lily :)

Wine. You were gonna need wine.

And lots of it.

“Okay, I know I asked for this, but now I’m wondering if it was one of my worst ideas yet.”

Your best friend smirked as she sipped her cup of tea. Her gray blue eyes held mischief as she watched you take a rather large sip of your wine.

She’d been through a lot here recently, you’d learned.

You’d only known Nesta Archeron for a short time, meeting her when she came into the bookstore in Velaris that you worked in, almost a year ago. You had no idea just what kind of journey she was on at that first meeting, the demons she was battling, the healing she was slowly working towards.

It’d only been in the last few months that you’d grown closer—especially when she’d invited you to train with her, her other friends Gwyn and Emerie and other priestesses that lived in the library beneath the house you were currently in.

Nesta had seen something in you that she had in her other friends, apparently.

You hadn’t experienced trauma like the other females, but you did deal with an overabundance of grief. You’d lost your parents in the war with Hybern, a series of events leading you to end up in Velaris, though it hadn’t been the home where you’d once lived with your parents.

Though the people of the city and its High Lord were kindhearted and friendly, you’d never felt like you’d fit in, wading through grief you’d never fully healed from. You’d felt like you’d had no purpose. You’d drifted through every day, doing the same things. Get up, go to work, eat, read and sleep. Nothing had ever changed.

Until the day you’d met Nesta and you’d been set on the path towards your life slowly changing.

You’d been hesitant when she’d asked if you’d like to train. Cassian and Azriel were great teachers, she’d encouraged, but you’d still been wary. You were no warrior.

But the longer you’d thought about it, the more you’d realized that you had been presented with an opportunity that might not come around again. One that could potentially break you out of your rut, out of the haze of grief you had spent so much time in.

After all, you’d realized you’d never know if you didn’t try.

But by accepting the offer, starting to train, you’d made more friends. Found a purpose. Felt useful. You were currently even at a girls night consisting of you and Nesta.

Gwyn and Emerie unfortunately hadn’t been able to make it tonight, the former being tied up with helping her boss Merril, who was in deep research mode lately. The latter was also busy with work, having put off doing inventory for her store for far too long and needed to catch up.

While they were missed, it gave a rare opportunity for you to be a bit more outgoing, something you’d still felt hesitant about doing with the other two females. Not that they weren’t welcoming or friendly—they were—you just sometimes happened to feel very much like the newcomer to the group.

It was a bit easier with Nesta, since you’d known her the longest.

It had helped greatly though when both females had been informed by Nesta that you’d enjoyed reading as well and they had recommendations upon recommendations for you to read. Working at a bookstore, you’d been surprised to find you hadn’t read most of the ones they loved and immediately took up their offer of loaning you some.

The pair had even made plans to come visit you at the bookstore sometime soon—though it hadn’t come to fruition just yet—they still intended to. They’d been absolutely delighted when they’d heard that you worked at a bookstore. You knew there were plenty of different books the store carried that you could recommend to the females.

So, perhaps, training hadn’t been a bad idea after all. You were learning a new skill and socializing a lot more than you’d once had been.

“I promise one glass is all I’ll have, I just need it to get through this conversation,” you mumbled into your glass.

“If you’re worried about me, I’m okay,” Nesta said evenly, “I won’t snatch the glass out of your hand.”

You didn’t want to be insensitive to any of your friend’s past issues and you told her so, which she just gave you a cutting look—not in a harsh way—but more to let you know that she was perfectly fine.

“Besides, you did ask about how Cassian was,” she smirked.

She’d recently mated with your training instructor and sort of friend, Cassian. You were extremely happy for them because anyone with eyes could tell there was chemistry between them and that they loved one another deeply.

But you’d had to open your big mouth and teasingly ask if he was as good with other things as he was his sword. You didn’t think Nesta would divulge details, especially when you had to see the male nearly every day.

Thankfully, it was just the two of you at the House of Wind for the night—Cassian down at the River House meeting with Rhys for something and Azriel gone on a mission, spying somewhere. That had been the reason for this impromptu girls night.

You’d made a teasing remark that she’d seemed on edge, like she couldn’t go long without her mate and had commented that the sex must be that good if she was so fidgety.

It was like Nesta was going through withdrawal. But if her face was any indicator, maybe there was a good reason she was.

“Let’s just say he’s…good at what he does,” she murmured with a smirk.

You thought you were getting by with just that little detail. But, no, she wasn’t finished.

You had to admit you were morbidly curious.

“Once, we were so feral after we’d gone one round, he told me to put my hands on the headboard. Then took me all over again. Even rougher.”

You nearly choked on your sip of wine.

“By the Cauldron,” you breathed, "Would you hate me if I said now I need to know more?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Nesta grinned.

“Is he…gifted?”

“Oh definitely. To the point even I was surprised when I first saw it.”

She said it so nonchalantly your brows nearly rose to your hairline.

“It’s a wonder you’re still in one piece,” you mumbled.

“Most of the time I’m not,” she answered, blasély.

“Well he looks the type.”

“The type?” she asked, taking another sip, brow raised.

“You know, the type of male that knows how to use his cock well. They’re old enough, they oughta know how to use it well.”

Nesta snorted.

“You’d think so, but I’d been with plenty of males that still haven’t managed to hone that skill despite immortality.”

“Clearly you no longer have that problem,” you mused, smirking.

She made a noise low in her throat, indicating just how good it really must be.

“Cassian knows how to keep me on my toes…while making them curl at the same time.”

You took another drink of your wine, the rich, potent flavor coating your tongue, debating how to put your next question.

“So…best you’ve ever had?”

She just gave you another look. You figured the answer to that.

Good sex could be good sex, but you figured it had to be on a whole different level when one was mated and in love.

“Point taken,” you mumbled.

“And there’s this thing he does with his tongue—”

You gulped the rest of your wine in two large swallows, waving your hand.

“Alright, alright, I’ve heard enough.”

She looked amused.

“You asked.”

You groaned at your own curiosity. You had.

“Now it’s my turn. What about you?”

You were the one snorting now.

“What about me, what?"

“Any males in your horizon that you care to share about?” Nesta prodded.

“I lied. I’m gonna need another glass,” you grumbled, definitely not wanting to talk about this.

She put a hand over the empty glass, to prevent you from getting any more and stared you down.

You knew she wouldn’t give up unless you divulged something.

Plus, she was probably right to not let you have another glass. Your head was slightly swimming from how quickly you’d consumed the last half of your previous glass, anyways.

“No. There’s no one.”

You were too short, too abrupt. Nesta was not one to miss a slip up like that. Her keen attention missed little.

“Uh huh…why don’t I believe you?”

“Because it’s nothing,” you emphasized.

“Mhm,” she studied you, thinking, “It’s not like I know many eligible males other than—”

She paused, eyes widening as she figured it out.

You scowled, mentally cursing yourself for even beginning this line of conversation.

Too late to run, you supposed.

Nesta looked absolutely delighted.

“Azriel?!”

You hushed her, your cheeks flaming.

“Oh relax, you know it’s just us here.”

“I know, but it’s bad enough hearing you say it outloud. At least letting it stay in my head doesn’t make it sound as pathetic.”

“Is that why you nearly dropped your sword during training last week?” Nesta grinned smugly.

“Yes,” you replied, glumly.

The shadowsinger—typically in charge of the priestesses—had come over last week, offering you some pointers on how to hold your sword better so it would be easier to run through the drills with.

You’d felt a strange pull to the male for some time, but you’d assumed it was the fact he was quiet and mysterious with deadly good looks. It was no secret the dark haired male was beautiful.

But you’d fumbled badly, nearly dropping the sharp blade. It was only with Azriel’s quick speed that he’d reached out, steadying it in your hands, keeping it from falling and embedding into your boot or worse, taking off a toe or something of the like.

You’d suggested you switch back to a wooden blade after that to prevent any further injury or embarrassment, especially since you seemed to be pretty behind the other females. His face hadn’t changed from the cool, stony expression he usually wore and you’d felt humiliated.

He probably thought you were a bumbling fool.

“Oh this is delicious,” Nesta grinned widely.

“I am definitely gonna need more wine for this discussion,” you sighed.

Nesta finally moved her hand from your glass, picking up the bottle and only pouring half the amount you’d previously had, which was probably the wisest. You’d take what you could get though.

“Alright, spill,” Nesta urged you on.

“Spill what? I find him attractive, that’s the end of the story. There’s nothing to tell.”

Nesta looked amused.

“Which explains why he’s always hovering. Or watching you train.”

“He does not,” you gave her a look, “Besides I think he actually hates me.”

“That’s just his face.”

“And he’s clearly not impressed with a frail fae female who can’t even handle a sword well.”

You gulped your wine again, feeling your cheeks heat. This had definitely not been what you imagined tonight’s girls night would entail.

You also wished you hadn’t eaten all the cookies earlier because you probably needed some food to soak up the alcohol you were consuming. It was never good when you got tipsy because you could never control your tongue.

“I imagine you could handle his sword.”

The wine came sputtering out of your mouth in a spray. Thank the Mother you hadn’t been facing Nesta or your spewed wine would’ve been all over your friend.

“Nesta!”

She didn’t seem the slightest bit ashamed.

“What? I mean there was a time I imagined it myself.”

Suddenly you were really glad you hadn’t taken another drink as you gaped at her.

“Before me and Cassian accepted the bond that is,” she clarified, “But I just meant I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve…entertained those thoughts.”

Maybe you were just lonely. Maybe you were desperate. Maybe you were just too tipsy, but the words came out before you could stop them.

“Let’s just say I’d let him do whatever he wants to me. I’d happily spend all day on my knees.”

Nesta burst into delighted giggles and you took it as encouragement, the wine truly loosening your tongue, the truth coming spilling out. After all, you were with a friend who’d never breathe a word of your secret.

“I’m not kidding! It’s been…a while. I’m talking since before I moved to this court. There’d be nothing better than breaking my dry spell with a tall, dark, muscled shadowsinger. I would beg, Nesta.”

“Oh I think I love this side of you,” Nesta mused, pouring herself more tea, “No wonder you’re distracted during training.”

“I don’t try to be! I start off strong, but every time he drifts closer, my brain malfunctions.”

“Too busy thinking of other swords,” Nesta chuckled.

“There’s no point in denying it now, is there?”

“Nope,” she said, amused, still grinning, “You have heard the wing allegations haven’t you?”

“The what.”

Your question came out more like a monotone statement because the way Nesta looked couldn’t mean anything good.

“Well there are…allegations that an Illyrian male’s wings are indicative of the size of…other parts.”

“So has Cassian proved this to be true?”

She hummed, “And then some.”

You lifted a brow.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Azriel has the biggest wingspan apparently,” Nesta replied, probably a tad too casually.

“Cauldron bless whoever gets to experience that cock,” you said, perhaps too candidly.

You were definitely a smidge drunk.

“Like you?” Nesta teased.

“Yeah, right,” you rolled your eyes.

“I say go for it,” she shrugged, “He needs it. He’s been broodier than normal lately.”

“If I hadn’t been sitting next to you this entire time watching you drink tea, I’d think you’re the one that’s drunk.”

She said nothing more, just gave you a devilish smile.

“Just try not to get distracted during our next sword lesson. Maybe, instead, you can think of all the things I’ve told you about Cassian.”

You threw a pillow at her head, squealing, bursting into giggles at the absurdity. She caught the pillow and you both descended into more laughter.

Neither your nor Nesta noticed the curl of a shadow in the darkened corner.

•••

AZRIEL

Azriel set his heavy pack down just inside the door, moments after his boots landed on the balcony outside the dining room of the House of Wind.

He’d wrapped up the mission earlier than expected, already having retrieved the intel Rhys had needed from the mortal lands. He’d left orders with his spies since his current task was completed and had decided to fly back home instead of waiting until morning. He was exhausted and in dire need of his bed.

His wings rustled as he stepped into the dining room, folding them closed after the flight.

He was so exhausted he felt like even his wings were drooping.

His shadows curled like smoke behind him, some twining around his boots. One wisp took off, scouring the House. He heard laughter down the hallway in the main sitting room, but was too tired to process much more than the fact that it was Nesta.

