his slow, deep rhythm.

Six kept rolling his hips into you with smooth, deliberate strokes. Every thrust pressed him flush against you, grinding against your clit in a way that made your toes curl.

He never looked away from your face, watching every little reaction you gave him.

“Look at me,” he murmured when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you while I fuck you like this.”

You forced your eyes open, cheeks still burning from his earlier praise. The eye contact felt almost too intense, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t look away. His gaze was dark, focused, and full of something much deeper than just lust.

He leaned down and kissed you again, slow and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as he buried himself deep and stayed there for a moment, grinding in small circles.

“You’re being so good for me right now,” he whispered against your lips. “Taking me so fucking perfectly.”

You whimpered at his words, your walls clenching hard around him. The praise made your stomach flutter and your face grow even hotter.

Six noticed immediately.

“You really like that, huh?” He smiled slightly, almost teasing, but his voice stayed low and warm. “My spoiled little princess likes being called a good girl?”

You nodded shyly, too embarrassed to speak, but your body gave you away. Your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, legs tightening around his waist.

Six groaned softly and picked up the pace just a little, still deep and intimate but with more purpose now.

“That’s it,” he praised, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Such a good girl for me. So wet… so tight… letting me fuck you exactly how I want.”

Every word pushed you closer to the edge. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your breathing turned into soft, needy moans. The slow drag of him inside you, combined with the constant stream of quiet praise, was driving you crazy in the best way.

Six could feel you getting close. He slid one hand between your bodies and rubbed gentle circles on your clit.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but tender. “Be a good girl and come for me again.”

That was all it took.

Your second orgasm washed over you slower and deeper than the first. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs shaking as pleasure rolled through you in long, powerful waves. Six kept moving through it, kissing your neck and murmuring soft praises against your skin until your body finally went limp beneath him.

Only then did he let himself go.

With a low groan, he buried himself deep and came hard, hips jerking against you as he spilled inside you for the second time that night.

For a long while afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing.

Six stayed inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, before slowly pulling out. He rolled onto his back and immediately pulled you on top of him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. One hand stroked up and down your spine in soothing motions while the other cradled the back of your head.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You nodded against his chest, still flushed and a little dazed, enjoying the feeling of being held so securely.

---

Two weeks later, the safe house no longer felt like a cage.

The threat had been handled, your father’s team finally tracked down the people responsible. Six had been on calls most of the morning, his voice low and serious, while you pretended not to eavesdrop from the kitchen. When he finally stepped out, the tension in his shoulders had eased.

“It’s over,” he said simply.

You looked up from your coffee, trying to play it cool even though relief flooded through you.

“So… I can go back to my regularly scheduled chaos now?” you asked, a familiar teasing edge in your voice.

Six walked over and stopped in front of you. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression was calm, but his eyes were intense.

“You could,” he said. “But you’re not going anywhere without me.”

You raised an eyebrow, that old bratty spark flickering.

“Oh? Still my bodyguard, Six?”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping low.

“I’m not your bodyguard anymore.” His hand came up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s not changing.”

Your heart stuttered.

For a moment, the old version of you wanted to push back, to say something snarky, to test him like you used to. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up and looped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until your foreheads touched.

“I was really awful to you in the beginning,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

Six’s hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing gently over your sides.

“Because even when you were being a spoiled little brat,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “I could see you. The real you. And I wanted you anyway.”

He kissed you then.

When he pulled back, there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.

“Besides,” he added, “someone has to keep that attitude in check.”

You laughed softly and lightly smacked his chest.

“Careful, Sierra Six. I can still make your life difficult.”

He caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, eyes warm with affection.

“I’m counting on it, Princess.”

He lifted you onto the counter effortlessly and stepped between your legs, wrapping his arms around you. You rested your head on his shoulder, breathing him in as the morning light filled the safe house.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel trapped.

You felt safe. Wanted. *Chosen.*

And as Six held you close, one hand gently stroking your back, you realized something:

Later rarely comes.

You tell yourself it’s control. That it’s strength. That it’s something solid in a life that has never been solid.

But Dean watches.

He notices when your jeans hang looser than they did last month. Notices when you get lightheaded standing up too fast. Notices the way your hands shake just slightly when he passes you a burger and you hesitate for half a second too long.

He doesn’t call you out in front of Sam.

He doesn’t joke.

He just… watches.

One night in a cheap motel room, you think you’re being quiet when you sit on the bathroom floor.

You don’t mean to cry. It just happens. Silent, frustrated tears because you’re hungry and terrified of being hungry at the same time.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it does.

There’s a knock at the door. Soft.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice says. Not demanding. Just there. “You okay?”

You wipe your face quickly. “Yeah.”

Silence.

He doesn’t buy it.

The door opens slowly. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disappointed.

He looks worried.

That’s worse.

He crouches in front of you, careful not to crowd your space. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” he asks quietly.

You shrug, staring at the tiles. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens at that.

He doesn’t use pet names lightly.

“You’re not nothing,” he says. “And this? This isn’t nothing.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a long moment. And then, very gently, he reaches out and takes your hand.

Your fingers feel small in his.

“I’ve seen you take on things that would break most people,” he says. “Monsters. Nightmares. Stuff no one your age should have to carry.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“But this?” His voice softens. “This is fightin’ you from the inside.”

The words land too close.

You look away. “I just… I don’t feel right in my own skin.”

It comes out barely above a whisper. The truth you never say out loud.

Dean’s jaw tightens, but not at you. Never at you.

He shifts so he’s sitting on the floor with you now, back against the tub. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

“You know what I see?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

“I see the girl who outshot me at the range last week.” A faint huff of a smile. “Who patched me up after that vamp nest without flinching.”

His voice dips lower.

“I see someone I love.”

You inhale sharply.

He doesn’t look embarrassed. Doesn’t backtrack.

