natxcps

calling him human, even in your own head, feels generous.

for a few seconds, you don’t move. you let the room come back in pieces: dim morning light trapped behind thin curtains, the ugly radiator clicking near the wall, your hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, the terrible mattress dipping toward the weight beside you. 

soldier boy’s on his back, one arm lying loose across his stomach, his face turned slightly away from you. his hair’s a mess. like he lost a fight with the pillow and refused to acknowledge the it’s victory.

his fingers are no longer hooked in your hoodie. sometime in the night, he let go. or maybe sleep took his hand before pride could. either way, the fabric near your hip is wrinkled where he held it, and for some stupid reason, that small, damaged place in the cotton feels more intimate than the things he’s done to your body with his mouth.

you stare at it until your chest tightens, then decide coffee is better than whatever the fuck this is.

leaving the bed would be easier if soldier boy had chosen literally any other position. because even unconscious, he needs to be in the way. 

you lift the blanket carefully, slow enough not to disturb him, and manage to get one knee under yourself before realizing there’s no angle that doesn’t involve climbing over him. the bed creaks beneath your shifting weight.

he doesn’t move. of course he doesn’t. the man can wake up at the sound of a safety clicking off three rooms away, but your very graceful escape attempt doesn’t matter.

fine.

you place one hand on the wall for balance and swing one leg over him. it’s not elegant. your knee sinks into the mattress near his hip, your other foot searching blindly for the floor on his side of the bed. for one bright, horrible second, you’re half-straddling him in the dim morning light, hoodie riding up your thigh, hair falling into your face, one hand braced above his shoulder.

soldier boy’s eyes open immediately. not slowly. not sleepily. open, sharp, green, and far too awake for a man you were hoping to escape like a thief in a cartoon.

his gaze drops to your knee near his hip. to the awkward angle of your body over his. to the way your hoodie has shifted. then back to your face.

his mouth twitches. “hell of a way to say good morning.”

your stomach drops clean through the mattress. “oh, fuck me.”

“i wake up with you crawling all over me,” his voice is sleep-wrecked, low enough to make your skin do something very stupid. “usually costs dinner first.”

“i was trying to get out of bed.”

“sure looked like trying to get into something else.”

you glare down at him, which would be more effective if you weren’t still balanced over his body like an idiot. “move.”

“you’re on top of me.”

“because you’re blocking the exit.”

“bed’s got one exit?”

“when you’re built like a refrigerator, yes.”

his hand comes up to your thigh. not fully grabbing. just there, palm warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, fingers settling at the outside of your leg like he’s steadying you. like he’s making a point. 

the room changes shape around that touch.

your breath catches, and he sees. he always sees. it’s one of the worst things about him. soldier boy’s eyes sharpen, awake in a different way now. the air between you picks up the unfinished pieces, turns them over, reminds you of his fingers in your hoodie, his body beside yours, the door he didn’t walk through because you asked him not to.

“careful,” he says.

you shift your weight to climb the rest of the way off him, but the movement drags your thigh against his hip. his hand tightens by instinct. yours slips slightly against the wall. for half a second, your body lowers toward his, close enough that his breath touches the underside of your jaw.

his eyes drop to your mouth.

you could kiss him. you could lean down, press your mouth to his, and he’d let you. probably. he might even make that rough sound again, the one he made on the couch when your hands were in his hair. the thought arrives with humiliating detail, fast and hot, before you manage to shove it behind the part of your brain still pretending to have morals.

“i need coffee,” you say.

“that what we’re calling it?”

you put your free hand on his chest and push. he doesn’t move, but he laughs under his breath, which might be worse. not warm enough to be safe. not cruel enough to cut. familiar. low. the kind of sound that makes your ribs ache because you missed it before you’re ready to admit you missed anything.

your foot finally finds the floor. you climb off the bed with most of your dignity missing and all of your face burning. 

soldier boy watches from the mattress, one hand resting where your thigh had been, smug in a way that makes you want to throw the pillow at him.

“morning,” he says.

“fuck you.”

“working up to it?”

you grab some sweats from the chair and hit him with them before you can think better of it. he catches it one-handed against his chest, looking far too pleased with himself.

“coffee,” you repeat, pointing toward the door. “alone.”

“you sure? looked like you needed help getting around.”

you leave before he can see you smile.

the house is already awake when you reach the kitchen. 

annie sits at the table with both hands wrapped around a mug, eyes swollen from a night that probably held more argument than sleep. hughie’s beside her, hair messy, shoulders curled inward. they aren’t touching. that says enough. 

frenchie has rebuilt his little nest of wires and stolen drives near the end of the table, kimiko perched beside him with a sleeve of crackers open between them. mm stands by the sink, staring out the narrow window at the street beyond the curtains. butcher is absent, which means he’s either outside smoking, inside plotting, or both.

everyone looks at you when you enter.

“what?” you ask.

annie lifts her brows. “nothing.”

“that’s a lot of nothing.” you lift a brow right back. “is my pretty face on tv again?”

hughie looks at your hair, then at the hallway, then immediately down into his coffee. “nope. no observations.”

“smart,” you say.

frenchie, traitor that he is, smiles into his laptop. kimiko signs something with one hand while chewing a cracker.

annie snorts.

you point at her. “do not translate that.”

“she said good morning.”

“no, she didn’t.”

“no,” annie agrees. “she didn’t.”

you pour coffee and pretend the entire room isn’t silently enjoying the fact that soldier boy stayed in your bed. not that anything happened. nothing happened. less than nothing happened. he held the hem of your hoodie and stayed on his side of a terrible mattress, which shouldn’t count as anything except bad sleep posture and emotional terrorism.

soldier boy walks into the kitchen exactly three minutes later.

mm’s face is set in the same hard shape as yesterday, eyes worn thin by too many calculations nobody else wants to make. the reminder settles over the kitchen: temp v, vought, your face on tv, soldier boy’s blood in homelander’s. whatever brief stupidity the morning allowed, the day has no intention of being kind.

butcher enters from the back door with rain caught in his coat and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. “good. everyone’s up. we’ve got a problem.”

“shocking,” you mutter to your coffee.

“maeve,” butcher announces. 

annie straightens. the whole room shifts around the name.

frenchie’s fingers pause over the keyboard. “you found her?”

“found where they’re keeping her.” butcher steps toward the table and drops a folded paper near frenchie’s laptop. “vought tower. lower medical level.”

annie’s face goes pale with anger. “she’s alive?”

“for now.”

hughie rubs a hand over his mouth. “how did you get this?”

butcher gives him a look. “by being charming.”

“lying,” mm says.

“that too.” butcher gives mm his signature cunt smile, then looks at frenchie. “security’s thin on the lower levels.”

“thin?” frenchie asks, suspicious. “vought tower does not do thin.”

butcher’s expression shifts by a fraction. “that’s what we’re gonna find out.”

you look from him to the paper, then to annie’s face. “when?”

“now.”

soldier boy pushes off the counter. “i’m going.”

“no,” butcher and mm say at the same time.

soldier boy’s gaze moves between them. “cute.”

“your face in that building starts a war before we get close to her,” butcher says. “same goes for our freshly minted tv terrorist here.”

you lift a hand. “very hurtful phrasing.”

“both of you stay put,” mm says, looking at you and soldier boy. “we need eyes here. backup if this goes bad.”

the mission comes together too quickly for comfort. that’s become the pattern lately. too little time. too many risks. somebody’s life sitting at the center of a plan held together by stolen files, bad luck, and butcher’s conviction that panic’s just strategy with less swearing.

annie goes because it’s maeve. kimiko goes because she can move through tight spaces and put down guards without making a sound. frenchie goes because he needs to cut through whatever vought has put between the team and the lower medical level. mm goes because somebody has to keep the plan from turning into butcher’s improv session. butcher goes because trying to stop him would waste time. hughie goes but is assigned van duty because annie says his name once, quietly, and he looks at the floor.

you stay because firecracker put your face on television and because if you walk into vought today, you might as well hand homelander a map to every weak point in the room.

soldier boy stays because nobody trusts him near vought tower after yesterday. he takes that about as well as expected—

“you need backup,” he grunts as butcher checks a gun at the table.