Probably her and her friends, he thought to himself.

He didn’t spare it much thought as he walked to the stairs, ready to descend to his room. He’d made it one level down—halfway down the stairs to the level his room was on—when the errant wisp of shadow returned, curling by his ear, whispering secrets only he could hear.

They’re discussing you.

He let out a low hum, only half interested. Sleep was calling his name and he wasn’t letting anything deter him from the goal of his soft bed.

He didn’t even know exactly who they were—besides Nesta, of course—but he didn’t have the energy to care.

Sometimes he wondered if his shadows could read his thoughts because then the same nosy little one whispered their names to him.

That was enough to get his attention, causing him to pause just outside his door, hand hovering over the doorknob.

He stayed rooted in place as the hiss and whispers of his shadows filled him in on what the lone one had discovered. His hazel eyes shot upwards to the ceiling, where just two levels away, the two females had definitely been discussing him in length.

A small smile curled on his lips as it whispered certain details it’d gathered.

And though Az was tired, he walked into his room, heading straight to his desk, an idea sparking. He picked up paper and something to write with.

This could be very interesting, indeed.

•••

You’d spent the night at the House, by Nesta’s insistence.

You could’ve had Cassian fly you back down the mountain when he’d returned a few hours later—after the disastrous conversation you’d had about a certain shadowsinger—but you were probably best off sleeping in one of the many guest rooms they had available anyway.

Besides, it was easier to be here for training anyways. Which is why you hadn’t argued with your friend.

Miraculously, you hadn’t woken up with a headache—you’d always been a lightweight with fae wine—but you and Nesta had stayed up far too late talking and laughing. It was horrific, the need to wake at this early hour, especially after a long night.

Sleep still clouded your brain and you rubbed at your tired eyes. You yawned, trying to find motivation to get up and change into some old Illyrian leathers that Nesta had loaned you for this morning. Then you’d have breakfast before heading to the roof for training.

You turned your head then, spotting something out of the corner of your eye.

There, sat a note on the nightstand with your name on it. Your brows furrowed, knowing the slip of paper hadn’t been there the previous night. You reached for it as you sat up, unfolding it.

Should I be flattered by all the things you’d like to do to me? -A

You gasped, the paper dropping from your hands like it was on fire. You were sure your face was, at least.

There was no possible way he could’ve heard. Was there?

You crumpled it up, figuring you’d dispose of it later.

Just what you needed, Azriel making fun of you.

You didn’t know how you were going to make it through training.

After pulling on your leathers, you disposed of the note at the back of the nightstand drawer and went upstairs to get breakfast.

Either you were up early or were late to training because no one was at the breakfast table. But a plate of eggs were there for you, still steaming, like the House had made sure to keep them warm for you. You picked up your fork to eat, trying to make sure you got some food in you and hopefully not be too late, when you saw more paper sticking out from underneath the plate.

Your stomach twisted, hoping it was just a note from Nesta or even Cassian scolding you for being late or drinking last night, anything.

Unfolding it, you realized you had no such luck.

Was it just the wine or do you spend every girls night talking about my cock? :) -A

You nearly choked at the words and the smiley face.

You groaned aloud, face falling into your free hand. He was enjoying this.

You shoved forkfuls of eggs in your mouth while you desperately tried to think of an excuse to skip training. You thought of none.

Once again discarding the note, you walked up the stairs and headed out to the training ring where training was in full session already. So, you had been late.

Something was different today, though.

Your three friends were already doing their warm ups while Cassian watched them, arms crossed, Azriel next to him.

No priestesses in sight, which was odd.

“Ah, there’s our wine soaked friend,” Cassian grinned.

You grumbled, throwing him a lazy middle finger. Even if you only kinda considered him a friend at this point, you’d quickly opened up and responded to his teasing nature. Especially during training when you didn’t shy away from telling him what you thought of his choice of exercises.

“Where’s the priestesses?” you asked, heading to the weapons rack.

“Gave them the day off since Az has been working them to the bone. Plus, I thought you could use the extra practice.”

You turned, having picked up the wooden practice sword, still unsure if you were ready for the real thing again.

“Well I can’t argue with you there.”

Despite your hard work, you had started training a month or more later than the other females and still hadn’t quite caught up.

“Alright, give me all you got. I’m ready to catch up.”

The General pointed to the ground.

“Warm ups first. These three are almost done. You know the usual. Squats, crunches, sit ups and push ups. Don’t forget to stretch.”

You saluted Cassian and moved to drop to the ground to start the exercises there. You nearly fell straight on your ass at his next words.

“Oh, also. You won’t be partnered with me today, Az will oversee your training today. He’ll have you caught up in no time.”

In more ways than one.

The thought flitted across your mind and you tried to remain composed and give nothing away as you nodded, laying back to start with the sit ups.

On your fifth, as you came up towards your knees, your eyes caught the hazel ones of the shadowsinger. You willed yourself not to flush, not to think about what you knew he knew.

Or how that brief eye contact made you feel like he’d seen right into you and knew everything.

You made sure to finish the exercises while avoiding his gaze the rest of the time.

That was harder to do when you were faced one on one with Azriel, following your exercises.

Your friends had been so advanced that they’d already moved on to learning combinations of maneuvers of striking with a sword after learning all eight maneuvers. The two Illyrians overseeing yours and your friends’ training called it the eight pointed star.

Unfortunately, you were still struggling with the maneuvers—pretty much still stuck on the first few. Hence why you’d switched back to the practice sword to save any further embarrassment.

For some reason, you just couldn’t get the moves down perfectly and you huffed in frustration, watching your friends execute the moves with the real blades. The motions were as fluid as water, appearing like it came naturally to them.

“Stop paying attention to them. Eyes on me,” Azriel said sternly and your eyes turned back to them.

“What am I doing wrong?” you grimaced.

Right now, the awkwardness was the furthest thing from your mind. His notes and what you’d said about him taking a backseat in your mind as you tried to channel all your concentration on training. You were determined to nail these moves, but it was like your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“For one, you’re letting your frustration override your concentration.”

His arms were crossed as he assessed you trying again.

“Again,” he ordered.

You sighed, steeling yourself and your stance, trying the swipe and jab upward again.

His head tilted and you figured you definitely didn’t nail it, by his expression.

Not that you’d be able to tell very much if you had as his expression wouldn’t be likely to change from his usual cool and unreadable demeanor.

“You’re putting too much weight on your back foot. It’s throwing off your balance.”

He circled you, coming up behind you, hands coming to grab your hips, trying to demonstrate the position they should be in. You felt his breath on the back of your neck and your own caught, slightly.

Without warning, heat flared through you, your stomach swooping at the proximity. You chastised yourself mentally, trying to keep focused on training while in the training ring and definitely not distracting thoughts.

“You’re too tense for one,” he murmured, “I can help loosen you up.”

You were sure you were the only one noticing the double entendre of that statement.

“Yeah, okay.”

You nodded a bit too quickly.

He bent down, gently tapping the backs of your knees. They buckled slightly.

“Relax and spread your legs for me.”

You paused and absolutely blinked at that. You turned your head, probably looking wide eyed, to him. His face hadn’t changed but you swore you saw a faint edge of amusement twitch the corners of his lips.

“Open up your stance,” he elaborated.

“Oh. Right.”

Your feet spread, even though your heart raced at the very coincidental and likely accidental suggestive words.

“Alright, try it again.”

You performed the maneuver again and his eyes shone when you excelled it.

“Good.”

You couldn’t help the surge of pride you felt—maybe a bit exacerbated because it was Azriel you’d performed well for.

“Keep this up and you’ll be back to the real blade in no time. I know you know exactly how to grip a sword.”

Your eyes darted up to his and you felt a flash of humiliation all over again, remembering your conversation from last night with Nesta. You had no idea if it was an off handed comment that meant nothing or if he’d heard that too.

As he walked back in front of you to continue your lesson, you didn’t miss the small smile on his face.

Or the way his eyes were even more intense on you when he requested you move on to the next maneuver.

All you knew was it was going to be a long morning.

•••

The following days were tense.

Not necessarily in a bad way, but you’d felt Azriel’s eyes on you constantly.

It had started at training the morning after yours and Nesta’s conversation, which miraculously you’d managed to make through the one on one with him. Even if every brush of his fingers when he corrected your hold or fixed your posture made chills break out across your skin, even in the warm morning sun.

Now, a few days after that, you’d stayed a little later after training, deciding to spend the day with Nesta since Cassian was going to be away. The two of you had sat in the kitchen chatting. You sat on the counter, munching on an apple as you two conversed.

You’d been talking and laughing when Nesta got the idea to break out some of Rhys’s good wine. She’d left you there to go look for it—also assuring you it was fine for her to drink a glass, which you were glad to hear.

The apple core vanished out of your hands almost the moment you finished it and you chuckled, looking up at the ceiling.

“Thanks.”

You sat looking around the grand kitchen, not even hearing anyone else approach.

“I’d say it’s bad manners to leave company unattended, wouldn’t you?”

You startled, head turning in the direction of the deep, smoky voice. You found Azriel leaning in the doorway.

You had no idea how he’d managed to sneak up on you. Then again, he was the spymaster, known for being sneaky and quiet.

“I am known to be capable of amusing myself,” you quipped with a smile.

He chuckled, walking in.

“You did well at training earlier.”

You found yourself surprised. You didn’t think it was often that the shadowsinger gave out compliments.

“Thanks,” you said, watching him approach.

He made you nervous, but not because of his unreadable demeanor, but for the way he made you feel. Off balance and unsteady, like you weren’t sure what to expect next.

Though you hadn’t been paired with him for any individual lessons since that one morning, it hadn’t stopped him from hovering during training every now and then in the days since. It was like you were keenly aware of his presence, your body buzzing with that awareness any time he was near.

Sort of like it was doing right now.

He stopped right in front of you and you eyed him warily, unsure of what he was going to do or say—especially as he stepped close enough to stand between your open legs.

“In fact, you’re a quick learner. I could teach you more…if you’re interested.”

Your pulse sped up and you were sure he noticed, though he didn’t break eye contact with you. One of his hands came up and rested on your thigh and it took everything in you not to look down at it.

“I’m always eager to learn.”

You might’ve been more embarrassed at how breathy your comment came out, but you were too caught up in the moment. Especially as you saw his hazel eyes darken, his head dipping lower towards you.

“Speaking of learning…I happened to learn something interesting here recently,” he said lowly.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

You tilted your head just slightly and your breath caught as you felt his hand slide upwards toward your waist.

“That you and Nesta seem to have some rather interesting conversations about me.”

“And what if we do?” you challenged.

Your chin tilted in defiance, inadvertently moving your face closer to his.

Azriel’s eyes dipped to your lips and your breathing became more shallow the closer your faces seemed to migrate. He seemed to be considering something before speaking again.

“Then consider me flattered.”

You felt his fingers flex on your waist, could feel his shadows tickling your calves with just the faintest brush. Your eyes stayed locked on his, the pull to him feeling the strongest it had yet and his eyes dipped again, watching your tongue peek out between your lips, wetting them.

Your head tilted upward, preparing in case he was going to kiss you and—

“We’re in luck! I found two bottles!”

You heard Nesta’s voice call out from down the hall and it was approaching quickly. You jerked back from Azriel and in one smooth maneuver, he’d stepped away, hand falling from your body. He moved just slightly to your left towards the cabinet next to you, like he was in the process of picking a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter beside you.

Your heart slammed against your chest, trying to process what the hell had just happened. If Azriel had really been that close to you, if he’d really been about to kiss you.

“Figured we could open one now and save the other for—”

Nesta walked back into the kitchen, her sentence instantly dying on her lips the moment her eyes caught sight of Azriel.

She took him in where he stood—still rifling through apples, pears and bananas and then shot to you—where you still sat on the cabinet. Probably too close to him not to raise her suspicions.

And oh were they raised.

Her eyes narrowed on you, giving you a look that most any female could detect from another female.

It was a blatant you better tell me everything that just happened because I know something did, look.

Nesta perfected it well.

Azriel grabbed an apple, tossed it in the air and caught it before turning, dipping his head towards the both of you.