“I don’t see numbers,” he continues. “I don’t see flaws you think are there. I see you.”

Your chest feels tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know.” He nods immediately. “I know it’s not.”

There’s no fixing tone in his voice. No “just eat more.” No frustration.

Just understanding that this is real. That it’s heavy.

“But you don’t gotta fight it alone,” he says. “You don’t gotta starve yourself to be worthy of takin’ up space.”

The word starve makes you flinch.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I’m not mad,” he adds quickly. “I’m not disappointed. I’m just… scared of losin’ you to something I can’t punch.”

Your eyes sting again.

Dean Winchester is not a man who cries easily.

But there’s something glassy in his gaze now.

“You matter,” he says firmly. “More than whatever voice is tellin’ you you don’t.”

You let out a shaky breath. “What if I can’t shut it up?”

“Then we make it quieter together.”

He stands slowly and offers you his hand.

No pressure.

Just an invitation.

“There’s pie in the mini fridge,” he says lightly. “We can split it. No big speeches. Just… sit.”

Food still feels like a battlefield.

But his hand is warm. Steady.

You take it.

He doesn’t comment when you hesitate over the first bite. Doesn’t watch you too closely. Just sits beside you on the motel bed, knee pressed to yours, talking about some dumb classic rock trivia to fill the silence.

Halfway through, you realize you’re not shaking anymore.

Dean bumps your shoulder gently. “See?” he murmurs.

You lean into him without thinking.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Not when it gets ugly. Not when it gets hard.”

For the first time in a long while, the voice in your head isn’t the loudest thing in the room.

He is.

And he’s saying you deserve to stay.

Your legs tangle in sheets that suddenly feel too short. Your hands—oh.

Oh.

Those are not your hands.

They’re huge.

Long fingers. Broad palms. Veins mapping the backs like highways.

“What the hell—”

The voice that comes out is deep. Gravel-warm. Familiar.

Across the motel room, there’s a strangled yelp.

You look up.

And there you are.

Five-foot-three of confused fury, drowning in Sam’s oversized t-shirt.

Sam—currently you—stares down at his borrowed small hands in horror. “Why am I short?!”

You scramble out of bed and immediately slam your head into the low-hanging light fixture.

You don’t feel it.

Because you’re tall.

You freeze.

Slowly.

You look down.

The world is different from up here. The dresser seems tiny. The bed smaller. The doorframe suspiciously fragile.

“Oh my God,” you whisper in Sam’s voice. “I’m gigantic.”

Sam gapes at you from your body. “That’s your takeaway?!”

You take one experimental step. The room shifts around you in ways you are absolutely not emotionally prepared for.

“Is this what you see all the time?” you demand. “This is amazing. I can see the top of the fridge without climbing.”

“This is not amazing,” he says, trying to stand and wobbling slightly in your much shorter legs. “The spell must’ve backfired.”

You flex your—his—arms.

There’s muscle there. Obvious muscle.

You make a fist.

“This is illegal,” you breathe.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Do not get weird about this.”

“Too late.”

You stride to the mirror.

It’s Sam’s face staring back at you. Sleep-mussed hair. Broad shoulders. Built like a tree.

You grin.

It looks devastating.

“Oh, I get it now,” you murmur. “This is power.”

Sam crosses his arms—your arms—and scowls up at you. “You’re five-three.”

“Temporarily.”

You stretch again, reveling in the height. “I could reach the top shelf at the bunker without asking for help. I could change light bulbs. I could intimidate people in grocery stores.”

“You already intimidate people,” he mutters.

You spin toward him. “Do I?”

“Yes. You’re scary.”

You beam.

He sighs.

“Okay,” Sam says, focusing. “We just need to reverse the spell. It’s probably tied to the hex bag from yesterday.”

You kneel in front of him—and immediately misjudge the distance, nearly knocking him over with your borrowed mass.

“Sorry!” you say, grabbing his—your—shoulders to steady him.

He steadies you back, hands warm and small against your ribs.

It’s surreal.

“You feel… lighter,” he admits quietly.

You tilt your head. “You feel compact.”

He huffs.

You study him for a moment. The way he fits in your frame. The way your clothes hang off him differently.

“You carry this every day?” you ask, softer now.

“My body?”

“The size. The expectations. The whole giant thing.”

He hesitates.

“It’s just me,” he says finally.

You glance at your reflection again.

It’s strange—being in him. Feeling the weight of it. The reach. The strength.

“Okay,” you decide. “One more thing before we fix it.”

He squints suspiciously. “What.”

You straighten to your full borrowed height and look down at him dramatically.

“So this,” you say in your best impression of his serious voice, “is what it’s like when you loom.”

“I do not loom.”

“You absolutely loom.”

You take one exaggerated step closer.

He instinctively steps back.

You grin wickedly.

“How’s the weather down there?”

He lunges—short legs and all—and pokes you hard in the ribs.

You yelp.

It echoes much deeper than usual.

Both of you freeze.

Then laugh.

Big, unrestrained laughter that feels too loud for the motel walls.

He looks up at you—really looks.

“You don’t need to be taller,” he says gently. “You know that, right?”

The words land differently from him.

You shrug, a little sheepish. “Still fun.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

You reach down and take his hand—your hand—and squeeze.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s fix it before I accidentally walk through a doorframe.”

“Please.”

But as you gather the hex bag and start undoing the spell, you take one last glance at the mirror.

At the height.

At the strength.

At him.

And you think, being small was never the problem.

Still—nice to visit giant land for a day.

His shoulder brushes your knee every time he shifts.

You get to the part about the venom dosage and your voice drops even lower, automatic, like you’re afraid of disturbing the silence.

He turns fully toward you then. Leans in. His face is suddenly inches from yours—ear tilted toward your mouth so he can catch every murmured word. His hair brushes your cheek. You smell cedar and coffee and the faint trace of gun oil on his skin.