“we need quiet,” butcher answers. “you’re many things. quiet’s not one of ‘em.”

soldier boy steps closer. “you think you can handle homelander if he shows?”

butcher smiles without humor. “you worried?”

“i’m curious how fast you die.”

“touching.”

“enough,” mm says. “we’re in and out. we don’t engage homelander. we don’t improvise a suicide run. we get maeve and leave.”

kimiko signs something. frenchie nods. “yes. exactly. no heroics.”

everyone looks at butcher.

he looks offended. “what?”

annie hugs you before they leave. it catches you off guard. her arms wrap around your shoulders quickly, tight enough to say the thing she doesn’t say out loud.

then they’re gone.

the safehouse feels too large with only two of you in it.

he comms sit open on the kitchen table beside frenchie’s spare laptop, the little receiver blinking green every few seconds, proof that the team exists somewhere beyond the walls. proof that they’re all moving toward vought tower while you remain here with a man everyone agreed shouldn’t be allowed near the building where his son is waiting.

soldier boy stands in the middle of the living room for almost a full minute after the door shuts.

he doesn’t look at you. he looks at the door, then the window, then the table where the comms are waiting. his shield rests against his knee, one hand loose at his side, shoulders set in that hard, irritated line that means he’s deciding whether anger is useful enough to spend. the morning softness is gone beneath his jaw locked, mouth flat, eyes too awake.

you take your coffee to the table because doing anything else would feel too much like waiting for him. the receiver crackles once, then goes still. you pull the chair out with your foot. “well…” his eyes move to you. “this is familiar.”

“what is?”

you sit. “babysitting duty.”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens with recognition. you wrap both hands around your mug and lean back like this is casual. “last time i got left behind with you, there was a war movie and a very touching amount of emotional repression.”

“don’t remember asking for a nanny.”

“no. you just needed one.”

his mouth curls. “that right?”

you nod. “considering everyone just left me here to make sure you don’t storm vought tower and accidentally start the apocalypse before lunch.”

“accidentally?”

“i was being generous.”

he looks toward the window again. outside, rain drags faint lines down the glass, blurring the street into gray. “you think you could stop me?”

the answer should be no. it sits obvious and heavy between you. no, not without temp v. no, not without the thing you promised not to use on him. no, not with your human hands and your bare feet and the coffee still too hot in your mug. the old version of you would’ve made a joke fast enough to dodge the shape of it. this version still wants to.

you choose carefully. “i think i could make leaving annoying.”

his eyes come back to you. for a second, you think he might laugh. instead, the corner of his mouth only threatens something close enough to make your pulse trip. “you already do that with breathing.”

“sweet.”

“wasn’t.”

“i know. you’re not very subtle.”

“neither are you.”

the comms crackle before you can answer. frenchie’s voice comes through threaded with static. “approaching perimeter. cameras on west service entrance are mine for now.”

annie’s voice comes in next, tense but steady. “we’re moving.”

you look at the laptop as frenchie’s mirrored feed pulls up in grainy blocks: a service entrance, gray walls, a sliver of loading dock slick with rain. the team moves in pieces. shadows first. then bodies. then the feed flickers and corrects itself. soldier boy comes closer, stopping behind your chair.

“stop looming and sit down,” you say without looking at him. you hate that your body knows exactly where he is. 

he leans down slightly, voice lowering near your ear. “you seemed to like looming this morning.” 

heat runs up your neck. “you were in the way.”

“you were on top of me.”

“because you were in the way.”

“sure.”

you turn your head, and that’s worse because his face’s closer than you expected. rough and awake and far too aware of the exact way you have stopped breathing.

“you were shaking on my fingers two nights ago,” he says, like the sentence’s been sitting behind his teeth since the others left. “trying to act like you weren’t about to make noise with the whole house sleeping down the hall.”

your face burns so hard it nearly hurts. “and i said that was a mistake.” 

your voice is ridiculously weak and the word doesn’t land as harshly as it once did. 

soldier boy doesn’t blink. “maybe it’s still going around.” 

the comms crackle with hughie’s voice: “van’s parked. nobody’s looking at me. which is good, but also concerning.”

mm answers, “stay alert.”

you don’t look away from soldier boy. “you’re disgusting.”

“you crawled into my lap.”

“you pulled me.”

“you came easy.”

the words hit lower than they should and you stand before you decide to, chair scraping lightly against the floor. soldier boy straightens at full height, and he doesn’t look smug now. there’s heat there, yes, crude and familiar and sharp around the edges, but something else sits under it. a question dressed up badly as a taunt.

are we still doing this?

do you still want me?

can we be this and everything else?

you stand in front of him. “you’re bored.”

his gaze lifts slowly. “that your diagnosis?”

“you’re angry you’re not with them. you’re angry homelander’s in that building. you’re angry noir might be there. you’re angry i’m here. and you’re trying to piss me off because that’s easier than sitting still.”

his expression flattens. good. you found something. maybe too much of something.

“watch it,” he says.

“am i wrong?”

“you think because i slept in your shitty little bed, you get to read me?”

your heart kicks once. “no.”

“good.”

“i think i could read you before that.”

his jaw flexes. for one long second, neither of you moves. the comms hiss faintly from the table. rain taps against the window. somewhere beneath vought tower, your friends are moving toward a woman homelander locked away, and here you are standing between a couch and soldier boy, daring a war relic to admit he’s bleeding.

he reaches first, hooking two fingers in the loose hem of your hoodie. the same place he held in the dark. his eyes do not leave yours. “still reading?”

your throat feels too tight. “trying.”

he tugs once more and you go with it. 

the distance disappears in one step and then his mouth is on yours, hard and impatient, like the argument was just foreplay neither of you could admit to. 

your back hits the edge of the table before he turns you both, walking you backward until your thighs meet the couch. he doesn’t ask. he never really does. one big hand pushes under your hoodie, palm rough against your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast whiel the other yanks your sweats and panties down your hips in one impatient motion. 

“fuck, ben—” you start, but he swallows it, tongue sliding against yours. 

“still talking,” he mutters, breaking the kiss just long enough to shove your hoodie higher. 

his mouth finds your neck, teeth scrapping, then lower, sucking hard at the skin above your collarbone. your arch into it, fingers digging into his shoulders as he drops to his knees in front of the couch, dragging your clothes the rest of the way off. 

his hands spread your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft skin, and then his mouth is on you. no teasing. no slow build. he licks a broad stripe through your folds and groans like he’s the one getting fucked. the vibration shuts straight up your spine. 

two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling immediately and finding that spot that makes your knees buckle. you grab his hair, hips rocking against his face as he sucks your clit into his mouth. 

“taste so fucking good,” he growls against you, fingers thrusting deeper. faster. “getting wet just from arguing with me. pathetic.” 

you moan, thighs trembling around his head. the words should piss you off. instead, they make you clench around his fingers, chasing the stretch, the heat, the way he looks up at you with dark eyes while his mouth works you open. he adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and you bite your lips hard enough to sting. 

and suddenly, he stands. fingers leaving you clenching around nothing and you gasp. “hey—”

he shoves his sweats down just enough for the complaint to die on your tongue. his cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. you reach for it but he catches your wrist, spinning you around and bending you over the arm of the couch. 

one hand presses between your shoulder blades, the other lines himself up. “you want it?”

“yes—fuck, just—” 

he pushes in with one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. the stretch burns so good you cry out, fingers clawing at the cushion. he doesn’t give you time to adjust. he fucks you hard, deep, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds that fill the quiet safehouse. every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, his hand sliding around to rub tight circles over your clit.