“Ladies,” he said by way of exit.

When he was gone, Nesta whipped toward you, a bottle of wine in both hands and a look of both bewilderment and sheer delight on her face.

“Now what in the Mother’s name was that?”

•••

The kitchen incident had only been the beginning.

Azriel, of all people, was effectively teasing the life out of you.

And Cauldron damn him, if it wasn’t working.

It only got worse when he showed up while you were at work. That fact being even more prominent in your mind because Azriel had never set foot in this bookstore.

At least while you’d been working there, that is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you quipped, a smile on your lips.

“Apparently Nesta had a few books that she had on order that was coming in today. She was dying to get them but was tied up for the afternoon and couldn’t swing by.”

Uh huh. You bet she was tied up.

It smelled more like Nesta’s scheming.

The male walked up to the counter, hands resting on the edge.

“She said you’d know what I was talking about.”

“I sure do, they came in this morning. I think she single-handedly keeps this bookstore in business,” you chuckled.

His lips quirked in a smirk.

“It’s funny, I’ve seen you more in this last week than I think I have in the three months since I’ve started training,” you noted.

“Maybe you wished on a star and it came true.”

Damn, you never realized he was so smooth. All that silence and brooding could definitely hide some charm, that’s for sure.

“Maybe,” you said, the corners of your mouth turning upwards in a smile.

“I’m interested in what you read though,” he said smoothly, “Books, scrolls, notes…”

Your cheeks flushed the slightest when you remembered the teasing, suggestive notes he’d left you. He was also clearly fishing for information, likely wondering if you’d gotten them.

“It depends on what’s recommended to me,” you hedged.

He hummed, eyes searching your face.

“Usually I’ll read anything that’s lying around.”

You gave him a crumb, curious if he’d pick it up.

“Do you now?”

You weren’t one to play games, so you straightened, looking up at him, deciding to aim closer to the truth. Maybe without being too obvious, perhaps.

“Quite the poet you are.”

His eyes narrowed, but the smirk on his face gave him away instantly.

He’d gotten your meaning.

“I’m the best type there is—an honest one.”

You lifted a brow, then realized you’d yet to get Nesta’s books.

“Ah. The books, right. One minute.”

You held up a finger and turned, heading toward the back where her order sat. You picked up the pile of books—at least half a dozen—and took them back to the counter where the Illyrian waited. His eyes didn’t leave you and watched every step you took. You placed the books on the counter, not paying attention to where you were setting them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put it on her tab,” you assured.

“Thanks, I know she’ll appreciate it.”

He picked up the stack, making it look much smaller in his arms.

“Oh by the way, I may have left you a reading suggestion of my own.”

He stepped back with a wink and you blinked, watching him exit the store before he took off to the skies.

Looking down you found a folded piece of paper.

Well, this felt oddly familiar.

You unfurled it, reading the words written in the now familiar, elegant script.

I recall hearing something about you begging. I think it’d be a good look on you. Something tells me I could make you feel better than you’ve ever dreamed. -A

Your body instantly reacted to what the note alluded to, to how tempting that sounded.

You were left gaping at the note even long after you’d initially read it.

The shadowsinger was going to be the death of you.

•••

You had been pleasantly surprised when Nesta had swung by the bookstore later that week, asking if you’d like to come have a sleepover.

It hadn’t been all that long—just a little over a week—since your girls night and you figured Gwyn and Emerie would be in attendance too. So, when you asked if you could bring anything, Nesta had just smiled and said for you to bring yourself and a good attitude.

You figured it would just be a night of snacks and reading books—which if you were honest, sounded great to you.

Unfortunately, Rhysand was the only Illyrian around when you’d awkwardly stopped by the River House earlier asking if he could fly you up to the House. Cassian was nowhere to be found and you’d have even asked Azriel, even if that would’ve been an…interesting trip.

It didn’t stop you from apologizing profusely for bothering him.

Yes, you were Nesta’s friend, but you weren’t part of his Inner Circle and he was still your High Lord. It felt weird asking so much of him. Granted, either he or Cassian usually flew you to training everyday, but still.

After Rhysand had reassured that it was perfectly fine, you’d joked that this would be a whole lot easier if you’d been born with wings yourself to fly, just so you could get up to the House. That’d earned you a deep, rich laugh.

He’d dropped you off at the back of the House and you approached one of the many doors the place had on the outside balconies. You knew this one led you indoors to a hall towards the front of the House, but you still felt weird about just walking into Nesta’s home.

So you stood on the balcony outside the large door and raised your fist, rapping your knuckles against the door.

You waited, hoping Nesta was nearby to hear and answer the door or else you’d be stuck out here for a while.

What you hadn’t expected was a half naked Illyrian to open the door.

Your brows raised at the sight before you. Clad in only loose pants, a shirtless Azriel stood in the open doorway.

“Oh. Uh, sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be here,” you stammered unintelligently.

You tried hard not to focus on the expanse of golden brown skin on display, the swirls of dark Illyrian tattoos that covered the span of his upper arms. Against your will, your eyes cut to the well defined muscles, also on display.

The biceps, abs, the strong vee that dipped into his pants and led to—

Cauldron, you needed to get a grip.

His wings were half open and you watched as he tucked them in, momentarily fascinated by the sight of the powerful wings.

“Hey. Come on in,” he stepped aside.

“Sorry. Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” you said, hoping you sounded much more casual than you felt as you walked in.

“You’re not. I was just sharpening some of my blades.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the buzzing that seemed to be vibrating along your skin at just being so close to him—especially when he looked like that.

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair and go find Nesta.”

He blinked at you, seeming to process what you’d said.

“Nesta and Cassian are gone for the night.”

It took you a moment for the words to sink in.

“She invited me over for a sleepover tonight…” you trailed off, the truth dawning on you.

Oh she’d invited you for a sleepover, alright.

“Nesta and her bright ideas,” you grumbled under your breath.

He cocked an amused brow, watching you.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yup,” you nodded, “I must’ve misunderstood her or something. Mixed up the day, probably. I should go.”

You motioned over your shoulder with your thumb, to the door, trying to ignore the fact you had no way of getting off this mountain. Though you’d be willing to stay out in the cold all night until Nesta and Cassian returned if it meant avoiding this embarrassingly awkward encounter.

“Or you could stay.”

You froze at his words—them sounding calm, cool and…genuine.

You weren’t sure if he actually meant them.

“Stay?” you croaked.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, “I have no exciting plans for the night. But they might’ve just got a tad more exciting.”

His eyes raked down your body and you backed up—not in fear, but just at the intensity in his gaze. Your breath felt like it had caught in your chest.

Yes, you’d dreamed of having his attention like this, but you’d never imagined it be so consuming, as if the air around you both actually crackled. Those hazel eyes bore into yours and you felt heat pooling between your thighs at the smoldering gaze.

“Stay,” he repeated, softer.

It was then you realized you were caught between the wall and the shadowsinger, especially as his hand lifted, to rest against the wall behind you.

“I can think of a few things we can entertain ourselves with,” he murmured, head dipping, eyes still on yours.

You were dreaming, that was it. Any moment now Nesta was going to be shaking you awake and you’d be waking up on that couch over there in the other room, drool all over the cushion.

Because surely this couldn’t be your reality.

You’d also realized you had yet to speak, so you nodded weakly, at a loss for words.

His other hand lifted upwards, tilting your chin up with his fingers.

“If you haven’t picked up the hints I’ve been dropping for more than a week now, maybe I should be a little more blatant.”

“I think you should,” you challenged, suddenly finding your voice, momentarily thinking he was bluffing.

But oh, he wasn’t.

His head lowered swiftly and his lips met yours.

You might’ve once thought it would be a gentle, slow kiss, but maybe the two of you had been dancing around one another too much here lately. For the way his lips moved hotly against yours made your knees weaken.

Your hands came up, finding his bare chest, resting against the warm skin. His fingers on your chin dropped, hand coming up to cradle your cheek as he kissed you deeper, his tongue meeting yours just enough to make you whimper.

He kissed you then retreated, kissed then retreated, teasing you, leaving you aching for more. Each time he came back, your lips moved more urgently against his, like you couldn’t get enough of the taste of him.

“I’m glad my shadows reported to me,” he whispered against your ear, his lips trailing kisses along your jaw, “I’m even more glad you said what you did, outloud.”

“Really?” you gasped as he nipped at your jaw.

His hand slid up the outside of your leg, curling it around the back of your thigh to lift against his hip. His own hips pressed forward, allowing you to perfectly feel his hardness pressing against where you wanted him most.

“Fuck,” you cursed, eyes fluttering at the feel.

“Yes, I’m glad,” he responded to your earlier question, “To know it wasn’t just me feeling drawn to you, you were clearly feeling it too.”

He rocked his hips against yours slowly, causing his hardened cock to rub up against your throbbing core, even through your clothes. A desperate moan left your mouth as you clutched his shoulders.

“Azriel,” you groaned.

His tongue came out, licking a stripe up the side of your neck.

“Feel free to call me Az, sweet girl. I think you’ve earned it.”

You had no idea how he managed to make two simple sentences sound so incredibly dirty, but he did.

Heat gathered in your belly, your arousal spiking with each rub of his cock against you. He groaned as he did it again, as if he couldn’t stop himself from repeating the action.

Not that you necessarily wanted him to.

The hand not gripping your leg slid under your shirt, warm against your skin. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip when you felt the rough skin of his thumb brush over your nipple.

You’d never once looked at him differently for the scars he bore on his hands, but the friction the roughened skin provided was so incredibly arousing.

You briefly wondered if he realized the thing he was most self conscious about could effortlessly bring so much pleasure. Which led to thoughts of how those fingers would feel inside of you.

He kissed you again, briefly, dropping your leg back to the ground. When his mouth separated from yours, his hand dropped to grab your own and without a word, he led you further down the hall and down the stairs without a word. You followed behind him down the two levels of stairs, anticipation mounting in you.

The moment his door was closed behind you, he was on you, tearing your clothes off. Your shirt and pants nearly evaporated off your frame, he’d discarded them so efficiently.

Not that you were complaining. In fact, you were a tad impressed. He couldn’t have stoked a fire any faster in you if he’d tried.

Left in your underwear only, his hands hooked under the back of your thighs and he lifted you, lips connected to yours as he walked the two of you to his bed.

The bed dipped as he knelt on it, one knee on the mattress as he set you down against the pillows, climbing over you—all while impressively still managing to kiss you.

Your lips parted in a moan as you kissed him, sliding down against the pillows, laying flat against the mattress, your fingers curling in the dark hair at the back of his neck.

His own though, were quite busy as they traced over your throbbing, soaked core. You reacted immediately, breaking away from his mouth as he pressed down just enough to leave you wanting more.

You needed the last article of clothing off you. Him naked, too—and preferably inside you as well.

You should’ve expected nothing less from Azriel, the one who knew how to get down to business and quick because the male wasted no time. In a blink of an eye he had you fully naked and was already removing his own pants.

You might have to remember to mention at a later point just how impressed you were with his speed—if you happened to remember anything after this.

His wings spread wide behind him as he lowered over you again and your eyes took in the wondrous sight.

His forearms came to rest next to your head, caging you in as he fell further between your legs. You gasped, feeling the blunt head of his cock at your entrance. Instinctually, your legs raised to his waist, trying to pull him further in, to stop his teasing.

“Az, please,” you begged.

He growled against your throat. You had to hand it to him, his restraint was admirable because you were ready for him to slam all the way to the hilt.

“Sweet girl, I want you begging before I’m through with you. I will have you begging before this is over.”

“Big claim to make,” you panted, hips lifting, eager to have him sink all the way in.

He took his time though, contradictory to the heat and speed that led up until this moment. Each inch he pushed in only heightened the sensation of how he was stretching you, filling you.

“Gods,” you gasped, head tipping back against the bed.

“Never dreamed you could feel this good,” he groaned when he finally pushed all the way in.

You could say the same thing.

It was on the brink of being too much, too overwhelming, yet at the same time it felt more amazing than you could comprehend. You’d honestly let him fuck you silly, if he so desired.