Your sentence dies halfway.

“…and the—the antidote needs to uhm be administered within—” You swallow. Blink fast. Eyes flick to his mouth, then the bookshelf behind him, then the ceiling. Anywhere but the warm hazel staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Within, um. Forty minutes.”

Sam doesn’t move back. Just stays there, patient, waiting for the rest.

You try again. “It—it has to be—” Your voice cracks. Tiny. Barely audible.

He smiles—small, soft, the kind that makes your stomach flip—and murmurs, “You can talk quieter. I’ll hear you.”

That’s the problem. You know he will.

You nod jerkily. Finish the sentence in fragments. He nods along, serious, focused, like this is normal. Like leaning in so close your breaths mingle is just practical.

It’s not practical.

It’s devastating.

Later—hours later, after the hunt’s done, after showers and takeout and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything feel slow—the motel room is dark except for the bathroom light you left on. One bed. Always one bed lately.

You’re already under the covers when Sam climbs in behind you. Big spoon by default. His chest presses to your back, arm sliding around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach.

He kisses the nape of your neck. Soft. Once. Then again.

You shiver.

“Still thinking about that djinn?” he asks, voice low against your ear.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Good.” His hand drifts lower. Slips under the hem of your sleep shirt. Fingers trace lazy circles over your hipbone. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your breath hitches—quiet, but he hears it.

He always hears.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.

You bite your lip. Shake your head again.

Sam chuckles—soft, fond. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

His fingers dip between your thighs. Find you already wet. He groans against your shoulder. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You whimper—tiny, almost silent.

He circles your clit slow. Teasing. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“I—” Your voice is threadbare. “Want… you.”

“Louder.”

You try. “Want you inside me.”

He rewards you—slides one finger in, then two. Crooks them just right. You arch, mouth open on a soundless gasp.

“More,” he coaxes. “Let me hear you.”

You shake your head—habit. Too shy. Too much.

Sam pulls his fingers out. You whine—small, pitiful.

He rolls you onto your back. Settles between your thighs. Big hands push your knees wide. He’s already hard, heavy against your stomach. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Eyes flicking to his, then away.

He notches himself at your entrance. Doesn’t push in yet.

“Say my name.”

“Sam…”

“Louder.”

“Sam.”

He sinks in—slow, inch by inch, stretching you open. Your head tips back. Mouth falls open. No sound.

He bottoms out. Stays there. Lets you feel every thick inch. “Tell me how it feels.”

You swallow. Try. “Full.”

“Not enough.” He rolls his hips—just enough to drag against that spot. “Tell me.”

You gasp. “So full—Sam—please—”

“Please what?”

“Move.”

He does. Slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak softly. Every time he bottoms out you make a tiny, choked sound—barely there.

He leans down. Lips at your ear again—just like in the library. “Louder, baby. I want to hear every little noise you make when I’m fucking you.”

Your hands fly to his shoulders. Nails digging in. He picks up the pace. Deeper. Harder. Precise. You’re trembling now. Trying to stay quiet. Failing.

A real moan slips out—high, broken.

“There it is,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

He hooks one of your legs over his elbow. Changes the angle. Hits deeper.

You cry out—sharp, surprised.

He groans. “Fuck yes. Again.”

You can’t stop now. Every thrust pulls another sound from you—whimpers, gasps, his name over and over, getting louder each time. “Sam—Sam—oh god—”

He kisses you—messy, deep—swallowing the noises. Then pulls back. “Let me hear. Don’t hide.”

You don’t. Can’t.

The sounds spill out—desperate, wrecked. “Please—harder—Sam—don’t stop—”

He gives you what you need. Pounds into you. Hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

You’re loud now. Unrecognizable. Moaning his name like a chant. Begging. Crying out when he hits that spot again and again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me hear you come.”

You shatter.

Back arching. Thighs shaking. A long, broken cry ripping out of you—his name, garbled, loud enough the walls probably hear it. He follows right after—deep, grinding thrusts as he spills inside you, groaning low against your throat.

You’re both panting. Shaking.

He doesn’t pull out yet. Just stays buried, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”

You’re still trembling. You hide your face in his neck. Embarrassed. Pleased.

He chuckles. Soft. Wraps both arms around you.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I’m leaning in close again. Just to hear you try to talk.”

You groan—half mortified, half already aching at the thought.

He kisses the top of your head. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”

You don’t answer.

You just hold him tighter.

And hope he never stops making you break the quiet.

He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you. 

You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate. 

He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean. 

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”

“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend. 

When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.” 

“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?” 

“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy. 

He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away. 

“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say. 

“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are. 

Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him. 

Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with. 

And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay. 

That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview. 

Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago. 

Not the best start to your day. 

“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.” 

“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?” 

Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.” 

“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.” 

You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her. 

He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.” 

You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”

Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?” 

You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.” 

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.” 

This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment. 

“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.” 

Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense. 

“Whatever, Winchester.” 

“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-” 

“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.” 

Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.” 

“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.” 

“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-” 

The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission. 

“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.

In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.” 

“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy. 

“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk. 

You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear. 

“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter. 

“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash. 

You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”  

A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip. 

You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.

Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident. 

You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that? 

Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.” 

He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you. 

You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture. 

“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.” 

Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you. 

“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.” 

“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?” 

“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?” 

“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”

Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.” 

“What?” 

His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him. 

“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Yeah but not from me.”

“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.” 

Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why. 

By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated. 

“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap. 

“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”

“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits. 

Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name. 

“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks. 

Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped. 

“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do. 

You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well. 

“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town. 

It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice. 

“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously. 

“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.” 

Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.” 

“I’m perfectly well rested-” 

“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows. 

You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay. 

Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours. 

“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is. 

He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed. 

“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting. 

Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes. 

A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day. 

“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked. 

You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation. 

Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything. 

He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago. 

Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it. 

“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.” 

His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all. 

He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming. 

“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly. 

He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick. 

He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed. 

Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse. 

“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?” 

You blink. “You have the wrong number.” 

“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.” 

Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up. 

You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet. 

Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too. 

You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore. 

Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger. 

Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-” 

“You were texting Sam today?” 

The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-” 

“Really?” You press. 

“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish. 

“Just answer me.” 

“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”

“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!” 

He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-” 

“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting. 

“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.” 

“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-” 

“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him. 

“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!” 

“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-” 

“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.” 

He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.” 

“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.” 

You’ve had that thought about him before. But this time, as you let the door slam behind you, you think you really mean it. 

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

You’re ovulating.. which means it makes you absolutely feral. It’s not like you normally have a low sex drive, you and Jack are fucking nearly every day. However, when you’re ovulating.. you become even more horny then you usually are.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jack tells you, whipping the kitchen towel over his shoulder before grabbing his crutch that was resting against the counter. He leans on it as he turns his body a little to face you more. “Put those ‘fuck me’ eyes away.”

“Why?” you pout slightly, taking some steps forwards.

“This morning wasn’t enough for you?” Jack asks, referring to the two hours you spend messing around in bed before getting up.

“No,” you tell him, the way he’s standing there with his broad chest and shoulders on display is not helping your case. “You know m’ovulating. I can’t help it.”

A chuckle escapes Jack as he shakes his head softly at your words. Don’t get him wrong, he loves whenever you’re ovulating, it turns you feral and there’s nothing he enjoys more than taming you. “I made food, sweetheart. Can’t let it go to waste.”

“It won’t go to waste.” you are quick to say. “You can finish making the sauce, then we can reheat it later while boiling the pasta.” you explain.

“Are you serious right now?” Jack cocks a brow. “Can’t wait till after dinner?”

“No,” you take some steps forward, which closes the space between you and him completely. “S’your fault.. shouldn’t be looking this good,” you mutter as your hands roam up his arms and rest on his shoulders.

Jack lets out a soft sigh, looking down in your eyes as he takes hold of your chin. “You’re something else.. y’know that?” he tips your head back some more. “Gonna be the death of me.”

“Why’s that?” you tilt your head a bit to the side. “Because you’re an old man?”

“Oh?” Jack moves his hand lower, wrapping his fingers around your neck. “I’m an old man, now?”

“Uh-hu,” you give him a teasing nod. “One that can’t keep up with a young thing like me."

Jack lets out a bitter laugh, you know just what to say to drive him crazy. It makes his fingers tighten their grip on your neck a little. “Enough.” he says. “Go to our room. I’ll be there in a minute.”

An excited giggle leaves you before you rush out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. You can’t help yourself with teasing Jack, it’s just so fun to rile him up. Also, he fucks you even better whenever he’s slightly agitated by your teasing.

Anticipation is filling up your body as you lay yourself down on the bed. You’ve taken off the oversized shirt of his you were wearing, leaving you bare chested. There’s just a black thong that’s still covering you.

Jack moves into the room, he doesn’t like wearing his prosthetic around the house so he usually moves around on his crutches. The sight of you laying on the bed is going straight to his cock, the desire he feels for you almost unbearable.

“Old man, huh?” Jack lets his crutches drop to the ground as soon as he has reached the bed. He takes hold of your legs before pulling you closer to the edge. “I’ll show you old..”

He’s quick to curl his fingers around the lining of your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion and discarding them on the floor. Jack lets his eyes trace over your body in awe, sometimes he still doesn’t believe how someone as beautiful as you could want a man like him.

“God.. you’re fucking perfect,” he mutters,

Those words, spoken out in that husky voice, go straight to your core. You can feel the ache for him grow between your legs, it makes you bite down on your lip as you look up at him.

“You need me, baby?” Jack asks you, leaning down some so he could be closer to you.

“Yeah..” a soft nod leaves you. When he gets close enough, you place a hand on his cheek and pull him into a kiss.

A hum escapes Jack as he feels his lips on yours, his eyes flutter close and he’s quick to kiss you back. At first, it’s tender.. but it’s quick to turn more passionate as the desire takes over. His tongue is playing a dangerous game with yours, taking in the way you taste.

Jack is the first to pull back, looking into your eyes as his hand moves up to cradle your face. “M’gonna fuck you so good.” he tells you, voice hushed, the feeling of his breath against your skin makes you shiver.

“Please-” a whine leaves you, making a smirk tug on his lips.

“You need it that bad, sweet girl?” Jack asks you, thumb grazing over your bottom lip.

“Uh-hu..” you nod at him, the ache for him pooling between your legs.

“Show me how bad.” Jack tells you.

Your lips part and you’re quick to take two of his fingers in your mouth, your tongue roaming around his digits before sucking down. Jack mutters a soft curse under his breath, the feeling mixed with the sight of how needy you are is making his cock only harder for you.

“You’re so filthy for it, aren’t you?” he says after seeing you coating his fingers in spit before sucking down on them again.

The nod of your head is not the reaction Jack wants out of you. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes..”

“Yes, who?” Jack guides you to the answer he wants to hear.

“Yes, daddy.” you tell him, looking into his eyes.

God.. he loves it whenever you call him that. It’s something he didn’t know he was into until you came along. The first time you called him that while he was making you come, changed the entire way the two of you would dirty talk from then on.

“Atta girl,” he moves a hand down and fondles your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers which causes you to whimper out.

Jack lets his hands roam down your body, the feeling of his calloused fingertips against your skin turns you on even more. He presses another kiss against your lips before moving his head to leave a trace of kisses down into your neck.

A whimper escapes you at his actions, the feeling of his fingers moving further down combined with his lips on your skin is driving you crazy. Your body feels like it’s on fire with desire for him.