“that’s it,” he grunts, leaning over you, chest hot against your back. “take it. been thinking about this pussy since you crawled over me this morning.”

you push back to meet every brutal thrust, the angle letting him hit deeper. pleasure coils tight and fast in your belly, every drag of his cock pushing you closer. his fingers tighten on your hip, the other still working your clit.

“gonna come for me?” he rasps against your ear. “gonna soak my cock like a good girl while your team’s playing hero?”

the words tip you over. you come hard, clenching around him, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your vision whites out. he fucks you through it, pace stuttering, then pulls out and spins you again, lifting you onto the couch so you’re straddling him. he sinks back in immediately, groaning low as you sink down on his cock.

you ride him through the aftershocks, hips rolling, hands braced on his chest. his head falls back, eyes half-lidded, watching where you take him, the slick shine of your release coating his length with every lift and drop.

“fuck—look at you,” he breathes, hands gripping your ass, guiding you faster. “can’t stay away either, can you?”

“jesus, shut up—” you lean down, kissing him messy and desperate, grinding deep. 

his thrusts meet yours from below. the tension coils again as his thumb finds your clit once more and you shatter around him a second time, crying out into his mouth. he follows right after, burying himself and coming with a rough groan, hips jerking as he fills you.

the room grows quiet, the only sound being both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, still joined.

then, the comms crackle sharply. you jerk upright so fast your knee slips against the cushion.

“we’re inside,” annie says.

the moment breaks apart. soldier boy’s head turns toward the table, jaw already locked. you scramble off his lap, fixing your hoodie with hands that aren’t steady enough to be subtle. the feed is ugly and unstable, but the team is through the lower access point. 

frenchie’s voice comes through in tight fragments. camera loop holding. corridor clear. you grip the table edge.

soldier boy stands beside you now, close enough that his arm nearly brushes yours. 

“this is too easy,” hughie says through comms.

soldier boy immediately says, “trap.”

you glance at him. “maybe.”

“always is.”

frenchie’s voice returns. “medical level access in ten seconds.”

butcher’s voice comes through next, “door’s open.”

the grainy feed shows a sterile corridor washed in hard white light. one abandoned gurney. a security card on the floor. vought tower shouldn’t look abandoned. it should look armed. sealed. watching. instead, it feels as though everyone inside it has suddenly remembered somewhere worse to be.

annie’s voice comes through, smaller than before. “maeve?”

static. then a woman’s voice, rough and wrecked and unmistakably alive. “about fucking time.”

soldier boy doesn’t react, but his eyes stay fixed on the speaker. getting maeve out should be the hard part. it isn’t. that’s what makes the back of your neck prickle.

the next minutes blur in movement. the team gets maeve on her feet. frenchie says internal lockdown is redirecting security upward, not down. butcher asks why. nobody has answers. annie keeps close to maeve, voice steady in that careful way people use around someone who’s been hurt badly enough to hate needing help.

then frenchie finds the alert. 

priority incident: seven tower.

another follows.

asset noir: medical emergency.

then a third. 

asset noir: medical emergency canceled. subject deceased.

hughie swallows from the van. “there’s an alert. it says noir—”

the comms crackle. 

“what about him?”

butcher answers, and for once even his voice is stripped of performance. “homelander killed noir.”

soldier boy stares at the laptop. his face barely moves. 

maeve is alive. noir is dead, killed by the man tied by blood to the one standing in front of you. your name is probably still burned across every vought alert in the city.

there’s blood in the water now. and every monster left can smell it. 

“I did not,” you shook your head stubbornly, though the evidence was right in his face.

He folded his arms, giving you a pointed look. “Sweetheart.”

You sighed dramatically, already losing the argument. “I might’ve…scraped my knee.” You shrugged. “I swear, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Lemme see it.” Steve was already kneeling down, looking closely at the open gash that spread across your knee, nothing serious, just enough to sting.

His expression softened immediately. “Oh, honey.” He cooed.

You bit your lip, ignoring how his gentle hand touching your skin made you feel. “It’s really not that bad.” You repeated.

“I know.” He was quick to reply, but his eyes stayed on the cut. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Something about the way he said it—so quietly you almost missed it, made your heart ache far more than your knee did.

Steve reached into the bottom cupboard without looking. “Sit.” He instructed.

“I’m surprised you know where the first aid kit is.” You quipped.

“I’ve dated someone clumsy enough to know where you hide all the good bandages.” Steve stated, meaning the little bandages that were covered in dinosaurs.

You laughed despite yourself, hopping onto the bathroom counter while he gathered antiseptic, gauze, and a tin of ointment you regularly dipped your fingers in.

Steve stepped between your knees, lifting your leg higher to work with. “This might sting,” he warned.

“I’m brave.” You huffed.

“I know you are, baby.” He acknowledged, before dabbing the antiseptic onto a cotton pad and cleaning the scrape. The silence that settled after wasn’t awkward, it was the kind that built after months of getting into a routine where you knew each other's habits.

Steve worked slowly, every now and then pausing. “Too much?” He’d ask, easing a brow.

You’d shake your head, allowing him to continue. “You know,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be tough around me.”

“I’m not acting tough.” You said defensively, frowning.

“You tried to hide your leg before I could see it, I’d say that’s acting tough.” Steve said.

“I don’t wanna burden you with my problems, I was going to fix it myself.” You replied, but looking back, you aren’t sure if you could do it as well as him.

Steve’s brows pulled together, not liking your words. “You know what’s actually going to burden me? Finding out you were sitting here hurting alone, because you thought you couldn’t ask me.” He shook his head.

“You always treat me like I’m made of glass.” You whispered softly, observing as he smoothed the ointment over your skin in featherlight motions.

His hands stopped, looking up at you with something startled in his expression. “No. I treat you like you’re someone I love.”

Your throat tightened, the words slipped out so naturally like he hadn’t even realized he’d said them.

Steve noticed immediately, straightening up. “Hey.” He placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m okay.” You forced out, blinking hardly.

He wrapped the clean bandage carefully around your knee, smoothing the edge down with his thumb before pressing a kiss above it.

Then another, and another, until you couldn’t stop smiling. “All fixed.” He admired his work with a bright smile.

You stared at where he had accidentally placed the t-Rex upside down, laughing so hard you had to lean against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your waist without hesitation, pulling you close so your forehead rested against his neck.

“Next time you get hurt,” Steve muttered into your hair. “Come get me first.”

“So you can patch me up?” You lifted your chin to gaze at him.

“So I can make sure you’re okay.” He corrected, there wasn’t an ounce of teasing in his voice, only sincerity.

You reached up with your hand to cup his cheek, moving strays of hair away from his face. “I will.” You promised.

Steve smiled, that soft, small smile reserved only for you, and kissed your forehead. “Good.”

the first time steve drove past your house after the breakup, he told himself it was an accident.

the second time, he blamed it on muscle memory.

by the third week, he stopped making excuses.

the truth was pathetic.

he missed you.

he missed you so much that sometimes it physically hurt.

the worst part wasn’t even the silence.

it was the fact that everything in hawkins reminded him of you.

every street.

every store.

every stupid song on the radio.

every place where he’d once reached for your hand without thinking.

now there was nothing.

just empty spaces where you used to be.

steve drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he slowed near your neighborhood.

again.

it was almost midnight.

again.

and somehow he already knew your bedroom light would still be on.

again.

sure enough, as he turned the corner, there it was.

glowing softly through the darkness.

his chest tightened.

he should keep driving.

he knew that.

instead, he slowed.

just for a second.

just long enough to look.

just long enough to wonder what you were doing.

if you were awake.

if you were thinking about him too.

if you missed him.

then he drove away.

like always.

because looking was easier than talking.

it had been four months since the breakup.

four months since the argument that neither of you seemed capable of forgetting.

it hadn’t even been one big dramatic betrayal.

just weeks of misunderstandings.

bad timing.

hurt feelings.

things left unsaid.

until eventually neither of you knew how to fix it anymore.

and somehow that almost made it worse.

because there was no villain.

no reason to hate each other.

only regret.

the next afternoon robin found him staring out the video store window.