His lips met yours again, briefly, as his hips experimented—shallow thrusts and deeper, harder ones. Your breath caught when he rubbed against a particularly sensitive spot.

He took instant notice of it, angling his hips, simultaneously pulling your own in time to his thrusts.

He bent down, nose nudging your cheek.

“Notice how you feel like you’re made for me?”

“Maybe I am,” you grinned, already feeling like you were losing control.

And he’d hardly done anything yet.

There might’ve been more truth to the statements than either of you realized, though.

His pace picked up, his mouth hovering over yours, just close enough to kiss, but he didn’t—not yet at least. Nothing but yours and his shared erratic breathing came from both of you as he moved within you.

Once he fell into a rhythm, one of his hands fisted the sheets, the other coming up, to hold your wrists against the bed, above your head, as he thrust harder. You could’ve sworn you felt the cool chill of his shadows brushing your hips, along your breasts. You felt an icy nip against your clit and you moaned louder.

“Holy gods,” you whimpered, sensation hitting you from ten different directions.

“That’s it sweet girl, I want to hear you,” he grunted, hips slamming into yours again.

“Az, fuck.”

Your words were jumbling, the pleasure mounting, starting to build deep within you. Every thrust of his cock, every movement sending you spiraling higher.

Just when you felt your climax building to the point it was closer in reach, he stopped chasing the high, causing you to cry out in frustration. His thrusts turned slower and shallower.

“Azriel,” you whimpered, frustration lacing your tone.

“Yes?”

He sounded innocent, lips traveling your jawline.

“Stop teasing,” you moaned desperately.

He groaned, head dropping to your neck in reaction to your pleading.

“You’re so pretty when you beg.”

His hips pulled back, slamming all the way back in, in one smooth movement, causing you to keen. But he wasn’t done yet. He paused, grinding against you as he was deep inside you, making you even louder.

He repeated the action, grinding closer, claiming you, as if he could erase any distance between the two of you. His hand released your wrists and they went flying to touch his body.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your own hips moving against his, enhancing both yours and his pleasure. His thrusts became ruthless the closer he got to his own climax.

Your legs bracketed his hips, pulling him deeper with each thrust, moans falling from your lips at the overwhelming pleasure. You could easily stay here forever with Azriel buried in you and die a happy female.

His hips pistoned into you so steadily that with each and every thrust, the two of you rocked against the mattress in sync, chasing release.

“Mmm, fuck, Az, I—”

You were babbling, all coherent thought having gone out the window around the time he’d pressed his still covered cock against you, back in the hall.

He was unleashing pleasure in you so intensely, you weren’t entirely sure you could take it. Release was a shimmering haze still too out of reach to fully embrace, but your thighs were already shaking, your breathing rapid and panting.

Even if you were apprehensive of its intensity, you still wanted it, the full force of it.

“You take me so well,” he grunted, bending down, lips hovering over yours before he whispered against them.

“I always knew you would.”

You cried out, his cock hitting so wonderfully deep with his latest thrust that your eyes naturally rolled back, body arching into his as your hands gripped his biceps. He growled in response, connecting your lips once again.

It was more heated and messy than the previous ones, more pants and moans, but it only made it that more erotic. Your lips sidetracked though, pressing to the strong line of his jaw when the peek of his wings out of the corner of your eye sparked something in you.

You briefly remembered Nesta saying something about wings, once. Something Cassian had taught her.

Your hand reached out, two fingers sliding along the outer edge of his wing.

He actually shivered.

He also let out a guttural groan that sent a spike of heat directly to your cunt, causing you to tighten around him. He grunted at that too.

“You keep doing that and I won’t be lasting much longer,” he growled.

“Another day,” you promised, fully intending to take advantage of that opportunity.

His hand dropped between his and your bodies, fingertips rubbing tight circles over your clit. Despite the pleasured haze on his face, his voice still managed to be even when he spoke, even if it was brittle.

“You want me to make you come, sweet girl?”

“Yes, yes, gods yes.”

You didn’t even care if you sounded pathetic, that you were begging. You wanted him to give you the overwhelming and blinding amount of pleasure that you knew he was capable of.

His voice was ragged, gravelly as he bent down, nipping your bottom lip as his cock thrust continuously into you, causing your vision to blur.

“Say please.”

You whimpered, your entire body on fire, your release building, surging closer and closer with every thrust, every flick of his fingers.

“Az, please, fucking Cauldron, please.”

At least you’d fulfilled your wish to beg him.

His free hand delved into your hair and turned your head firmly as his lips dominated yours. You broke away, on the cusp of your orgasm, your tongue loosening even further.

“Ohhh, fuckfuckfuck,” your words ran together in a series of moans.

He groaned deeply at the feeling of you clenching around him as you came with a loud, pleasure filled moan, your vision whiting out as the sensation completely overtook your body. It arched completely into him as it trembled from the overwhelming feeling.

“Gods. So good. Sweet girl. Fuck.”

His words came out in staccato grunts, his thrusts faltering, indicating how close he was. You were still flying high on your own pleasure and his hand reached up, covering one of yours over your head, fingers sliding in between yours. He squeezed it gently, face falling into the crook of your neck as he tensed, breathing ragged as he came with his own pleasure filled groan.

You could feel the vibration of the noise expelled from his lips against your skin, feel his warm breath against you, hear it so close to your own ears. It had you moaning in response just as much as the simultaneous feeling of his cock twitching within you, warmth filling you, did.

He expelled everything he had into you, still thrusting, until your highs had faded enough for you to return back to the planet. Your chest heaved with breath as the two of you finally stilled and you clung to him, body slick against his own, sweat coating your bodies.

He finally lifted his head, looking tired, but extremely satiated, a smirk blooming on his face.

“Told you we’d find a way to entertain ourselves.”

You giggled breathlessly, slapping his shoulder. He smiled, peering down as he pulled out of you, a groan rumbling deep in his chest at the sight. You felt your thighs further dampen as his release leaked from you and down your thighs. You noted his hazel gaze taking in the sight, jaw clenching in the possessive way a male probably would after staking such a claim.

He looked back up at you, where you laid, skin cooling, heart rate trying to return to normal. You felt an odd sense in your chest, more than just the rapid beat of your heart from the exertion. It was an odd buzz of happiness, of absolute contentment and you offered him a small smile, letting him know you definitely didn’t regret what had just happened.

One hand cupped your cheek, his eyes serious and scanning yours. His following words left no room for argument.

Not that you had a desire to, anyway.

They were a statement and a promise.

“Next time, I’m taking my time with you.”

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]

You always open the door. 

Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game. 

“You gotta ask-“

“But I know it’s you-“

“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“

“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”

Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out. 

“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“

You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches. 

Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won. 

Again. 

For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning. 

“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”

You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest. 

He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling. 

His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy. 

Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.

He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead. 

“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled. 

You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it. 

And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back. 

That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups. 

You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did. 

And he’d entertained you, because he always does. 

“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”

“Like what.” 

“Y’know. Things.”

You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”

He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes. 

“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”

He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”

You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.

“Nah. No death two.”

“Then what-“

“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“

“Has it happened to you before?”

Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his. 

“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could. 

You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it. 

You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle. 

And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories. 

He looks at you like this could be something. 

He touches you and speaks to you like he cares. 

“You really wanna know?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded. “It ain’t pretty-“

“I know. Please.”

Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved. 

“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“

“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention. 

He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”

“And… Did you-“

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.”

He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.

The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently. 

Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look. 

 “You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”

It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss. 

And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do. 

You really do. 

You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again. 

Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it. 

So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.

Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it. 

You nod, and let him do his little dance and show. 

Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before. 

“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.

“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest. 

You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple. 

“Dean…”

“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”

You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun. 

But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him. 

That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list. 

“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either. 

“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled. 

You really had tried. 

The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.

Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.

He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company. 

Dean’s a hero. 

The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village. 

So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried. 

But he does this thing.

He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge. 

Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you. 

He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist. 

Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap. 

“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.

“I know, De.”

“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”

“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”

He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper. 

So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome. 

In that single moment, all yours. 

You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.

But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears. 

You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.

When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world. 

When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have. 

You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though. 

When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone. 

Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him. 

It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game. 

He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning. 

But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.

It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.

“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress. 

You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”

“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”

“Hank?”

“The asshole from your book club-“

“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”

“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”

You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door. 

But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.

“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“

“Frank doesn’t have the world.”

Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”

His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear. 

And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.

“You should. If you like him-“

“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”

“Yes, you are.”

He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“

“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.

“Fuckin’- Woman-“

You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.

He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.

You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.

And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.

“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”

He nods.

The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same. 

And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.

But you’re both still so bad at playing them. 

“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains. 

“Do I like like you?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest. 

“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“

“It is a little.”

“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“

“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”

“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“

You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs. 

“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine. 

”Dean-“

“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”

You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles. 

“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”

You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more. 

It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you. 

But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden. 

But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you. 

Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.

Like he won’t be gone in the morning.

“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it. 

Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.

“Thank you, baby.”

You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him. 

It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie. 

He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall. 

You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too. 

The world with get a little duller. A little more painful. 

And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again. 

Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her. 

He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again. 

Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place. 

Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth. 

But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest. 

Peace.

He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face. 

Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.

So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her. 

But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone. 

He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet. 

Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands. 

He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.

But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye. 

And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard. 

He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.

One night. 

He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night. 

She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears. 

Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then. 

He certainly knows now. 

“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”

“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”

“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee. 

She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life. 

She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch. 

“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything. 

He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.

“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried. 

“Nah.”

“Well, what-“

“You told me I had big shoulders.”

She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.

Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.

“Fuck off, I did not say that-“

“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“

“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”

Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss. 

She had no damn idea. 

And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important. 

Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish. 

He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms. 

And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand. 

But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you. 

In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?

And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around. 

Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it. 

Please. 

His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes. 

There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down. 

There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her. 

Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him. 

He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now. 

She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario. 

Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found. 

Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.

And She dies. 

Dean touched Her, and she just… dies. 

He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there. 

Because he was in his room. At the bunker. 

The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from. 

But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again. 

He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again. 

She’s fine. She has to be fine.  

He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes. 

“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.

“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore. 

He’s not even that good at lying to himself. 

Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold. 

But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe. 

So Dean goes. 

It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there. 

And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night. 

It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours. 

You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills. 

The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean. 

He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood. 

“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”

He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful- 

“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and- 

You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-

“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”

You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head. 

Love. 

He said he- He said- 

Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast. 

Love. He said love. He said- 

He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also- 

Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer. 

He’s drunk. 

You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you. 

It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.

“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods. 

“Mhm. You’re warm.”

You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“

“‘M not drunk-“

“You really are-“

“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”

“How many… Beers?”

He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”

“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more. 

He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.

“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“

“I drove ‘em then drank.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”

You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly. 

Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap. 

He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily. 

“I ain’t drunk.”

You sigh. “Dean-“

“‘m not. You’re pretty.”

“You’ve said that twice now.”

“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”

You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that. 

There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell. 

You settle for a soft. “Oh.”

Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily. 

“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Nah-“

“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all. 

He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“

“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”

“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“

“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”

He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”

You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.

“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum. 

“We’ll see.”

That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“

“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression. 

“‘M not begging.”

“You said please-“

“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”

“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his. 

And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.

But-

“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself. 

He frowns. “Huh?”

“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”

Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”

That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for. 

It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face. 

He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back. 

But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.

He’s so drunk. 

This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed. 

Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down. 

“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh. 

“Dean-“

“Please.”

You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp. 

“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.

Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”

“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”

He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I would.”

His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body. 

“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip. 

“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.” 

Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”

“Make you up?” You whisper.

He nods. 

“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”

“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze. 

You swallow. “I feel real.”

He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”

You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer. 

“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”

“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”

His mouth twitches. “I am-“

“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”

“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”

“Yeah. I did.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to. 

“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”

He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“

He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness. 

Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it. 

But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now. 

If you’re allowed to have him. 

“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs. 

“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“

“You said it-“

“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”

You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that. 

But you don’t want to. 

Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking. 

You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too. 

So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark. 

You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once. 