“Jesus.. you’re already dripping wet,” Jack observes as his fingers move down between your thighs. A soft moan escapes you as he touches you where you want it most.

The sight of your back arching before him, a gasp leaving you as he moves two fingers inside of you, it’s beautiful to Jack. You grip onto his arm, grounding yourself as his digits start pumping inside of you.

“Gonna make you come as much as I can.” Jack whispers, moving his head up to peck your lips. “Let’s see how you can keep up.” he mocks your words from earlier.

It doesn’t take long before the first knot starts forming inside your gut, you start squirming beneath his touch and it lets Jack know you’re close. He takes pride in how fast he can make you come, he was literally beaming the first time you told him that no other man had ever made you come that quickly.

Your orgasm ripples through you, a whiny moan escaping while you coat his fingers with your juices.

The look in Jack’s eyes turns darker, the lust nearly all consuming. He lets you ride out your high before removing his fingers, making eye contact as he puts them in his mouth so he can taste you.

“Want you, daddy.” a needy whine leaves you, hands on his arms.

Jack is quick to grab you by your waist, lifting you higher onto the bed. He takes off his sweatpants, letting them fall to the ground together with his boxers before following you, climbing on top. He holds himself up by resting on his elbows, face inching closer. Before going any further, he connects his lips back to yours.

A soft hum leaves you as your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close as the two of you kiss. When you feel his tongue trace your bottom lip, you open up your mouth a little so he could find his way inside. Your tongues are playing a heated game of exploring one another. The way you’re making out is passionate, you can feel his erection straining against your skin and it causes that ache to form back between your thighs.

“Ready for me, baby?” Jack questions, taking hold of his cock so he could brush his tip through your folds.

“Mhmm.. yes,” you nod eagerly, looking into his eyes with nothing other than desire and lust.

The sight of you so worked up is enough for Jack to want to wreck you. However, he holds himself back as he’s planning on teasing you some more. Payback.

A soft whimper leaves you as you feel him trace his cockhead back between your folds, so close to giving you what you want. You hate whenever he teases you, you’re so impatient and especially when you’re in a state like this. Eventhough you hate it, it also turns you on like crazy.

“Beg for it.” Jack tells you, hearing the needy sounds that are escaping you.

“Please..” you say as you look up into his eyes. “Please, daddy.”

“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks, flicking his tip against your clit which makes a soft whine leave your lips. “Tell me.”

“Yeah..” you nod at him. “M’gonna be so good, please-”

With one sharp trust, Jack makes his way inside of you. A gasp escapes you as your hands take hold of his shoulders. “Fuck-” your nails dig into his skin as you feel his cock spreading you open.

A soft groan escapes Jack’s lips as he watches you take him, back arching so beautifully for him. He takes hold of your thigh, lifting it up and making you wrap it around his waist. After placing a kiss against your lips, he starts moving his hips and thrusting inside of you.

A moan leaves your lips as he does, hands moving to his back so you could hold onto him. “Mhmm..”

“Yeah.. that feel good, baby?” Jack watches you nod and it makes a feeling of pride grow in his chest, he loves nothing more than pleasing you.

He hits you with deep strokes, his cock gliding through your gooey walls with ease. Jack’s on a mission to make you come at least two more times before he finishes himself. And everybody who knows Abbot, knows he’s determined once he’s set his goal in place.

As soon as you feel his fingers move down to your clit, you know it’s game over. He’s thrusting in and out of you with no mercy, hitting the right spot while his digits stimulate your clit. The moaning escaping you is like music to his ears, god.. he could listen to it forever without growing bored of it.

“Oh yes,” you whimper out, that bubble of pleasure building up inside of you and you know it’s about to burst at any moment.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack moves his fingers faster which only makes you more sensitive, hips bucking up against his movements. “Like that?”

“Fuck yes,” you whine out, spreading your legs some more so Jack can easily keep his hips moving while his fingers work against your senstive nub.

“Come for me,” Jack spurs you on, eyes focused on the expression on your face.

A whine escapes you as your body tightens up, walls clenching around his cock which makes him curse out under his breath. Jack keeps going until you tip over the edge, cries leaving your lips as your body trembles slightly when pleasure flows through it.

“Atta girl,” Jack holds onto your legs as he watches you come down from your high, the blissful look in your eyes causing that sense of pride in him once more.

When he leans down to bring his lips back to yours, you let out a hum and close your eyes. Your lips move against his, kissing him back softly. “Thank you,” you mumble.

“You’re welcome, baby.” Jack smiles before pressing another kiss against your lips. “Ready for one more?”

“Yeah..” you give him a soft nod.

Jack holds onto your legs, moving them up so he could place them over his shoulders. His actions make his cock move deeper inside of you, a whimper leaving you as your nails dig into his shoulders.

After kissing you once more, Jack starts thrusting back inside of you. A moan rolls over your lips as you feel him move deeply. You hold onto his shoulders, grounding yourself as you take every stroke he gives you.

“Mhm.. daddy,” you whimper out. “Feels so good.”

A groan escapes Jack as you call him that, he looks back into your eyes and picks up the pace at which his hips are moving.

The room fills up with the sounds of you moaning out and Jack’s skin slapping against yours. He’s pounding into you, balls deep, hitting the top of your cervix with every thrust. You’re a mess, already sensitive from coming twice so you know it won’t take long before he gets you there again.

“Fuck-” you cry out softly as a shift of his hips makes him hit the spot perfectly. “Right there,”

“Yeah?” his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he holds you still, hitting that spot over and over again.

“Oh my-” your eyes roll to the back of your head as the feeling gets nearly overwhelming.

“You feeling it, sweetheart?” Jack grunts out. “Don’t hold back, want to feel you come on my cock.”