“you’re doing it again.”

steve blinked, “doing what?”

“thinking about her.”

he groaned.

“robin.”

“i’m serious.”

she crossed her arms.

“this is getting ridiculous.”

“thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

he rolled his eyes.

robin studied him for a moment.

then sighed.

“have you talked to her?”

“no.”

“called her?”

“no.”

“seen her?”

“not really.”

robin looked like she wanted to throw something at him.

“steve.”

“what?”

“you literally drive by her house every night.”

his silence answered for him.

“oh my god.”

“i don’t literally—”

“you literally do.”

he dropped his head into his hands.

robin pointed dramatically.

“that’s insane behavior.”

“i know.”

“then stop.”

“i can’t.”

the words escaped before he could stop them.

and suddenly the joke wasn’t funny anymore.

because it was true.

he couldn’t.

he’d tried.

he’d tried forgetting.

moving on.

pretending he was okay.

none of it worked.

because every morning he still reached for the phone.

every evening he still expected to hear your voice.

and every night he still wondered if you missed him too.

across town, you were having the exact same problem.

which was infuriating.

because if anyone deserved to be angry, it was you.

instead all you felt was sadness.

you still remembered everything.

the way he laughed.

the way he always stole your fries.

the way he’d automatically move you to the inside of the sidewalk whenever you walked together.

stupid things.

small things.

the things that were somehow impossible to forget.

and every time someone mentioned his name, your heart reacted before your brain could stop it.

months later.

still.

pathetic.

nancy found you sitting by your bedroom window one evening.

your gaze immediately snapped away.

too late.

she noticed.

“you’re looking for him again.”

you scoffed.

“i am not.”

“you are.”

“nancy.”

“you are.”

you groaned.

she sat beside you.

gentler now.

“do you still love him?”

the question lingered in the room.

painfully simple.

painfully obvious.

your eyes drifted back toward the street.

toward the road where a certain familiar car occasionally appeared.

your chest tightened.

“yeah.”

the answer barely qualified as a whisper.

nancy squeezed your hand.

“then do something about it.”

you laughed bitterly.

“he doesn’t want me anymore.”

“you don’t know that.”

except you did.

didn’t you?

if he wanted you back, he would’ve called.

right?

if he missed you, he would’ve shown up.

right?

if he still loved you—

a pair of headlights appeared outside.

your breath caught.

familiar.

too familiar.

the car slowed.

just slightly.

before continuing down the street.

your heart stopped.

nancy saw it too.

and suddenly her expression changed.

“you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“what?”

“that was steve.”

your stomach flipped.

“no.”

“yes.”

“it wasn’t.”

“that is literally his car.”

silence.

nancy stared at you.

then at the street.

then back at you.

“how often does he do that?”

you looked away.

which was answer enough.

“oh my god.”

the realization hit both of you at exactly the same time.

all those nights.

all those headlights.

all those moments spent wondering.

and somehow neither of you had said anything.

weeks passed.

then another.

until one rainy night finally changed everything.

steve wasn’t planning to stop.

he never stopped.

that was the rule.

drive past.

look at the light.

leave.

simple.

safe.

except tonight your porch light was on.

and you were standing there.

looking directly at him.

for a second, neither of you moved.

the world seemed to freeze.

rain tapping softly against the windshield.

your eyes locked with his.

and suddenly four months of distance felt impossibly small.

steve’s heart hammered.

you were really there.

not a memory.

not a dream.

you.

and for the first time since the breakup, neither of you looked away.

instead, you took one step forward.

then another.

as if silently asking the question both of you had been carrying for months.

steve swallowed hard.

his hand tightened around the steering wheel.

and for the first time in a very long time, he stopped the car.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the rain continued falling softly around you.

the engine was still running.

the headlights illuminated the wet pavement.

and steve just sat there staring.

because after months of imagining this moment, after months of replaying a hundred different versions of it in his head, he suddenly had no idea what to do.

you were really there.

standing on your porch.

looking at him the same way he was looking at you.

as if neither of you could quite believe it.

slowly, steve reached for the door handle.

his heart was beating so hard it was almost embarrassing.

the second his shoes hit the pavement, the cold rain soaked through them.

he barely noticed.

all he could see was you.

you took another step forward.

he took one too.

then another.

until eventually you were standing at opposite ends of the walkway.

close enough now to see every detail.

close enough to notice that neither of you looked quite the same.

months apart would do that.

yet somehow you still looked exactly like home.

“hi.”

the word left steve’s mouth before he could stop it.

your lips trembled slightly.

then you smiled.

a small smile.

the kind he hadn’t seen in months.

“hi.”

god.

he’d missed your voice.

he’d missed it so much.

for a second neither of you said anything.

all those months of silence suddenly felt too big.

too complicated.

too heavy.

until finally you laughed softly.

and the sound immediately broke something inside him.

“what?” he asked.

you shook your head.

“nothing.”

“tell me.”

another laugh escaped you.

warmer this time.

“it’s just…”

you looked down briefly before meeting his eyes again.

“i can’t believe it’s actually you.”

steve felt his chest tighten.

because he’d been thinking the exact same thing.

“yeah.”

your eyes softened.

and suddenly all the distance felt very small.

very fragile.

as if one wrong move could shatter it.

“why do you keep driving past my house?”

straight to the point.

just like that.

steve groaned immediately.

“seriously?”

“seriously.”

“that’s the first thing you’re asking me?”

a smile appeared on your face.

“yes.”

he dropped his head back dramatically.

“great.”

“well?”

“well what?”

“answer me.”

you were definitely enjoying this.

which, surprisingly, made him feel better.

because for the first time in months, you felt like you again.

teasing him.

challenging him.

making his life difficult.

his favorite version of you.

finally, steve sighed.

“because i missed you.”

the smile disappeared from your face.

immediately.

the honesty hung between you.

raw.

simple.

real.

steve looked down.

rain dripping from his hair.

“that’s it.”

his voice was quieter now.

“i missed you.”

your eyes filled with something that made his chest ache.

“steve…”

“i know it’s stupid.”

“it’s not.”

he laughed softly.

“it’s a little stupid.”

“maybe.”

“robin called me pathetic.”

you laughed.

actually laughed.

and steve felt something warm spread through him at the sound.

god.

he’d missed that.

he’d missed making you laugh.

he’d missed hearing it.

he’d missed everything.

the smile slowly faded from your face as your gaze lingered on him.

“i missed you too.”

everything stopped.

the rain.

the night.

his thoughts.

all of it.

gone.

just those four words.

he stared at you.

almost afraid he’d imagined them.

“yeah?”

you nodded.

and suddenly you looked just as nervous as he felt.

“every day.”

steve swallowed hard.

his heart felt painfully full.

because this whole time he’d been convinced he was the only one.

the only idiot still holding on.

the only person unable to move forward.

and now here you were.

looking at him like he’d hung the stars.

exactly the way you used to.

without thinking, he stepped closer.

you didn’t move away.

so he stepped closer again.

and this time you smiled.

small.

shy.

beautiful.

“hey,” you whispered.

“hey.”

“you know we’re kind of standing in the rain.”

steve glanced upward.

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“right.”

you laughed.

there it was again.

that laugh.

and before he knew what he was doing, he reached for your hand.

instinct.

pure instinct.

the second your fingers slipped into his, something settled inside him.

like a missing piece finally finding its place.

your eyes dropped to your joined hands.

then lifted back to his.

neither of you let go.

“i don’t want to do this again.”

your voice was barely above a whisper.

steve immediately shook his head.

“me neither.”