He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life. 

Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out. 

You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And- 

You could have him. 

In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean. 

“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.

“I- I dunno-“

“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”

Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.

“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“

He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.

“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”

And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time. 

“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“

You snort dryly. “The real you?”

“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“

“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”

He makes a sour expression. “Because.”

“Because?”

“Yeah. ’S what I said-“

“Is it because you love me?”

Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“

“It matters to me-“

“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“

“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”

Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done. 

“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”

Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.

“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”

He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.

“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly. 

Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh. 

Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours. 

You offer him a small smile. 

“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.” 

You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his. 

“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”

Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him. 

But instead, he just starts to cry.

Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart. 

You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down. 

His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.

“I know.” 

He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“

“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”

His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders. 

He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.

“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh. 

“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”

“Great. I feel like shit now.”

“You could go to sleep. That might help.”

Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”

“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”

“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress. 

His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.

“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Dean-“

“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“

You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly. 

But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.

“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”

Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“

“Dean-“

“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”

“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins. 

Truly, fully grins. 

“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”

“Yeah. Guess you are.”

His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”

You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”

Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”

You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more. 

Filled with affection, and hope, and love.

He’s yours to love. 

“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”

There it is.

Sam exhales through his nose. “What are you talking about?”

Dean isn’t even looking at him; his eyes are fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, I think I am. I guess. But maybe I’m not. Maybe I look… I dunno… standoffish.”

Sam blinks. “Standoffish.”

“I’m just saying, there’s a line, okay? Too friendly, and you look like some creepy guy offering free candy. Not friendly enough, and people think you’re gonna stab ‘em.”

Sam shuts off the blender, grabs his smoothie, and sits. Dean drops into the chair across from him, and he stares expectantly, eyebrows up.

“Dean, man... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, if you were a girl and saw me at a bar—”

“Great. Can’t imagine a better start,” Sam mutters.

“—would you think I was approachable? Like… someone you’d walk up to?”

Sam looks down into his glass, searching for the strength to keep going. Nothing. No strength. Just spinach.

“Dean… where is this coming from?” 

Dean Winchester, the man who has picked up so many women he's lost count. And yet here he is, acting like he needs a pep talk.

Finally, Sam sighs, giving his brother at least the courtesy of an honest answer. “You’re approachable. You’re… you. People like you.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t ease at the reassurance. If anything, he looks more frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth in a pout that he’d absolutely deny making. “Then what the hell was she talking about?”

“…What? Who?”

Sam’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh.

You.

He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Shakes his head. “Dean… dude. Just talk to her.”

“I talk to her,” his brother insists.

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re in here interrogating me about your ‘approachability,’ right?” Sam deadpans, leaning back with the weary authority of a brother who has lived through this many, many times.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, immediately hating where this is going. He pushes up from the table and heads for the coffee machine, chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to think a hole through it.

Two minutes later, you step into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge like you always do. And Sam sees it. God, he sees all of it. Front-row seats.

Dean cuts a glance at you from the corner of his eye, stands a little straighter, then his hand shoots up to flatten his hair. Sam just shakes his head. He swears he’s going to start avoiding the kitchen entirely when the two of you are in here together.

“Would you hand me a spoon, handsome?” you ask, completely unaware of what you just triggered.

Sam watches Dean freeze at the pet name. 

“Spoon. Yeah. We, uh… we have spoons,” he stammers, somehow producing one like it’s a rare artifact. He hands it to you with the confidence of a Victorian maiden having her first conversation with a man.

Then he retreats to the safety of the coffee machine.

Yogurt and spoon in hand, you head out of the kitchen. Dean’s eyes track you the whole way, drawn like a magnet. The instant you disappear down the hall, something in him lights up.

The man beams.

“Handsome,” he says to the empty air, chest puffing up. “She thinks I’m handsome.”

Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, riding the high.

Sam shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Two seconds later, Dean reappears, deflating the dramatic exit. “Forgot my coffee,” he says, grabbing the mug with forced nonchalance. He doesn’t make eye contact.

Sam just snorts. 

—

It’s been around two hours when you spot Sam in the library, typing away on his computer.

You sit down across from him and wait.

When his eyes finally lift from the screen, one eyebrow raised, you say, “Can I run something by you real quick?”

“Sure,” he replies, tone calm. “What’s up?”

You hesitate. Usually, maybe you wouldn’t even ask. But it’s Sam, and you trust him. “How would you… rate me, on a scale from one to ten?”

“What?”

“Like, hypothetically… let’s say you walk into a bar and I’m sitting there. What’s your first impression of me?”

Sam, who doesn’t even like bars, has already been dragged into two bar hypotheticals today, and it’s barely ten in the morning. He resists the urge to sigh. “Just… talk to Dean,” he says. “Trust me.”

“How did you know I—”

“Really good intuition,” he interrupts.

You stare down at the table, lips pouting. “It’s just… He flirts with everyone, literally everyone – even the old lady at the market. He just… never flirts with me. So I try to be casual. But this morning... it sort of got out before I could stop myself, and I called him handsome. And he, uh – I don’t think he liked that.”

Sam lets out a quiet snort. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mutters quickly, eyes darting back to the computer. “Just… maybe ask him to grab a coffee sometime. Keep it casual. Start small, you know?"

You hum thoughtfully, weighing the advice. “Yeah… maybe I could do that.”

Sam smiles faintly, satisfied, and goes back to typing. He can survive this, probably. 

—

Dean is sweet.

Okay, maybe he doesn’t flirt with you. Not the way he does with everyone else.

But if you’re being even a little logical, you know he cares. A lot.

He worries about you no matter what you’re dealing with: hunt injuries, a headache, a papercut, a sneeze. One fragile little “achoo” and he’s glancing over all concerned. 

And he pays attention.

You mention things offhand like your favorite snacks, a brand of tea you like, or that one candle scent you can never find... and the next time he comes back from the store, they’re sitting on the table like they magically appeared.

He never says it was him.

Probably thinks it’s nothing.

But it isn’t nothing. Not to you.

And sure, old Joanne at the market gets called “sweetheart,” and you don’t. But Dean has never bought her chocolate before.

…Wait. Has he?

Doesn’t matter.

Because the point is: you’re going to follow Sam’s advice and ask him out for coffee.

Even if he doesn’t like you back, Dean is sweet, and he deserves good coffee.

And you’re brave enough to offer it.

With this thought in mind, you walk into the kitchen the next morning.

Sam is already blending something green. You hover in the doorway until he finally shows mercy and switches it off because you really don’t want the sound of zucchini being pulverized to mark the beginning of whatever is about to happen.

Only then do you cross the room and sit down right across from Dean, who still hasn’t noticed you’re there.

He’s cradling his coffee, eyelids heavy, hair sticking up in five different directions. But the moment you enter his line of sight, he nearly jumps. His back goes straight, and he immediately smooths a hand over his hair, one stubborn piece still popping right back up.

God, he’s adorable.

“Mornin’,” he says softly, still half-asleep, voice rough like gravel, and your brain just… fries. Completely. 

Not a thought up there for a good minute.

You had a speech planned, had summoned enough courage for it, and now there's just… nothing. 

Soon enough, Dean’s hands are on the table, pushing him to his feet. “All right, I’mma—head to the store,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the door.

Sure. Go flirt with Joanne, you think. Bet she likes that a lot. 

But then he turns those big, hopeful eyes on you. “Wanna come?”

“What?" 

“Yesterday,” he adds quickly, “you said you wanted to go…”

Your chest melts a little. You only said that to Sam, and Dean… still paid attention.

You manage to smile. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Dean smiles back before he tries to cover it up with a half-suppressed nod. “Cool. Yeah. Uh—let’s go then.”

He nearly walks into the doorframe on the way out.

—

“Joanne, looking incredible this morning,” Dean practically whistles at the older lady at the counter the second you step through the door.

“Right back at you, gorgeous,” she beams.

Of course she’s beaming. You’d beam too if he said you looked incredible.

Then she leans in conspiratorially, glancing around like she’s sharing state secrets. “Placed an order for that pie you like. Should be here tomorrow.”

Dean grins. “Sweetheart, you sure you wanna keep your husband? Competition’s fierce… just sayin’.”

You glare at the mismatched floor tiles and make your way toward the fridge aisle, while Joanne giggles behind the counter. Again, who can blame her? 

Then they start talking in hushed tones, leaning in toward each other. You’re pretty sure they’re talking about you because of the way she keeps sneaking glances your way. You strain to hear while pretending to examine the products, but you’re too far away to catch a word. By the time you edge closer, the conversation cuts off, and Dean doesn’t even glance in your direction.

When you finally reach the till, Joanne leans in and whispers, “Darling, you gotta snatch that before it’s too late.”

She nods toward Dean, who’s hovering near the snack aisle. “I mean, look at him,” she adds, shaking her head with exaggerated approval. Your eyes follow hers, taking in everything from head to toe. “Seriously. If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t just stand there doing nothing.”

“The way he looks at me?” you echo, because apparently that’s the only sentence your brain can manage.

Joanne stares at you. “Sweetheart… are your eyes just for decoration?”

“What?" 

Before she can say anything else, Dean returns with a bag of chips and puts it down gently on the conveyor belt. “Got the ones you like,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

Aww, he's so cute. 

You glance at Dean.

Then at the chips.

Then back at Joanne, who lifts her eyebrows in a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of way.

Okay.

Yeah.

You do have to snatch that before it’s too late.

—

The way he looks at you.

You’ve been chewing on that the whole ride back, trying to decode what the hell Joanne meant.

Sure, Dean glances at you, checks if you’re okay, keeps track of you the way he keeps track of Sam, Cas, his car, everything he cares about. That’s just… Dean. Nothing special about it.

Right?

“What were you and Joanne talkin’ about?” he asks suddenly, low and careful. His eyes flick over to you, then right back to the road. “What’d she say?”

He sounds almost… worried. 

“Uh, nothing,” you lie, light as possible. “She might have a crush on you, though.”

That gets a small smile out of him, soft and relieved. Then he glances again. “That's all she said?”

“Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Just… wonderin’.”

You do not bring up her actual comments, because dying from embarrassment in this car is not on your bucket list. “What about you?” you ask, as casual as possible. “What were you two whispering about?”

“Uh… she, uh… has this niece she wanted me to meet.”

“Oh.” It falls out of you flat and tiny.

“Yeah,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thought I might be interested.”

“Really?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately, too immediately. “Interested, I mean. But Joanne kinda figured that out right away,” Dean finishes. “So it’s all good.”

The old lady wasn’t joking. Someone less insecure is going to snatch him up one of these days, and you’re going to regret all this waiting around doing nothing.

But the question is, how are you supposed to live in the bunker with him if you go all in on your feelings and he doesn’t feel the same? That’s just a recipe for disaster.

But then again… The way he looks at you. 

You make it your personal project to figure out just what the hell that means. 

Truthfully, it doesn't even take long to gather hints, one after the other. 

He does look at you, more than you’d realized. Not the teasing, smirking kind of glance he gives literally everyone else. Not even the playful, flirty looks. No, this is different. His eyes linger, soft, careful, like he’s making sure you’re okay, or memorizing something only he can see.

And maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe. But every time he flusters when you tease him, or he scratches the back of his neck when you hand him a simple compliment, your brain takes notes. You start keeping a mental tally, just to make sure you’re not imagining things.

You’re also pretty sure you’ve seen him blush around you a couple of times. Enough to make your heart skip.

Dean Winchester, master of casual charm and reckless confidence, gets… flustered. Around you. And it’s the smallest, most perfect kind of proof.

After weeks of quietly gathering evidence and comparing notes with Sam, Cas, and even Jack, your case feels airtight. And with it comes a little surge of courage.

And then, out of nowhere, you stumble onto the final piece.

The big one.

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bunker.

You were meant to be at Charlie’s for the weekend: movies, junk food, girl talk, a detox from the job, and the crises that come with it. But she comes down with a brutal flu and refuses to get you sick, so the whole plan gets pushed back.

You were going to text the boys and let them know you were still home, but you never got the chance. 