It doesn’t take much longer after that before your body tightens up, so close to getting that intense feeling of pleasure. Jack leans in some more and sucks down onto your nipple, giving that final touch which makes you come undone.

Soft cries fill the room as pleasure bursts inside of you, holding onto him as your body trembles.

“Good girl,” Jack plants a kiss against the side of your head and slows down his strokes. He guides you through the waves of your orgasm that’s slowly washing away.

A trembled breath leaves you as Jack wipes some sweaty strands of hair out of your face, he gives you some time to collect yourself together which is much needed. The way he turns sweet after he makes you come will always melt your heart, his soft touches and kisses make you feel so loved every time.

“Think you can give me one more?” Jack asks as he looks into your eyes, thumb brushing against your jawline.

“I think so,” you give him a nod while smiling which makes him give you a smile back.

“Good.. because this one is going to be intense.” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips before positioning himself again.

You watch as he folds your legs over your head, leaning over and working his hips. His thrusts hit deep, your sensitive core aching as it’s hyper sensitive from previous orgasms. Jack doesn’t give you much time to get used to him, pretty soon he’s back to pounding himself inside of you.

“Fuck..” you whine out, nails digging into his back which makes him groan out.

“Feel how deep inside of you I am, baby?” Jack asks you, voice husky and eyes dark as he stares into yours.

“Yes,” you let out a whimper and feel his hand wrapping around your neck again, pushing you deeper into the mattress.

Soft cries fill up the room as Jack keeps on pounding into you, you’re so sensitive from his earlier actions that you can barely take what he’s giving you. You grip onto his shoulders as your moaning mixed with Jack’s grunts are filling up the room.

“Oh my god-” you cry out softly, so sensitive that you can hardly take it anymore. “I can’t-"

“You can, baby.” Jack presses a kiss to your lips before lifting up your chin so you’d look in his eyes. “You’re so good for me, always are.. you can take it,” he tells you, following that up with another kiss. “Just a little more.”

A whine rolls over your lips as Jack pushes even deeper inside of you, keeping hold of your face so you’d look him into his eyes. It doesn’t take long before you feel that pressure building up inside of your gut, a whimper escaping you.

“M’gonna come again, daddy..” you cry out softly.

“I’m close too,” Jack grunts out as he tries to hold himself back, needing to feel you come before he does. “Come for me, baby.”

“Mhmm..” your body tightens up and you grip onto his arms before you feel pleasure explode, moving through your entire body which makes you cry out and tremble.

As soon as Jack feels you clench your walls around him, he’s done for. A deep groan escapes him as he spills himself inside of you, holding onto your trembling legs.

“Fuck..” his body falls onto yours, completely spent. “That was good.”

“Tell me about it,” you sigh out, legs still trembling softly from the intensity of your orgasm. You move a hand up to cradle the back of his head, holding him close to you as your other arm wraps around him. “I take back my words.. you can keep up with me just fine.”

ᝰ James Wilson

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐌.𝐃. — | @shmaptainwrote

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀 | @/shmaptainwrote

James and Reader have not been on great terms since their divorce, but an emerging situation with their son forces them to put aside their differences and work together and hope that past feelings don't resurface

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑 | @/shmaptainwrote

James moves into a new apartment and finds a new friend in his neighbour across the hall

Law & Medicine | @vigilante-3073

James Wilson has a secret relationship and House finally discovers it.

Attorney Reader

Pretty In Pink | @/vigilante-3073

House is curious about Wilson's newly formed relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department.

Wedding Bells Or Separations? | @/vigilante-3073

Something has changed between Wilson and the head of the Pediatrics Department. House is feeling bored and decides to investigate.

I miss us sometimes | @papriikau

You and James Wilson hadn't spoken since your divorce. You still care for him after all this time, but choose to avoid him to avoid getting hurt. But when a family emergency forces you to reconnect with your ex-husband, you struggle with your feelings for each other.

A RIDE HE WOULDN’T SURVIVE | @/papriikau

you and Wilson have been secretly dating and House keeps trying to figure out who Wilsons seeing.

You’re Hired | @star-girl-05

Mornin’ | @/star-girl-05

Loving You From Afar | @/star-girl-05

House is Cupid | @solcito-dps

wilson needs to get out of an annoying situation, luckily you came in the picture just in time.

“If you don’t stop-” | @curiouser--and--curiouser

Tiny humans | @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

House gets to meet Wilson’s new girlfriend for the first time when his case takes him into his worst nightmare…peds. House is in for a shock at the ball of sunshine who has his best friend on a string.

James Wilson x peds!reader | @/the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

Dr y/n y/l/n is a brilliant paediatrician at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. She is a ray of sunshine throughout the hospital. But don’t let the glitter and games fool you, she is an outstanding doctor who has the best track record out of everyone, second only to Gregory House (but she has him beat on bedside manner). No one in the hospital could believe it when she started dating the head of oncology, mr prince-charming himself! Least of all House.

You go. I go. | @/the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

Vogler is on the warpath, his only goal; the termination of Gregory House. James won’t let this happen. But when his career is put on the line, your heart only tells you to do one thing.

Heartbeat | @kining-the-evil

Nothing brings a fighting couple together like a life threatening event

Jealous James Wilson Headcanons | @/kining-the-evil

dating wilson headcannons | @sorencd

make her mine | @gegewrites

Elevator | @bvnnyjo

I Believe What You Said | @haloshornsinkstains

Commitment | @bi-bard

(Y/n) has recently realized that their boyfriend of a few months, James, seems to be avoiding them. They confront an old friend in the hopes of getting answers and finding a way to help.