“i hated it.”

“same.”

“it was awful.”

“the worst.”

another tiny smile appeared.

and suddenly both of you were laughing.

standing in the middle of the rain.

looking ridiculous.

looking happy.

for the first time in months.

steve squeezed your hand.

gently.

carefully.

like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“come here.”

you didn’t hesitate.

the second you stepped into his arms, he wrapped them around you.

holding you tightly against his chest.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

you buried your face against his shoulder.

he rested his cheek against your hair.

neither of you speaking.

neither of you needing to.

because after months of wishing.

months of missing.

months of wondering if the other person still cared.

you finally had your answer.

and steve knew, with absolute certainty, that he never wanted to let you go again.

“Oh, that’s funny.” You said, setting all the supplies beside you on the blanket.

“It wasn’t a joke.” He rolled his eyes at you, always the frowny one.

“I know,” you stared at him. “Thats the funny part.”

Steve sighed through his nose, already trying to prop himself up one elbow again to get a better look at you. “I can clean it myself.”

“And rob me of the joy of bossing you around?” You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Steve tried to no avail.

“Don’t try getting up again, or I’m going to hit you harder than that demogorgon did.” You weren’t joking, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he caught himself and schooled it back into a serious expression. “Now, take your shirt off.”

Steve looked at you with a raised brow. “You don’t want to take me out to dinner first?” He asked with a suggestive tone.

“Always the flirt.” You snorted, carefully peeling his blood-speckled shirt over his head. Your smile softened, under the warm light of your bedroom, the damage was easier to see. Long angry scratches crossed his chest and ribs, bruised already blooming beneath his skin.

Steve noticed you had gone quiet. “It really doesn’t hurt that—”

“Shush.” You cut him off gently. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” You dipped a cloth into warm water and began swiping away at the dried blood. When you neared a particularly sore spot, it earned a tiny hiss from him.

You looked up. “See?” Steve exhaled sharply. “I told you.”

He only grumbled something you couldn’t hear in response, as you reached for the bottle of antiseptic. As soon as the cotton pad touched one of his cuts, Steve sucked in a harsh breath, his whole body flinching.

“Fuck—” you immediately pulled back, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry, it stings.” He clenched his teeth, giving a short nod. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Steve blinked in surprise. “…What was that for?” He asked.

“A bravery reward.” You shrugged, though you did want to make him feel better. You flushed a little, and for the first time all evening, Steve’s scowl completely cracked.

His shoulders loosened just slightly from all the tension he had been carrying, he reached up, fingers pausing your hands before gently tugging you closer.

“If that’s the reward…” his lips found yours this time, slower than your stolen peck. It was warm and lingering, when pulled back there was the faintest smile playing on his lips. “Maybe I have one hurting on the inside.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying not to squirm while his kisses drifted down to your neck, pushing your hair back. “Steve, I’m not done yet.” You huffed.

He tilted his head, wearing the most innocent expression you’ve ever seen on someone guilty. “But I just wanna love on you a little bit. After all, the whole time we were down there I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your mouth was agape, having no response as he slowly rolled you both over, hands taking both your wrists in one to hold above your head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” You chuckled.

Steve grinned at you, face inches away from yours. “Stop pretending like you don’t like it, baby.” He leaned down to kiss you again breathlessly, your back arched up towards him, you couldn’t deny he was right.

“Steve, please…” you still couldn’t touch him no matter how hard you tugged, his hold remained tight, leaving you only able to beg.

Steve’s other hand traced down your body, finding your waistband and lowering it enough to expose yourself to him. Pushing your panties to the side, his finger ran through your folds, smirking at the gasp that escaped you.

“So wet, already?” He tsked. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, slipping a finger inside and thrusting it in and out slowly as you moaned.

“M-More, it’s not enough.” You whispered weakly, your clit was aching and his slow movements weren’t helping either.

“More, hm?” Steve cocked his head. “Wasn’t aware you were the one in charge, maybe it’s time I remind you how desperate you are for me, sunshine.”

You nodded rapidly, despite your prior hesitation, seeing Steve above you with his naked chest and hair falling into face, eyes ablaze as he stared down at you with not only desire, but love, you needed him just as badly.

He smiled, letting go of your hands to quickly remove your shirt and unclasp your bra. You pulled him back down for a kiss, Steve wiggled out of his pants and palmed his cock, hard and heavy for you.

You couldn’t help but reach between your bodies to guide his tip towards your entrance, unable to wait for another moment. Steve laughed, intertwining your hand in his. “Slow down, baby. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Your head rocked back against the pillow at the feeling of him finally entering you deeply, until he bottomed out and you were both panting. “God, you feel—fuck, I love you so much.” Steve groaned, pulling out just to thrust back in harshly, setting a passionate pace.

“Ohh, Steve—don’t stop!” You moaned, biting on your lip to contain your sounds of pleasure.

“Lemme hear you, baby. Let me hear how good I’m fucking you.” His cock hit that spongy spot inside of you, and you cried out loudly, squeezing your eyes shut.

Steve’s hand found your clit, rubbing circles that matched the speed he was thrusting into you. He brought one of your legs up onto his shoulder, the angle deepened, making you see stars.

“Shit—mmm, ‘m close.” You tried speaking, though it was impossible every time he forced himself back in.

“Cum for me, baby. You always take care of me so well—just wanna be good enough for you.” Steve spoke honestly, words rooting from a place of insecurity where he didn’t always feel like he was the right man for you.

“You—you’re perfect, Steve. Oh fuck, I’m cumming.” Your whole body shook, he wasn’t far off, burying his head into the crook of your neck as you shared your highs together.

Only when a few minutes passed, did Steve climb off of you, face painted with a picture of relaxation that hadn’t been there before. “You mean everything to me, you know that?” He brought your head to lay on his chest, you obeyed willingly.

“Good.” You giggled, snuggling even closer. “Because you’re kind of my favorite person.”

No one could wipe the smile off of Steve’s face if they tried. “Good, I’m not letting you go anytime soon.” He lifted the blanket higher around you.

“Wait, I didn’t finish patching you up.” You mentioned worriedly,

“Get some rest and I’ll let you finish, sunshine.” Steve replied, not wanting to leave your warmth just yet.

Sam Winchester. The known, and feared demon hunter Sam Winchester was pouting. Dean's eyebrows furrowed "Dude. Are you pouting?" He sounded disgusted

Sam looked over at him like a deer caught in headlights "Wha- no" he denied, but the uptick in his voice said otherwise.

Dean couldn't hide his shocked expression "Yeah, whatever-" he waved it off and returned to his original thought but in the back of his mind he confirmed. Sam Winchester definitely pouts.

Sam let out a released breath because he in fact had been pouting. He hated the thought that you had to go and possibly flirt with an asshole just to get information from the guy.

The next time he's caught pouting it's by Bobby. Which is somehow worse than Dean. This time it was because the two of you had a small disagreement about your capabilities.

At least that's how you'd taken it. Sam had been worried about you being sent off to torch bones on the other side of the large and very haunted estate.

He knew you could take care of yourself he'd seen you smite three demons all on your own just to save his ass. But it never stopped the worry.

You gave him a piece of your mind when he volunteered to go find the newfound missing girl that had just been right behind you, instead of you. And then you went anyway.

While they were waiting inside the salted room, Bobby happened to look over at Sam, noticing how quiet he'd been, and scoffed in disbelief at what he saw.

Sam is sitting with his arms folded and pouting like a child.

"Oh come on she's got you poutin' on the job? What's next you kiss the ground she walks on"

"He already does that. You should see him when she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. Man's whipped" Dean added his (in Sam's opinion) unnecessary commentary.

Sam rolled his eyes because they were being stupid. Winchesters don't pout. Especially not during a job. But Sam was pouting.

He's a grown, 6'4, widely feared hunter and he was pouting.

What the hell is happening to him?