Because the second the front door slams, you hear Dean’s voice echo down the metal stairs: “That’s just stupid,” he grumbles. “I’m not doin’ that. I don’t even know if she likes me.”

You freeze mid-step.

Sam’s answer comes fast, like he’s run out of patience for the year. “Dean. Be serious. Are your eyes just for decoration?”

Sam and Joanne could be good friends, you think. They’re both full-time members of the Dean Appreciation Squad anyway.

Dean huffs loudly. “She lives here, Sam. What if you’re wrong? I don’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” His voice dips, softer, almost guilty. “God knows I probably already do.”

Your heart drops.

He actually thinks he might be making you uncomfortable.

Dean Winchester.

A man who apologizes when you bump into him.

A man who brings you your favorite snacks without a word.

A man who looks at you with care and devotion.

He thinks any of that is unwelcome.

You press back against the wall, breath catching in your throat, because the truth finally lands and it's undeniable. 

He likes you.

Really likes you.

And he’s holding himself back because he’s afraid his feelings might somehow upset you.

...Well.

You’re going to have to show him exactly how wrong he is.

—

You stroll into the garage one slow morning, no hunts, no plans – just a little time to make yourself feel… well, you. No flannel. No worn-out boots. Today, something that hugs your curves just right, a touch of makeup to bring out your best features. You even had time to make your hair cooperate.

Dean’s under the car, elbow-deep in something greasy, when you lean against the wall, arms crossed casually.

“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” you murmur, voice soft but teasing.

Metal clangs to the floor. “Son of a—” He scrambles out from under the car, rag in hand, eyes widening as they travel up and down you, and he almost freezes. “You… uh… you going out?”

“That depends,” you say, tilting your head. “Are you busy?”

“Huh? Me?” Dean stammers. “Why? You… you need a ride somewhere?”

"No, not really. Wanted to take you out.”

For a moment, he just blinks. The words don’t seem to register. “Take me out?”

“A date,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though inside you’re practically combusting. 

“A date,” he repeats slowly. “You… and me?”

“Yeah. If you want to.”

A faint blush spreads across his cheeks, just enough to reveal his heart. "For real?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Do you want to?"

“God, yes,” he says, voice almost too fast. “I… uh… I’mma go change, real quick.”

Before you can even react, he’s already rushing to the garage door, as if he hesitates another second, you might change your mind. He pauses, hand on the handle, then spins back with a quick glance. “I don’t think I mentioned it, but you look... amazing. Just…” He shoots you an approving look, the kind that makes your chest tighten, before finally ducking out. 

—

Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.

Actually… scratch that.

It might already be too late.

He did start looking at local classes: pottery, pilates, and even a book club. But he never registered for any of them. And now? Now he deeply regrets it.

Because the poor man walks into the kitchen, thinking only about making a smoothie, and instead walks into—

Yeah.

That.

There you are.

There Dean is.

And you’re kissing him like you’re both about to start something Sam definitely doesn’t want to picture.

Right in front of the blender.

And - oh no - your fingers slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and his breath itches. And then he's all like, “Oh baby, if you keep this up, I’m gonna put you right on this counter and—”

Sam slams his ears shut and salutes the blender for its bravery. Then he bolts from the room, muttering something about bleach and possibly moving to another state.

The next day, the blender is quietly relocated to the war room, where it can recover from trauma in peace, and Sam doesn't venture back into the kitchen for at least two weeks. 

And you… Well, you’ll owe Sam a proper thank-you someday... Once he can glance at the two of you without immediately questioning every decision that has brought him here.

And, yeah… maybe a new blender wouldn’t hurt.

---

Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.

He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake. 

But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him. 

The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words. 

But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.

It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation. 

He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.

Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid. 

The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.

You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.

He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back. 

Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only. 

His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.

He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top. 

“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”

“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”

Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.

That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.

“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”

“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”

“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”

“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”

“No, you may not.”

You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?

“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”

Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head. 

“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”

You’re such a fucking idiot. 

How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.” 

God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.

“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease. 

Just once, just one time.

I need you so bad, it’s killing me.

Please.

“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”

Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke. 

“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”

“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”

Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”

“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile. 

He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you. 

“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He didn’t get it the second time either. 

Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable. 

Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets. 

But Dean missed every time.

You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind. 

Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all. 

Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.

He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.

But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.

Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side. 

Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.

No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you. 

It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.

He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.

At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.

All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him. 

Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98. 

Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.

That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident. 

You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him. 

Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble. 

It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.

Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.

You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911. 

His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you. 

You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment. 

At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him. 

“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.

“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”

“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”

“You do? Woah, news to me.”

“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”

You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.

“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this. 

“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”

A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”

The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.

“What?”

“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”

A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud. 

You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”

No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine. 

“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy. 

There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”

His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining. 

All of his defenses started to crack. 

“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.” 

You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting. 

“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”

“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”

He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose. 

“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”

Well, he knows now. 

He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human. 

You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”

This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.  

He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.

He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.

“I wish you’d put them out on me.”

The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then. 

Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true. 

If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.

But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia. 

You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break. 

He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head. 

“You’re the prettiest, De.”

Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time. 

He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.

But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra. 

Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.

He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction. 

There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden. 

Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.

But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven. 

He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake. 

Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened. 

“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”

“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall. 

You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt. 

“What are you working on, anyway?”

He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions. 

“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more. 

The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station. 

If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates. 

Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.

A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.

Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.

Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.

“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”

Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed. 

“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”

Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go. 

“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”

Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?

This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit. 

“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”

For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted. 

His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you. 

There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.

“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years. 

“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”

You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen. 

He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak. 

“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.” 

Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.” 

His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled. 

"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”

Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable. 

This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.

Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene. 

With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head. 

Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.

There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place. 

He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.

That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.

“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight. 

“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.” 

“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.

You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink. 

He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires. 

He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands. 

He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened. 

His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible. 

He’s doomed, even more than before. 

Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything. 

Oh, what have you done?

It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting. 

He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize. 

The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.

Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you. 

He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all. 

Just to what extent do you want him?

At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around. 

Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa. 

Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand. 

Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin. 

So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes. 

Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list. 

If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him. 

If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.

If only you could love him, the way he loves you.

That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. 

But then, incident four happened. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was struggling with his necktie. 

He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping. 

He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it. 

But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week. 

Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror. 

“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”

He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.

He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in. 

“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen. 

“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”

You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late. 

You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him. 

“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie. 

“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”

You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now. 

Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.

You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart. 

“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. 

“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less. 

It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now. 

You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil. 

“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”

Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left. 

If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to. 

“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”

You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes. 

“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine. 

He whispered your name, pained. 

“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”

Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look. 

Dean was just as lost. 

But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes. 

He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you. 

He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth. 

“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time. 

He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever. 

If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.

With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed. 

His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot. 

He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth. 

The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.

The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges. 

He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat. 

“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”

“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”

“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.” 

With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago. 

“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” 

“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”

His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his. 

“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.” 

“Why are you doing this to me?”

His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness. 

“Why do you think?” 

He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again. 

“Because you want me dead?”

You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time. 

“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.

In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close. 

“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”

He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences. 

But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide. 

You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage. 

“How do you love me?” 

He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”

“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”

Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.

“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.” 

Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together. 

“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”

Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters. 

“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.” 

Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming. 

“What changed your mind?”

You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him. 

“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”

He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.

“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”

“How?”

It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving. 

“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?” 

Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out. 

So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.

Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.

“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”

“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”

The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss. 

“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”

Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”

“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”

He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”

“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”

Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”

You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay. 

“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”

You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”

“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”

“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”

“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”

“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”

“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”

“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”

Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his. 

“You’re really obsessed with that.”

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”

Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you. 

“That’s it.” 

With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.

Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue. 

Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon. 

Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long. 

Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore. 

The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.

NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.

my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!

anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs<3

Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.

You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.

He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.

You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.

“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.

“I know-“

“Do you?”

He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.

“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you-“

“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”

You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.

He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.

The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.

Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.

“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”

Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”

“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t mhm me-“

“Sorry, princess.”

“You- You fucking-“

Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.

“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.

Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.

Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.

“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.

“Uh huh.”

“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.

Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”

“I think you’re Superman.”

“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”

You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”

“Of course it is-“

“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”

Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“

“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“

“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”

Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”

Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.

One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.

“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.

“Because they make you look good?”

“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“

“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”

“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“

“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.” 

Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”

“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”

Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.

“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”

“Your toddler.”

“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.

“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”

“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“

“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”

And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-

“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”

Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”

You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.

Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.

“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.

And he thinks it. Right there.

Maybe this is going to last forever.

The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.

Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.

The bunker can’t be home anymore.

You’ve gotta move.

Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families  you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.

“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.

“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“

“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”

Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.

“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.

“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.

“I think we suck.”

“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“

You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.

Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.

“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“

“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”

“What if she is-“

“She’s not.”

“But what if-“

Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.

“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.

“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it. 

“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”

You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”

You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”

“Mhm.”

“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”

You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”

And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.

But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.

“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.

“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.

“We got money.”

“Stolen money-“

“Still money.”

He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.

“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“

“We wouldn’t have spiders-“

“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”

“We don’t have friends-“

“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“

“Even the bedroom problems?”

That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”

Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.

“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.

“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”

You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.

He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.

“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“

“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”

Dean blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll do that one.”

He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“

“Is it in a good school district?”

“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“

“Then okay.” You shrug.

Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”

“No. I trust you.”

I trust you.

Just like that.

Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.

“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”

Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.

It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.

Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.

“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.

“It’s a girl.”

“Did you guys check the sex-“

“No.”

“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“

“But I do.”

“No, you literally can’t-“

“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.

“No…”

Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.

“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”

You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”

“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”

That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.

Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.

“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s not a boy.”

Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“

“It’s not.”

“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”

You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.

“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”

That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.

“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”

Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.

“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.

He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters. 

“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.

“You think I feel like a chick?”

You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.

“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“You’d be a very pretty girl.”

“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“

“Dean-“

“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”

You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”

Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”

 Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.

“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.

She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.

“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“

“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”

Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“

“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.

The literal baby. Right.

“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.

“Oh, yeah. All of them.”

Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”

“Yep. Still has them today.”

An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.

He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.

“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”

You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.

And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.

Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.

Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.

Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.

“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.

“Charlie.”

“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”

Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”

Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”

“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“

“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”

You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.

“Well, do you need to go potty too?”

Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.

“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“

“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.

“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.

Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.

“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.

“Horses.”

“Do we have horses now?”

Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”

Charlie huffs. “Why not.”

“’Cause. They’re too big.”

“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”

Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”

“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”

Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.

“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”

Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”

Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”

“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”

“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”

“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”

Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.

“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.

“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”

“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”

Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.

Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.

“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”

“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.

“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”

Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.

He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.

But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.

And this. This is going to last.

Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.

He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.

He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything-“

“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.

“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”

Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.

“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”

You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.

“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”

You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.

“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”

You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan-“

“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.

Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-

“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.

Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”

You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.

“It’s… Our…”

“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.

“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“

“It is the ninth.”

“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”

You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.

“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.

“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”

You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.

“Yeah?”

You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.

So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.

“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”

“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“What? I’m agreeing with you-“

“You’re sassing me.”

Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”

He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”

“They’re not-“

“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”

You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.

“Breathe, baby.”

“I am breathing-“

“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“

“I’m gonna hurt you.”

You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”

He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.

Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.

But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.

You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.

“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.

“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”

“Six-two, baby.”

“Your poor mother.”

“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”

You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.

“C’mon-“

“No.”

He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.

“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“

“Well, I want you to sit there.”

Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.

“Sure you do.”

“You look very handsome-“

“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”

You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.

The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.

Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.

But that’s not what gets him.

It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.

Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.

A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.

He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.

But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.

Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.

He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.

But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.

“Ella, what’s wrong-“

“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“

She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“

“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.

“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”

Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.

He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.

Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.

“This the monster?”

“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“

“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”

It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.

“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.

And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.

But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.

“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”

Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“

“You thought he was-“

“Because he was looking scary.”

“But was he scary?”

Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.

“Told you.”

“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”

Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“

“Mommy can come too.”

Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.

“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”

Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.

It’s not going away.

He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.

He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.

He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.

You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.

And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.

But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.

The next one.

He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.

This is going to last forever.

✦End note: i would have his babies. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.