Mornings with you | @pomegranateshrimp

Finding you in the break room having a panic attack. (1) | @/pomegranateshrimp

House’s Gremlin | @specialagentlokitty

house's kid comes to visit Wilson and ends up teasing the team with her dad

Two | @/specialagentlokitty

Prompt for Wilson being in a new relationship where Wilson expects their new s/o to react to House like everyone else does, but they turn around and surprise him with their attitude.

meeting house. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays

ᝰ Robert Chase

Dr. Robert Chase x GN!Reader | @daisywrites101

houses kid! Reader, | @y13evie

KISS AND TELL | @iwritefandomimagines

after endless mutual pining, you and chase finally hooked up over the weekend. you agreed to keep it a secret while you figured things out, but it doesn’t last long with the team around.

MORE THAN THAT | @/iwritefandomimagines

when one of your best friends turns up at the hospital with her daughter unwell, you introduce chase as your colleague. considering you’ve been seeing each other for nearly five months now, he does not like that one bit.

I’m sorry I always said the wrong thing. | @audiovideodisco

You have a crush on your Aussie colleague, but have given up on ever being his type, or even someone he respects. People never change, right?

Wedding Night Excitement | @dearestro

Who knew a slip of the hand could lead to this?

Fluff | @rosedpetal

all worth it | @saorsawrites

Lazy evenings with chase after a long day of being annoyed by House

a winning bet. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays

ᝰ Dr House

“that’s my girl!” | @stxrshxpxd

house can’t stay focused on the case when something more interesting is distracting him, but reader knows how to put up a fight in the vicious bantering and flirting match that ensues

feelings are scary. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays

Masterlist | @kittenlittle24

Colleagues | @/kittenlittle24

Perfect for him,  | @biahouse

You're House's girlfriend. Wilson doesn't like you, but... 3 times Wilson realized you were the perfect person for house, +1 time he finally admits it

I’m Eepy | @thatgenericwriter

House and the reader have a 4 year old child that definitely takes after her father

When Time Stops | @/thatgenericwriter

reader is at home when they get a surprise visit

Girl!Dad House | @multi-fandom-imagine

Supporting | @specialagentlokitty

Surprise? | @skywwwalker

what i want | @/skywwwalker

The unexpected | @frost-queen

do you yield? | @cmkren

Unsurprisingly, a night out between House and Wilson doesn’t end up uneventful. Tensions were strung in a-- stranger way, now with Amber in the picture. One of House's grand schemes goes sideways when the person he provokes ends up punching him right in the face. In an attempt to get Wilson in trouble (due to the whole curfew agreement), House got ahead of himself and now Wilson dumps him onto someone else rather than face the wrath of his girlfriend.

a human’s touch | @/cmkren

Maybe in some other lifetime romanticism wasn’t lost to House. That he had grown into a man capable of giving clear-cut affections— and capable of receiving it as well.  The first ever puzzle he never wanted to solve, and it was of his heart. You, on the other hand, couldn’t give a damn about it all. You tied yourself to him after all.

House being secretly sweet would include… | @justanescapism

Bump in the Road | @cas-kingdom

You notice something which may mean you have cancer, and Wilson’s the only one you can logically turn to.

Split | @/cas-kingdom

For three years, you’ve kept the fact that Stacy married Mark from House. When he finds out, he’s not happy.

Stubborn | @writeyouin

Mirror Image Part 1 of 2 | @/writeyouin

do better | @crossingthedreams

a relationship between the boss and his employee has a million ways to go wrong. one, in particular, hurt them the most.

Christmas | @michelle-is-writing

Family Matters, | @/michelle-is-writing

St. James Infirmary (pt. 1) | @the-houserat

Y/N is in an accident

Loml | @di-writes-stuff

main nav

⤷ breakfast for breakfast: waking up next to clark, and he’s just a softie in love. you both are tbh (~1.9k, fluff)

⤷ going nowhere: clark misses out on your relationship because of his superman duties. it puts a rift between you (-4.5k, angst, fluff)

⤷ have a laugh in a serious time: bimbo!reader loves clark. loves kissing him with lipgloss freshly applied, gifting him little things that reminded her of him, and leaving him written notes to remind him of her love . (~3.1k, fem!reader, fluff)

⤷ manhandled... gently?: clark just wants to show you he loves you (~4.9k, fluff, implied smut)

⤷ afterglow: you're having a tough time, clark is too perfect (~2.5k, angst, comfort, fluff)

⤷ midnight’s sun: you have been busy and Clark is having a hard time without you (angst, comfort, ~3.5k)

⤷ needing you: clark just wants to get lost in you (~2k, fluff)

You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.

There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.

That nervousness in him undid you.

Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.

You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.

“You're staring,” you murmured.

A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”

You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.

But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.

That was your first mistake.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

Not cocky. Not assuming.

You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.

Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.

The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.

You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.

For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.

No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.

Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.

It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.

Oh.

This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.

You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.

Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.

You had spent years believing that.

And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.

The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.

Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”

Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.

Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you answered too fast.

“Was it too much?”

The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.

“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”

“Then why are you crying?”

You swallowed hard.

Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?

So instead, you lied.

“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”

Clark's entire face softened at that.

Relief flickered visibly across his expression.

“Oh.”

You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”

“It isn't stupid.”

His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.

“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.

The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” you whispered again.

Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”

Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.

“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”

And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.

When you were younger, love looked medicinal.

Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.

Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.

Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.

You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.

You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.

Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.

You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.

At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.

Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.

You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.

Smaller.

And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.

You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.

Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.

You could ruin entire days that way.

Then dating started, and everything got worse.

Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.

How many exes have you had?

Have you ever been in love before?

How many girls have you slept with?

You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.

Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.

It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.

Then you'd do it again anyway.

The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.

You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.

Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.

Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.

No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.

There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.

Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.

But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.

You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.

The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.

But Clark remained painfully consistent.

He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.

And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.

But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.

Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.

Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.

And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.

That should have healed something.

Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.

Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.

You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.

The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.

You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.

“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.

You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”

“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”

“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”

Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”

You frowned and finally looked up.

That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.

Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.