The last time he had been caught was the worst because it had been by you. Dean had gone out to do whatever Dean does in his free time and you and Sam had stayed in your shared motel.

You were lying in Sam's lap, magazine in hand while Sam flipped through channels on the t.v.

You had been so engrossed in the latest celebrity gossip that you rarely had the chance to catch up on that you hadn't acknowledged when Sam had muttered three heavy words.

There was a pang in Sam's chest when seconds of silence passed after he muttered the words. Which it's not like he hadn't said them to you before. He had, hundreds of times.

But usually, every time you would mutter back 'I love you more Sammy' and the words would ease any doubt or pain that he had been feeling.

But you didn't this time. This time you flipped the page and gasped when you saw that Angelina and Brad Pitt had divorced.

So Sam couldn't help when his lips had downturned, or when his eyebrows found company in one another. As his brain wracked itself to see if he had done something- anything to make you angry.

But when you lifted your head up to look at him, preparing to say something to him your face fell. "What's wrong?" Your voice came out soft and quiet.

Sam felt embarrassed, because he knows you love him. Everybody knows, but he couldn't help it. "You didn't-" he pauses, feeling absolutely absurd, he sighed ticking his jaw. "You didn't say I love you back" he muttered.

You blinked at him once. Twice. Three times.

A hint of a smile began growing on your lips, and Sam's heart dropped. Before you could stop it a full smile grew and you let out a delighted laugh, repositioning yourself on his lap.

You're now sitting up and facing him, a shit-eating smile on your face, Sam groaned his head falling back, thudding gently against the headboard "Oh god" he sighs.

"Aw! Oh my goodness, Sam." You grabbed his face dramatically, punctuating each word with kisses "I'm-" kiss "so-" kiss "sorry!"

Sam's face reddens, but he can't deny the sudden feeling of pleasure that coursed through him. He laughs through the kisses, each one in a different spot. One on his cheek, one on his nose, one on his forehead, a sneaky one on his neck, a final one on his lips.

Sam couldn't stop smiling long enough to kiss you back, and you knew that. Your hands moved to his hair as you separated, you gave him the smile that caught him by his heart "I'm sorry baby. I love you too." you said earnestly.

Sam's head cocked to the side, it was his turn to be a little shit "Are you sure? I'm not really convin-" You shot off of his lap, running to your bag "Where are you going?" He calls after you.

You smiled, "Getting my lipstick, gonna show you my lovin' baby" you joked "you look cute when you pout by the way" you said as you sat back down on his lap.

Sam scoffs watching you apply the bright lipstick "I don't pout"

"You absolutely do, but like I said it's cute. Don't worry I won't tell the ghosts"

You notice a plaque screwed into the back of the bench from the corner of you eye, twisting to sit sideways so you can run your finger over the inscription, “Where I will forever come to remember your love.”

“One black coffee because there were no other options.” Sam’s voice draws your attention.

You thank him, taking the cup from him as he sits mirrors the way you’re sitting, facing you as he rests one arm on the bench. “Look.” You pout, pointing at the bench dedication.

He leans in to read it, just like you’d done. “That’s sweet. I wonder who it’s for.”

“It looks pretty new.” You comment, taking a sip of your drink. “Oh my god, but that might make it sad. Maybe they just lost them.”

You’re off on a tangent now, suddenly reminded of another topic you’d meant to talk to him about yesterday. Your face is so animated when you talk like this, and he could listen to you go on for hours, never knowing where you’d end up but loving it every time.

Your voice fades out when you realize how intently he’s watching you, an amused smile on his face. “What?” A smile creeps onto your own lips as he leans in, kissing you softly.

“I just love when you do this.” He says simply.

You flush, in part from the kiss, but also from the way he’s looking at you. You’re not sure anyone has ever so visibly cared about what you were saying. But this is always how he looks at you, even when you’re just existing in the space around him. Even when you’re not in the room, but your name comes up, or he thinks of you.

Sam can’t help it.

He’s in love with you, and it’s written all over his face for the world to see.

“Ramble on forever?” You question, teasingly, but he responds with sincerity. “Yes.” His eyes soften. “Keep going.”

lenient was gentle, soothing. that was sam telling you in an oh-so-soft tone, “i understand you're upset, sweetheart, but you need to calm down.” all while caressing your cheek with his thumb. 

on the other hand, harsh was stern and authoritative. that was sam dragging you back to the impala and having his way with you in the backseat . . . 

“sammy, jus' eat it n' make me cum,” you still had some fight in ya, cute. 

he shakes his head as both an answer and a teasing mechanism. he pulls away from your pussy, replacing his tongue with his fingers. the lewd squelching n' sloshing of your pussy fills the air. 

he pistons them juuuust right against the nerves of your cute g-spot. he juts and scrapes against your walls as well before curling them up, up, up until your toes curl and your heels dig into his back. 

his tone is firmer with you, leaving no room for discussion. "i told you earlier to calm down, angel; now stop squirming and take it," he says while adding consistent pressure as your cunt flutters and clenches around his fingers. your eyes cross when he grinds you on his digits. 

“ah–don’t do that,” you cry as the pressure in your tummy tightens. “m'gonna cum, sammy,” you tell him, wishing you could grip those shaggy brown strands of his, but when being punished, sam deprived you of touching him. 

“don't you dare, or else you won't cum at all,” he warns with a wet, punishing slap to your mound. 

sam drives his fingers deeper before sending a few more rounds of slaps against your cunt. and once that choked, sharp moan leaves your throat, your boyfriend moves faster than light itself, slamming your pussy against his face.

“mmn, can't hold it, gonna make a mess,” you meet his gaze with the glossiest eyes and the biggest pout, undoubtedly swaying him. 

“go ahead, sweetheart, cum all over my face,” and you do. your body goes taut as clear liquid ejects from you in pulses. your head falls back against the seat as a symphony of wanton moans echo around the vehicle. 

sam doesn't move, eagerly drinking down the spout of liquid. you can hear his gulps as your body shakes and his mouth widens, not missing a single drop. he then grinds your heat against his face as more weak spurts flow into his mouth. 

sam pulls away once the aftershocks of your orgasm subside, and instantly goes back to the caring boyfriend you had thirty minutes ago. 

wiping his mouth with his forearm, he asks, “all better now, sweetheart?” 

LAWDDDD i #needdat 

xo, blissedbunni 

moonlight shone brightly through the small crack of the window and illuminated his face, making him look prettier than he already is. he was in the depths of his slumber, low snores escaping his parted lips. your hand made its way to his cheek, thumb caressing his rhythmically. the warmth of his skin and the slight roughness of his stubble slowly brought you back from the haze. the disorientation disappeared, your head cleared, and you knew you were really here. you were safe.

yet, sleep never came. it never does on nights like this. even when the cocoon between dean's arms feel safe, your mind never fully cooperates. you knew sleep was futile at this point, so you carefully lifted dean's arm that was thrown over your waist and slipped out of bed. the wooden floor was cold underneath your barefeet as you made your way downstairs.

you switched on the kitchen lights and swung the fridge door open. you contemplated your choices for a midnight snack, then realized you were too lazy to make anything and settled for a glass of chocolate milk instead. you leaned your elbows on the marble countertop sipping the cold beverage that soothed the dryness of your throat. you stared out of the large kitchen window watching the moon hung low in the midnight sky— big, luminous and beautiful. you lost yourself in the tranquility she brought, the remnants of the cruel nightmare fading away completely.

quiet footsteps approached you from behind and before you could process it, strong arms wrapped around your waist. dean nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble tickling your skin. you chuckled and your hands found his forearms, resting on top. "can't sleep?" he mumbled sleepily.

you hummed in response, pressing your back against his chest cocooning into him deeper. you didn't have to say it aloud for dean to know the reason you were awake. he was well acquainted with the events that haunted your nights regularly. the way your body would shrink in fear, the whimpers that leave your lips, the soft cries for help, he has seen it all— and each time he would be there to gathering your stiff body in his arms and mutter gentle words of coaxing until the beasts of your mind release you.