“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”

Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”

“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”

You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.

Most men did.

Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.

“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”

His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.

You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

Clark smiled then.

And God.

He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.

He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.

There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.

Clark still looked soft around the edges.

Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.

You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'

Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.

That was the problem.

Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.

It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.

Then they became irreplaceable.

Clark settled into your life slowly after that.

At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.

And he looked at people when they spoke.

Really looked at them.

Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.

Clark paid attention completely.

The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.

“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”

His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.

“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”

The comment startled you.

Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.

“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”

A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”

And there it was again.

That sincerity.

After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.

He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.

You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.

One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.

The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.

No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.

“You sounded upset,” he said simply.

The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.

It was the consistency.

Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.

Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.

He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.

Made it home safe?

That was it sometimes.

Four words.

But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.

There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.

Sorry. You asleep?

Did you remember to eat?

It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.

You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.

Like he couldn't believe you were real.

And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.

Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.

You hated that hope most of all.

Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.

And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:

Maybe this was it.

Maybe this was finally the antidote.

One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.

It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.

The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.

It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.

That thought hit you strangely hard.

Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.

Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

God, even that smile hurt now.

Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.

You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.

Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.

Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.

Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.

A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.

You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.

You should've ignored it.

Instead your thumb moved anyway.

The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.

Of course.

Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.

You clicked the next photo.

Then another.

And another.

A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.

A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.

You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.

Had he loved her?

Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?

Had she ever stood in this kitchen?

You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.

Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.

But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.

Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.

Every photo became evidence against yourself.

Her legs are thinner than yours.

She looks easy to love.

She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.

Clark noticed the shift immediately.

Of course he did.

“You okay?”

His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.

You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”

The answer came automatic, almost too fast.

You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.

Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.

“Hey.”

You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.

“Talk to me.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.

You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.

“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”

Clark's brow furrowed immediately.

“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”

There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.

Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.

You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.

Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”

The question sat between you for a second too long.

Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.

“No,” he said softly.

You looked away first.

“But you've loved people before.”

“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.

The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.

“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”

Clark went very still.

The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.

Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.

Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn't.

His palms were warm around yours, steady.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”

“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.

Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.

It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.

That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.

And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.

Maybe not cruelly.

Maybe sadly.

But he'd leave.

Because people always did eventually.

Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.

“What is the point? Please tell me.”

And there it was.

The impossible question.

You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.

Fix me.

Please.

Tell me why I feel this way all the time.

Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.

Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.

Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.

Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.

“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”

The words landed heavily between you.

Clark looked heartbroken.

Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.

“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”

That did it.

You started crying fully then.

Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.

He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.

That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.

Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.

And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.

Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.

You folded against his chest instinctively.

His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.

“I've got you,” he murmured softly.

The words nearly broke you apart.

Because he meant them, completely.

“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.

But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.

Small.

Persistent.

Cruel.

Then why doesn't it feel like enough?

Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.

Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.

And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.

Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.

Clark tried so hard.

Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.

And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.

That was the unbearable part.

He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.

“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”

And sometimes you couldn't.

Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?

Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.

Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.

The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.

He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.

He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.

“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.

You tried. God, you tried.

But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.

“I can't,” you admitted weakly.

Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.

“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”

The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.

Not 'calm down.'

Not 'get it together.'

Not 'what's wrong with you?'

There you are.

Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.

Clark kissed every scar like reverence.

Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.

The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.

Clark handled all of it carefully.

The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.

It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.

Then his thumb brushed over the scars.

He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.

Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.

And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.

That disconnect tortured you quietly.

Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.

Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.

Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.

Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.

You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.

That realization gutted you.

Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.

“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.

You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”

Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.

Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.

“C'mere.”

Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.

And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.

Steady.

Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.

And maybe sometimes it helped.

There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.

But eventually the pain always returned.

You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.

And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.

Because Clark was trying so hard.

You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.

But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.

And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.

You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.

But healing didn't work like that.

Love didn't either.

That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.

Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.

There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.

But it was not a cure.

His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.

And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.

Not that Clark failed to save you.

But that he was never supposed to.

The fight happened in winter.

It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.

There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.

The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.

By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.

The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.

Nothing fit right.

Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.

The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.

The blue one made your shoulders look broad.

The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.

Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.

You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.

Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.

“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.

Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.

You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”

There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.

“You look beautiful.”

The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.

Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”

Silence answered immediately.

Heavy silence.

The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.

Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.

God.

Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.

Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.

Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.

Concern softened his face instantly.

“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.

You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”

Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.

“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”

Your throat tightened immediately.

Because he meant it.

That was the problem.

Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.

“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”

The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.

Because there was hurt in them too.

Not anger.

Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.

Not at him.

Never at him.

At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.

Something inside you snapped.

“Because you love me.”

The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.

Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.

You watched the pain cross his face in real time.

Not offense. Not anger.

Pain.

Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.

“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”

You opened your mouth, and closed it again.

Because maybe it was.

Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.

Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?

The silence stretched painfully between you.

Clark stepped closer slowly.

Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.

“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.

You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”

“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”

He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.

Not trapping.

Just there.

Grounding.

“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”

Your chest hurt.

Clark's voice softened further.

“I know you.”

The words landed heavily.

Completely.

“And I still love you.”

His voice wavered slightly on the last part.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.

And he loved you anyway.

Tears blurred your vision instantly.

“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Raw.

Ugly.

Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.

Why wasn't his love enough?

Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?

Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?

Clark looked devastated.

Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.

The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.

And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.

He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.

“This isn't something I can save you from.”

The words shattered something inside you.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were true.

You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.

But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.

Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.

You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.

Clark followed you down immediately.

Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.

He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.

“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn't.

Everything hurt too badly.

“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”

The words cracked something open inside you all over again.

Because Clark sounded scared.

Not exhausted. Not resentful.

Scared.

Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.

“You won't,” you whispered automatically.

But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.

Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.

Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.

“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”

That one hurt the most.

Not because it was harsh.

Because he was right.

Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.

Love won't fix you.