"why didn't you wake me up?"

"didn't want to bother you," you replied turning in his arms to face him.

"you know there's no such thing," he muttered scanning your face to see if you were okay.

"you looked peaceful. and adorable. i couldn't disrupt that."

"i'm not adorable," he grunted.

you chuckled and a faint teasing smile tugged at your lips. it brought dean a momentory relief.

dean knew all too well that you would be up for at least a few hours now. you always were after the nightmares. he did not want to go back to sleep while you wandered sleeplessly around the house. while the two of you stood in each other's embrace relishing the comfortable silence, he racked his brain for something to keep your waking hours occupied. dean's stomach grumbled in that moment, his midnight taste buds putting in a request for something sickeningly sweet and an idea formed in his head.

his arms loosened around your waist pulling away from the hug. he circled the counter and reached for the fridge door. peering inside, he scanned the contents mentally checking off the things needed. you watched with a slight tilt of your head, as his face dipped into the yellowish fridge light, wondering what he was looking for. his eyebrows scrunched and his teeth sunk into his plush bottom lips showing the tell-tale signs of dean planning something.

you didn't know what it was until he started pulling out butter, eggs, chocolate chips, vanilla extract. he reached into the cabinets and gathered more ingredients and placed them on the counter one by one.

"how do you feel about some late night baking?" he grinned showing barely contained excitement that made him look like a child on a christmas morning. but, this was dean. he could be faking it just so you don't feel guilty for waking him up.

"dean, you don't have to," you sighed. "just go back to sleep. i'm okay. really."

dean was already moving around the kitchen fishing for bowls and cups, remnants of his sleepy state gone and replaced by a sudden pep in his movements.

"i want to. chocolate chip cookies are calling my name," he said tugging at your arm to come closer.

he looked ridiculous in his pyjama pants adorned with hot dogs, short hair sticking up in all directions and fluffy robe hanging off his shoulders. you said okay and his smile could have lit up a whole town.

dean started off by softening the butter, whisking it with vigor as you gradually added sugar into the bowl. after a good ten minutes of whisking like the world was ending, he handed you an egg, gesturing you to crack it first.

"it's all in the wrist," you quoted audrey hepburn from Sabrina and flicked your wrist dramatically once, twice before cracking the egg in the bowl. it was a tremendous fail.

half of the broken egg shell fell into the bowl. you cussed and fished it out immediately making dean howl in laughter. he repeated the same action and dialogue in an even more dramatic translantic accent. his egg cracked and dropped into the mixture perfectly. you didn't have to look up to know the gloating look on dean's face.

"shut up," you muttered.

"it's okay. not all of us can be naturals."

the two of you lost yourself in the methodical steps of making chocolate chip cookies standing side by side. your shoulders pressed together and your fingers brushed every time you reached for something ; it was a small yet precious sort of intimacy.

dean dumped a cup of flour into the bowl with more force than necessary. it exploded into a poof in your face staining your nose white. he cackled but stopped short at your glare and helped you dust it off.

you rolled up the sleeves of your pjyamas and started kneading. the soft dough squished within your palms was weirdly satisfying and almost therapeutic. it brought an odd sense of relaxation. dean's arms snaked around your waist and his chin rested on your shoulder. his soft lips pressed against your skin leaving warm, featherlight kisses.

when it was time, he dumped almost the whole bag of chocolate chips.

"that's too much chocolate chips."

"there's no such thing as too much chocolate chips," he argued and added another sprinkle for a good measure.

the dough was rolled into balls and placed on the tray over a parchment paper. you caught dean sticking more chocolate chips on the dough balls when you were busy adjusting the timer. some even had m&m's which happened to spawn out of nowhere. he played it off by looking away and whistling like you didn't just catch him red handed. you slid the tray in without a word anyway and shut the oven door.

"what do we do now?" you stepped closer to him looping your arms around his neck.

"i have a few ideas," he murmured, his voice hushed.

"yeah? what kind?" your asked tone mirroring his.

a small sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. he dipped his head, eyes roaming all over your face. you lifted your head brushing your nose against his, willing and wanting for what was about to come. the evident need in your eyes made his chest tighten and his stomach flip. his grin widened against your lips and then he was kissing you. his lips pressed against your own reverently.

he tasted like the chocolate chips he stole when he thought you were not looking along with the cherry lip balm of yours that he likes to steal. he tilted his head and licked the seam of your lips, coaxing you to open. you sighed and his tongue slipped into your mouth.

your fingers tangled in his hair tugging at the soft strands. it made him groan in your mouth and pull you closer than you already are. his hands came up to your thighs, calloused fingertips caressing your skin. he gripped the soft flesh and lifted you up on the counter. you yelped slightly in surprise but your legs wrapped around his waist just as quick as his lips founds yours again. dean's hands roamed from your hips to your thighs back and forth that made heat pool low in your belly. his fingers made their way to your inner thighs travelling higher, higher and higher.

"ehem."

you sprang apart immediately heads turning at the sound of the voice that belonged to neither of you.

"i literally just wanted to get water," sam muttered in a resigned voice that said i have seen this a million times before yet it doesn't get better.

you hid your face in dean's throat in embarrassment while dean glared at sam over your head for ruining the moment.

sam grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. "you do know that we eat on that counter, right?" he pointed out before leaving with full judgement and barely concealed disgust in his expression.

"cockblocker," dean grumbled under his breath.

when the cookies were ready, the two of you settled on the kitchen floor and ate it straight out of the tray. the caramelized scent of sugar and butter lingered in the air adding to the coziness of the moment. you bit into a cookie and its gooey sweetness exploded in your mouth. it was exactly what you needed on a night like this — not just the sweet treat, but also your sweet love. dean had inhaled four cookies in no time. he brushed his hands sending crumbs flying ans crawled towards you stopping when your face was just an inch apart.

"now where were we?"

dean's lips were on yours again and all you could taste was tooth-rotting sweetness.

The sound of your laughter is muffled as the clouds made their presence loud and clear with a flashing smile, thundering through your heart to let you know that she likes the attention that you give her, how you were never scared of her loud speeches, if anything, you always told her to talk more, and sometimes she would reply, just so she could hear the giddiness through your smile.

"You'll freeze, sweetheart." He nudges, his own smile creeping in as he props his weight on the wall behind him, one leg over the other while he fidgets with his lighter. The first time you gasped when a thunder rolled into town, he thought you were scared, was ready to throw his heroic embrace around you, til he saw how you would do a little happy dance whenever thunder announced its arrival. His heart beat was ringing louder in his ears that night than any thunder.

The sound of metal clanks behind you, catching your attention to find that he was lighting up a cigarette, the amber glow of the small flame illuminating his features like an oil painting, making the green in his eyes more pigmented, the distant light coming from a lamp post creating the perfect contrasting background, his gaze locks with yours, tugging at your heartstrings like a moth shamelessly drawn to the flame.

Smoke billows out into the sky, mixing in with the milky way, his cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger, the cherry looking like a firefly every time his hands move. His lips twitched into a smile, asking you "what?", silently. Your eyes drop to the packet in his hand before raising back up to him and his smirk only widens, putting out his arm for you to take.

He pulled you closer towards him, his hand, calloused and warm yet still the most gentle when it comes to you, always gentle, moved your wet hair away from your forehead, "Your lips 're turning blue, princess." He notices, pressing a steady kiss to your temple. "They're naturally that color." You jab and feel his chuckle against your skin more than hear it.

His free hand finds your side, his warmth anchoring your shivering to a mild shake. He flips the packet open with one hand and lets you pick between the last two sticks, eyes gazing at how the filter sits between your lips while he fishes for his lighter, flinging it open to clank just like it did earlier, the flame dancing while he lights up your choice of poison for the night.

The smoke fills your lungs ardently, kissing every concave wall behind your ribcages. Dean flicks the butt of his into the corner, pulling out the last stick and crumbling the packet back into his pocket. "C'mere, baby.." his hand tilts your chin upward, bringing your cigarette to his level before he aligns his over it. Your eyes flutter weakly as you watch him inhale a few times, letting your cherry light up his own before he finally exhales the smoke away from you.

A gush of wind howls while thunder sings, letting your heightened senses flinch for the first time at your friend, making your still shaky hand drop the cigarette into a puddle, a quick hiss before drowning completely into a sheer iridescent film.

Dean chuckles at your surprised disbelief before you join him, laughing at the situation. He holds his cigarette in one hand while he takes yours in the other, blowing warm air over them and pressing featherlight kisses to your knuckles. Making you even more putty under the warmth of him.

"I can't believe I dropped it.." You pout, already missing the lightheadedness that came from the smoke tingling your brain while he takes your other hand and repeats the process. "We'll share mine, hm?" He coos, rubbing your back and arms while you wrap a lazy arm around his waist. Wishing you could turn into a cat just to be able to curl into his body heat.

Unbeknownst to you, he takes a long drag and holds it in, his hand cupping your face to bring your gaze up to him, "Open up, baby." He whispers, already resting his forehead against yours, and your lips part for him while he hovers over them, blowing into your mouth slowly. His thumb caressing your cheek tenderly.

The smoke fogs up the bubble you two were in, inhaling it like a whispered secret that's made of all elements Dean; tobacco, leather, motor oil, and the remnants of apple pie, nicotine luring your brain away from functioning, making you addicted to the feelings you were under, his gaze and smirk getting you lightheaded more than carbon monoxide ever could.

"Again.." you whisper, your weight dropping more onto him, his knee slides in between your legs, his hand moving to your waist to keep you up. He searches your expression for a moment, seeing how dazed you were and if only he knew how much of it was about him.

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, resting his forehead against yours, "Say please.", he teases, his own eyes turning heavy from the sight and feel of you, the ashes falling off his stick and flying in the wind while the fire simmers along the vines of tobacco.

"Please, Dean, baby.." you drawl out, feeling the heat in your body move to your cheeks, earning you a chuckle that spills out of him and makes you giggle, "That's my girl." He takes another drag, the last puff before the fire eats at the filter, flicking it away while he aligns his lips over yours once more, exhaling into you, just to lock his lips with yours in a soft but not any less hungry kiss

The smoke dances around your lungs for longer, making you even more lightheaded but all you could feel was Dean, his warm hands pulling you closer against him while sharing the metallic taste of smoke. He pulls back, letting you breathe out what was left while catching his own breath. "You ok, sweetheart?" His hand rests above your chest, feeling how hard your heart was pumping, hoping that he didn't get lost in the moment for too long.

"Mhm.." was all you managed to put out, smiling up at him, still entranced and lightheaded. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple as he wraps you up in a hug, the two of you exchanging body heat, the rain finally starting to go from a downpour to a drizzle.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

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Scotty doesn’t seem too pleased to see the two of you blow into his little café as he’s dropping off a free pie for the couple, a stark contrast from how friendly he’d been the first time you saw him. You’ve certainly ended up on the shit list.

“Oh, hey, Scotty,” Dean greets, ignoring the irritated look on the man’s face. “Can I get a coffee, black? Oh, and some of that pie, too, while you’re at it.” You follow him as he sits down at the table nearest to the couple. “How ya doin’? Just passing through?”

“Road trip,” the girl nods.

“Us, too,” you smile. Dean watches as Scotty glides by.

“I’m sure these people want to eat in peace,” he says to Dean.

“Just a little friendly conversation,” Dean says, eyes still on Scotty as he walks away again. “Oh, and that coffee, too, man. Thanks.” You give Dean a side glance. The antagonizing isn’t going to do you any favors.

“So, what brings you two into town?” you ask the couple. “Didn’t realize this was such a popular stop.”

“Oh, we just stopped for gas. And, uh, the guy at the gas station saved our lives,” the girl says.

“Is that right?” Dean hums.

“Yeah, one of our brake lines was leaking. We had no idea. He was fixing it for us,” her boyfriend adds. You and Dean share a look.

“What a coincidence,” you murmur.

The girl’s brow furrows. “Huh?”

You shake your head dismissively. “We had some car troubles of our own when we came in, but John here had us up and running again in no time.” You squeeze Dean’s hand. It twitches in your grip, but he doesn’t pull away. The lapse in composure lingers in your mind even when you eventually remove your hand from his.

“How long did he give you?” Dean asks.

“Sundown,” the guy says.

“Really. To fix a brake line?”

“Shouldn’t take that long by a mile,” you add. “Even I could get it done faster than that, and I don’t know half as much about cars as John does.” The girl frowns softly, and you think maybe you’re getting somewhere.

“I could fix it up for you, have you up and running in about an hour. I wouldn’t charge you anything,” Dean says. Somehow, you get an odd sense of deja vu. It was almost like he’d stepped into Harley’s shoes.

“You know, thanks a lot, John, but I think we’d rather have a mechanic do it,” the girl says. You have to fight a frustrated sigh.

“Sure. I know,” Dean pulls back. “You know, it’s just that these roads . . . They’re not real safe at night.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I know it sounds strange, but, uh—you might be in danger.”

You throw your hand over Dean’s arm as the boyfriend inflates in annoyance. You speak quickly to cut him off before he can shut Dean down. “Baby, don’t scare them.” All eyes turn to you, but you focus on the couple. “It’s just, our friends went missing around here, about the same time last year. They were just like you two, road trippers, had some car trouble that held them up in some middle-of-nowhere town, and then we never heard from them again.”

“They really went missing?” the girl asks.

You gesture to Dean, who pulls out the missing persons fliers from his pocket. “We’ve been trying to find out what happened,” he explains as the couple examines the papers.

The girl glances over at her boyfriend. “Maybe, we should let them look at it. I’ve heard about things like this.” You smile warmly, hoping it makes you seem trustworthy.

The bell above the door jingles, stealing your attention and your smile. A man in a sheriff’s uniform walks in, and Scotty reappears from the back to speak low in his ear. When their eyes fall on you and Dean, you both share a tense look.

The sheriff saunters over to your table. “I’d like a word, please. Both of you.”

“Is there a problem?” you ask.

“I’m hoping we might be able to avoid one.”

You both begrudgingly file out of the café and let the sheriff escort you out of town without a word, at least until you get into the car, that is.

“It can never be fucking easy, can it?” Dean says.

You eye the patrol car through the rear window. “It is the whole fucking town. God, I hate being right all the time.”

“I hate it, too. Gives you such an ego,” Dean laughs. You shove his arm.

“So, we’re staking out the orchard tonight, right? That couple is going to wind up there for sure.”

Dean nods and then scoffs. “Not much else we can do anyway. Clearly, we’re not welcome here.”

“We don’t even know if this thing can be killed,” you huff, falling back in the seat. “Why couldn’t they have shown up after we talked to that professor?”

“Like I said, never easy. God, this day is really not going my way.”

“Might help your mood if you gave someone a call,” you say coyly. Dean looks unamused.

“Just saying,” you add with a shrug.

He sighs. “I’ll call him.” 

You smile.

“When I feel like it.”

He grins when you scoff and turn your face toward the window, muttering, “You’re so fucking stubborn sometimes.”

“One of my many charms.”

Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s Supernatural Taglist: @mrrayjay, @timebomb1101, @saaucie, @swightops, @luckygem606grass, @ameliaaa0809 Dean Winchester Taglist: @itzpixiebabe, @whyyouegg, @megthedreamer21, @nesma200 Fic Taglist: @chxrrybomb22, @momoloverr