You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.

Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.

Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.

“I am not staring,” you reply.

Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.

“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.

“I’m not kidding,” you say.

“I know.”

He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.

Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”

You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m not busy.”

“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”

Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”

You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.

“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.

“Where are we going?”

You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”

Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”

Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

“I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.

“But you look…uncertain.”

“Not uncertain.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.

“Anticipation.”

You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.

“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”

Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“But you-.”

Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”

You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”

Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you-. Can I do it again?”

Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”

You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.

“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.

You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”

“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”

You nod, slow. “There is no door.”

“Right.”

“And Dean could walk past.”

“Right again.”

“And you would like to be somewhere else.”

“Three in a row.”

You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.

Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.

Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.

You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.

Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.

Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.

“Sam?” you ask, breathless.

Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.

“Do you want to try something new?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.

“Making you feel what I feel.”

“You feel it different?”

You nod, the motion jerky.

“What kind of different?” he prods.

“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”

One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.

Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.

“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.

“Want to feel you.”

“You will.”

Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.

Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.

And he lets you. And he likes it.

He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.

The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.

The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.

His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.

Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.

A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.

“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”

Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.

“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.

To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.

To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.

“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”

When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.

You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.

“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.

“I-.”

“I am an angel, Sam.”

“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”

You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”

“You’re sure?”

You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”

Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.

“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.

“What?”

You nod toward him. “I heard you.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”

“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”

Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.

“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”

You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.

“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.

“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.

“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.

“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.

You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.

“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”

Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.

“Make it quick.”

“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”

“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.

Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.

“What’s the question?” Sam asks.

“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”

“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”

“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”

You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.

“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.

“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”

Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.

“Oh..kay. Weird.”

“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”

“Why would I know?”

“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”

Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.

“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.

Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.

Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.

“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.

You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.

“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.

“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”

Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Is it Celtic?”

Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.

“No,” you and Dean both say.

Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”

That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.

“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.

“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.

“Pr- probably binds- ah.”

You stop.

“No, sorry. Not binding.”

You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.

“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”

“Uh…left.”

A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.

“Hurts,” he whines.

Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.

“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.

“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”

“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.

“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.

“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.

“Seven, I think.”

You stop. Sam whines.

“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”

“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”

“Shut up.”

You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.

“Seven was hail, Sam.”

“I know.”

“Ask him what the man drowned in.”

Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he drown in? Water?”

You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.

“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”

Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”

Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.

“What now?” he murmurs to you.

“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”

“I don’t know how to remove it.”

“Yes, you do, Sam.”

Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”

“Fire?”

You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.

“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.

You stop.

“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”

“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.

“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.

“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”

Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.

Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.

“Hurts s’bad,” he whimpers.

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, ‘s- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Please, I need-.”

You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.

You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.

He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.

Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.

“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”

“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.

You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”

Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.

Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.

When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.

“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.

“Was it too much?”

Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.

“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”

“Would- would you do it again?”

Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”

You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”

“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.

“Okay?” you ask when he stills.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.

You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”

“You know I will.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”

“You know I love you too.”

“I know.”

It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.

Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.

It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.

Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time. 

If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.

And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.

But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. 

You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief. 

The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.

Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three. 

Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week. 

It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.

Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories. 

Like tonight, for example.

You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.

And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club. 

But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.

So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.

Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes. 

Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven. 

It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.

You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence. 

“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”

“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”

Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.

Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.

“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”

You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.

“…Right,” he amends. 

“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”

And oh. Oh, absolutely not.

“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.” 

He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.

“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”

You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.

“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question. 

He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.

“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.

You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.

No lock.

The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.

Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.

“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.

“What?” 

The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees. 

“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”

He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.

His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.

“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”

“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”

You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.

It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.

He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.

“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling. 

“We are.”

“Dean’s just outside.”

“He is.”

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name. 

But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.

“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest. 

You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare. 

“That’s not an answer, baby.”

“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”

He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch. 

“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.

Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips. 

You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble. 

His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.

“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?” 

It’s sweet. Really sweet.

In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster. 

“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”

Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably. 

“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.

“You won’t.”

He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.

“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers. 

Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.

“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side. 

The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.

“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”

“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”

You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.

“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”

“You have no idea.”

Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.

“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal. 

“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”

Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.

So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.

You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this. 

A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.

“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.

He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore. 

You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam. 

“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”

White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof. 

“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”

Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city. 

He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.

You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—

“What the hell?!”

The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.

Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.

“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.

You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.

He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away. 

“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”

“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.

“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”

Well, shit.

If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is. 

He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?

You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them. 

“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”

“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”

“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”

Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs. 

But that fire in your core?

Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.

Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.

“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.

“…Later?” he purrs.

“Later.”

AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣

I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!

You woke to warmth. Not just the kind that came from the scratchy blanket tangled halfway down the bed, but the kind that breathed against your bare skin, slow and steady. Daryl’s arm was slung low across your waist, rough fingertips ghosting over your stomach in lazy, unconscious strokes, his breath brushing the curve of your shoulder. His leg was half-draped over yours, anchoring you to the mattress like he didn’t trust you not to up and leave.

The guard tower wasn’t exactly luxury living, but it had two things you both craved more than a decent mattress—privacy and a lock. After three days of him being gone on a hunting run, privacy had become very necessary.

Your thighs ached. So did your hips. And your voice, judging by the way it cracked the second you tried to clear your throat. Jesus.

You barely managed to blink your eyes open before Daryl stirred behind you, his mouth pressing sleepily to your shoulder blade, then lower—across your spine, trailing kisses like breadcrumbs. You shivered.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, voice all gravel, the low drawl rumbling through your spine as his hand slid up under the blanket to cup your breast—slow, possessive, and so damn familiar it sent a shiver down your aching thighs.

His thumb dragged over your nipple, coaxing it to a hard peak with infuriating gentleness. You sucked in a breath, your body twitching under his as his knee slid between your legs like muscle memory, his hips already starting that lazy grind against your ass.

“Daryl—” your voice broke off in a strained gasp as his teeth found your shoulder, biting down just enough to make your hips jerk. “Oh, fuck—baby…”

He groaned into your skin, rolling his hips again, slower this time, deeper. “One more time, cmon…”

You didn’t have the heart to stop him at first. The heat in your stomach lit fast—your body wanted him, wanted to forget how sore you were and let him take you again just because it felt so good to be under him, with him.

But your thighs trembled, already overworked, and there was a dull, nagging throb in your hip from how hard you’d gripped him last night—maybe from when he’d half-dragged you back up the wall after you’d collapsed around his fingers, begging for more.

“Daryl,” you rasped again, twisting to catch his face with your hand. His eyes were hazy, already half-lost in the feel of you, pupils blown wide as he kissed a slow line down your neck. “I can’t baby—I’m too sore.”

He froze mid-motion, forehead resting against your shoulder, panting quietly. You felt the exact moment guilt settled over him like a wet blanket.

“Shit,” he muttered again, softer this time. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—I thought…”

“You thought right,” you said with a breathless, teasing smile. “I want to. I just physically can’t.”

His face flushed as he leaned up, cupping your jaw to kiss you—slow, apologetic, worshipful. “M’sorry. Just—got home and you were already waitin’ in bed, lookin’ at me like that…”

“I was naked,” you reminded him, laughing weakly.

“Exactly.” He kissed your cheek. “What was I supposed to do? Be a gentleman?”

You laughed again, softer, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed down your chest, nosing at the curve of your breast like he wasn’t ready to let go of the idea just yet.

You turned your head just enough to catch his guilty expression. “Don’t apologize,” you rasped, still half-smiling. “Just… maybe gimme a day to re-learn how to walk.”

You gazed at him then; his hair was a mess—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, the kind of disaster only deep sleep (and other activities) could make. Yours… probably matched. Longer, wilder, and currently hiding most of your face when you peeked up at him.

“I really thought we were gonna break that bed frame.”

“We did.” He grinned into your skin. “You didn’t hear it snap when I—?”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He pressed another kiss between your breasts, slow and warm. “Totally worth it.”

His voice softened then, the humor fading just slightly. His lips brushed over the faint bruises he’d left on your ribs, fingertips moving with featherlight reverence like he could soothe the ache from the outside. “You really hurtin’?”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you murmured, combing your fingers through his tangled hair. “A very sexy, grunting truck that doesn’t believe in pacing himself.”

He snorted, the sound muffled against your belly. “Told ya I missed ya.”

“I missed you too,” you said, threading both hands into his hair and tugging gently to guide him back up. “But I swear, if you even look at me with that face right now, I’ll kick you in the balls to even the score.”

He grinned, and gave you one last, lingering kiss—soft and slow, all lips and breath and whispered apology—before finally pulling back and reaching for your shirt. “Alright, alright. You win. But tonight?”

“Tonight I sleep.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t even think about waking me up with your dick.”

His expression was utterly unrepentant. “I’ll be gentle.”

“You never are.”

“Takes one ta know one,” he muttered against your skin. “I ain’t never seen you like that. Was like you were tryna kill me last night.”

“I think we both tried to kill each other,” you murmured back. “Four times.”

“Five times,” he corrected. “You don’t remember the time where you bit me?”

You blinked, confused. “Bit you?”

He leaned up, pulling his hair back with one hand to reveal a faint purpling crescent just under his jaw. You stared at it.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Oh, I do,” he said with a crooked grin.

You groaned, burying your face into the pillow. “Oh my god I’m so sorry.”

“S’fine,” he said grinning.

Faint now—barely a shadow of purple—but when his fingers brushed that mark, fresh out of bed and still hazed in the best possible way, the memory hit like a fuckin’ freight train.

He could still feel it. The pressure of your teeth sinking into that tender spot where his neck met his shoulder. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just desperate.

You didn’t mean to. You were barely there.

One minute he’d had you on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, hands curled into the sheets like they were the only things keeping you tethered. He was over you, in you, grinding so deep and slow it was less a thrust and more a claiming—rhythmic, relentless. Sweat dripping off his skin onto yours. His thighs snug to the backs of yours, his hand gripping your hip so tight his knuckles ached the next morning.

Your body was boneless, trembling, oversensitive from everything he’d already done to you. He’d taken his time—fingers, mouth, words. Wrecked you soft first. Had you sobbing into his chest with nothing but a hand between your legs and his voice in your ear telling you how good you were, how sweet you tasted, how long he was gonna take his time tonight.

And then he’d flipped you.

And then he sank into you.

He hadn’t even meant to go that deep. But your hips arched into it, seeking more without words. Your mouth had fallen open in a soundless moan. Your hands fluttered—reaching for him, for the pillow, for anything—but settling on nothing. It was like your body couldn’t decide what to hold onto because it was too busy falling apart.

You didn’t say his name. You whimpered it.

And he’d lost it.

“Yeah, baby,” he’d growled into your hair, the tip of his nose dragging along your scalp. “That’s it. Doin’ so good. Attagirl.”

Your only answer was a sob. Not from pain. From need.

And then it happened.

Your head tilted. Just barely.

And your mouth latched onto the side of his neck.

Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to bite. To mark him. To hold onto something solid while your brain turned to static.

It startled him. For half a second, he paused—not his hips, not the thrust—but in his mind. That flicker of shock. Of fuck.

But then he groaned. Deep in his throat. Low.

Because it was you. Biting him like that. Because you were so far gone, so soaked and soft and open for him, that you needed your teeth to ground yourself.

And he couldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t stop.

Your cunt clenched around him like a goddamn vice and he drove into it like he was trying to become part of you. His hand slid up to the base of your neck, not to push you away, but to hold you there. Keep you close. Keep you biting.

You moaned against his skin, mouth still open, teeth still sunk into him like you didn’t even realize what you were doing—like it was just instinct. Just need.

His rhythm picked up. Harsher. Filthier. The slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, your muffled cries against his neck.

“You want it that bad?” he’d rasped, eyes shut, trying to keep himself from blowing then and there. “That gone already, huh baby?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but bite down again, just a little tighter, and whimper something that didn’t even sound like language.

He felt you break around him right there.

Felt the way your whole body tensed. The way you gasped against his neck. The way your walls fluttered around his cock like your body was trying to keep him, pull him deeper, own him.

It undid him.

He buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name into your shoulder, chest caving in with the force of it. It was one of those orgasms that left him shaking—like his body didn’t know how to hold itself up anymore. It felt like it went on forever, the way he kept filling you—

“Daryl?” you mumbled, voice raw and sleep-rough, laced with that hoarse rasp that hadn’t quite left since last night. “You good?”

He flinched, blinking hard—ripped clean out of the memory, the phantom feel of your teeth still tingling beneath his skin. His hand dropped immediately, and he turned slightly, eyes darting anywhere but your bare, tangled figure behind him.

“Yeah. M’fine,” he muttered, clearing his throat a little too fast, a little too loud, like that’d somehow cover up the very obvious problem still tenting the blanket.

You stirred against the sheets, shifting slow and ginger like every muscle ached. “Where’re my clothes?” you croaked, trying to sit up before groaning and falling flat again. “Oh my god. I can’t feel my spine.”

Daryl still couldn’t look at you directly. Not yet. Not while his dick was throbbing against the fabric like it had plans.

Your eyes fluttered open, searching blearily for him. “Daryl?”

He glanced toward the window to avoid the sight of your completely naked body spread out like a goddamn painting—and that’s when he saw it.

Your bra.

Swaying gently from where it had somehow ended up hooked on the balcony railing, one strap dangling out into the open air like it was waving good morning to the world.

He stared at it.

Then blinked.

Then let out the quietest “shit” under his breath.

“What?” you asked, brow furrowed.

He didn’t answer right away. Just scratched the back of his neck and nodded toward the open window. “Uh. Found it.”

You followed his line of sight.

Saw it.

And groaned like someone had punched you in the soul. “Oh no. Tell me that wasn’t out there all night.”

“Dunno,” he muttered, already moving toward the door. “Wind must’a caught it or somethin’…”

“Or you threw it,” you countered, burying your face into the pillow with a muffled scream. “Oh my god.”

He got up, throwing off the blanket and stepping out completely naked without a care in the world, grimacing slightly as the morning sun hit his bare chest. He grabbed the bra and yanked it off the railing like it had personally offended him, muttering, “Least it didn’t land in the fuckin’ tomato patch.”

You saw the moment his mind wandered. He paused there, bare back rising and falling with each deep breath, cock hard and heavy between his legs, bobbing faintly as he stood in the sun.

You watched him cross the tower, completely bare and unbothered, like the sunlight wasn’t striping every muscle of his back in gold. His steps were loose, fluid, still heavy from sleep and the kind of night that left you both bruised and breathless.

Your body ached—hips sore, thighs humming with the kind of exhaustion that edged into satisfaction—but your mouth; that still worked just fine.

And you moved.

Blanket slinking off your skin, your knees dragging slowly over the cold cement floor, crawling towards him like some animal, naked and hungry. You knelt behind him, letting the early light warm your back, and reached around him with both hands—one to steady yourself, the other to wrap around the base of him, hot and pulsing in your grip.

He twitched.

You leaned forward and kissed the tip. Soft, reverent. He didn’t say a word—just braced his palms on the railing and let you have him.

Your lips parted and you took him in slowly, dragging your tongue along the underside, feeling him swell in your mouth as his breath hitched, chest tightening. You worked him deeper, steady strokes of your hand matching the hollow of your cheeks, spit glistening as it slipped down your chin, but you didn’t care. You loved him like this—quiet and coiled, trembling under your touch, too focused on keeping still to remember how to breathe.

And then—

“Daryl?”

The voice struck like a match.

Rick. Of course.

You froze. Only for a second.

He didn’t.

His hands flexed hard on the railing. You felt every muscle in his thighs tense, the sharp pull of his stomach, the way his cock jumped against your tongue.

But he didn’t push you away.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked and he coughed, tried again. “Y-Yeah?”

You didn’t stop. You licked a stripe from base to tip, then sealed your mouth around him again and sucked slow, just to see if he’d twitch. He did.

“What’re you doin’ up there?” Rick called. “Ain’t your shift.”

Daryl’s jaw clenched. You could see it even from below. One hand stayed planted on the railing. The other dropped down to your head, fingers threading into your hair, not to guide you—just to ground himself. You weren’t sure if he was about to come or pass out.

“Laundry,” he said gruffly. “Flew up here.”

You grinned around him. He could feel it.

There was a long beat of silence.

You slid down further, taking him deeper. Your nose bumped his skin, your tongue pressed firm and flat, your hand twisting in rhythm just below your mouth.

“You alright?” Rick’s voice again. “You sound winded.”

“I’m fine,” Daryl bit out, throat straining. “Hot up here. Sun’s right on the damn glass.”

You moaned, low and thick, letting the vibration hit the base of his cock like a shockwave.

His breath stuttered. His hips jolted forward.

And you felt it—the shift.

That sharp tremble that raced up his legs, through his stomach, into his hands. He was close. Fighting it. Losing.

Rick’s voice droned on in the background, something about the southern fence line, something about wood supplies, but Daryl wasn’t listening. Couldn’t.

His grip in your hair tightened—not rough, just desperate. His body hovered on the edge, every muscle locked down, trying to stay still while his cock twitched in your throat.

And then—

Rick turned. Walked away. His boots echoed down the pavement. The sound faded.

Gone. Finally.

And Daryl broke.

He came with a groan that shook loose from his chest like it had been trapped there, hips jerking forward as his release spilled hot and fast down your throat. You took all of it—held him deep, swallowed hard, one hand still moving, coaxing every last twitch from him until he was sagging against the balcony like it was the only thing holding him up.

His breath heaved in ragged gasps, body gleaming with sweat, legs shaking.

You pulled off him with a slick pop, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and kissed the sharp jut of his hip.

He looked down at you like he couldn’t decide whether to collapse or kiss you stupid.

You were already smiling.

Still on your knees. Still wrecked from the night before. But pleased. So fucking pleased.

You arched a brow. “Still hot up here?”

He swallowed thickly. “You’re an evil woman.”

You got up, snatched the bra from him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. “That’s why ya love me.”

He mumbled in response, something in between a a hum of agreement and ‘shut up’.

He gave you an exasperated look before shaking his head. You just sucked him off and you're acting like it's just another Tuesday?

"It is Tuesday," you said, still smirking.

Had he said that out loud!?

“We didn’t sleep,” he said with a shrug, tugging his pants on. “Ain’t my fault.”

“You’re the one who kept saying ‘just one more time.’”

“Yeah, well…” He looked down at you and gave the softest smile, all warm and wrecked and adoring. “I missed ya.”

You stared up at him for a long second, eyes soft, before reaching out and curling your fingers around his wrist. “I missed you too, Dixon. Just… maybe tonight we try sleep instead of cardio?”

“No promises,” he muttered, bending to kiss you once more—slow, sweet, and maddeningly deep.

He bent to grab his shirt from the chair, the morning light catching the planes of his back — and your breath caught mid-inhale.

“Oh… my god.”

He half-turned, brows drawing together, but you were already moving.

“Turn around,” you murmured, low but firm, your hands already finding his hips and guiding him to face away from you.

The sight made your stomach tighten — angry red lines raked across the breadth of his back, some shallow, some deeper, all raw against his skin, with the faintest shadow of a bite mark blooming at the base of his neck. You stepped in close, the heat radiating off him soaking into your bare skin, your palms smoothing over his sides before trailing up his back, fingertips skimming the raised welts like maybe your touch could erase them.

“Baby… oh my god, does that not hurt?” The words came out soft, almost guilty, your hands still roaming over his skin like you were cataloging every mark.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he said with a shrug, but that casual dismissal only made your chest tighten more.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, stepping around to face him fully. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palms, before you hid your face behind them. “I didn’t even realize I—god, that’s embarrassing.”

Before you could retreat, his larger hands closed gently around your wrists, pulling them down until your face was bare to him again. One hand lingered, cradling your jaw, his thumb stroking along your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’,” he repeated, quieter now, like he wanted you to believe it.

You huffed, half-guilty, half-bewildered. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

His other hand slid from your wrist to your hip, holding you close enough that the warmth of his bare chest pressed against yours. “Didn’t wanna,” he muttered, eyes darting away.

Your brows lifted.

“Not ‘cause it hurt—” he rushed to add, gaze skimming over your shoulder, “just… means you were feelin’ good.”

A slow smirk tugged at your mouth, and your hands smoothed up into his hair for just a second before you pulled away toward the shelf.

“Where you goin’?” he asked, following you with his eyes.

“Still getting the aloe,” you tossed over your shoulder.

He scoffed under his breath, but didn’t move — and you caught the faintest hint of a smile, like he wouldn’t mind if you came back and fussed over him some more.

⸻

The midday sun beat down hard against the metal fence as sweat slipped past your temples, soaking into the collar of your shirt. The walkers had been pressing harder against the perimeter lately, enough that the mesh was starting to bend inward, groaning under the weight of too many rotting bodies with just enough instinct left to keep pushing. Reinforcements were long overdue, so the plan now was brute force—wedging thick wooden beams against the metal at key points to keep the wall from collapsing entirely.

“Kenny,” Daryl grunted, his shoulder wedged up beneath the weight of the log, “if you drop this damn thing, I swear—”

“I’m not gonna drop it,” Kenny shot back, clearly straining. “This thing weighs more than a truck.”

“Then maybe you should’ve stayed with the tomato plants,” you muttered as you crouched low, ducking beneath the beam. “Hold it steady—I gotta mark where we need to dig.”

“Yeah, yeah, just make it quick,” Kenny puffed, the whites of his knuckles visible as he shifted his grip.

You dropped to lie down on your back in the dirt, fingers dragging through the dry soil as you carved out a rough guide with the blade of your knife. Daryl’s boot was inches from your head, the edge of his shirt hiked up just enough to expose the shallow curve of his lower back—and the faint red streaks etched into the skin there. Your scratches. Last night’s scratches.

And then there was also the very noticeable bite mark which he had tied a bandana around, which had now shifted to reveal it.

Kenny’s eyes landed on them.

The bite. The scratches.

And then everything went to hell.

“Holy shit—is that a bite?” he barked, his voice slicing through the air like a gunshot.

You didn’t even have time to react. The beam jerked violently in his grip, and before Daryl could rebalance it, the weight tipped sideways—crashing down hard onto your ribcage.

The sound that tore out of you wasn’t quite a scream—it was a crack, and then a wheezing grunt as the air got knocked clean out of your lungs. You folded instantly, body trapped awkwardly beneath the log, head lolling back into the dirt as pain shot like lightning in your torso.

“Shit!” Daryl bellowed, his voice already ragged with fury. “Get it off her!”

A blur of boots surrounded you—Rick, Maggie, Tyreese—all rushing to help. Hands grabbed the beam and heaved, straining against the weight until it finally lifted just enough. Daryl dropped to his knees and yanked you free, cradling your body to his chest like it weighed nothing, like you were made of feathers instead of broken bones.

Kenny staggered backwards, pale and jittery, eyes locked on Daryl. “I—I saw scratches, man! Guys, he's got scratches and a bite!”

“You dropped it on her—’cause of that?” Daryl’s voice was pure fire now, a sharp growl ripping from his throat as he lunged.

Kenny stumbled, tripping over his own feet. “I didn’t mean to—!”

“Daryl!” Rick barked, intercepting just in time, shoving a firm arm across Daryl’s chest before he could close the distance. “That’s enough! Where’d the scratches and the bite come from?”

Everyone froze. All eyes were on him.

Daryl’s jaw was clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stood out, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that he wasn’t throttling someone.

You sucked in a shallow breath from the dirt, ribs screaming, and rasped out, “It was me, alright?”

Confusion rippled through the group.

You forced yourself upright with a grimace, brushing Daryl’s hand off as you tried to sit but failing miserably. You collapsed halfway again, coughing, and Daryl was immediately back beside you, kneeling so close his thigh pressed against your hip.

His voice dropped to that soft gravel only you ever seemed to get. “Hey. You good? Look at me.”

You turned your face toward the sound, your expression pinched but dry-eyed. “Might’ve cracked a rib,” you muttered, only half-joking. “Feels like something’s doing jazz hands in my lung.”

His hand cradled the back of your head gently, fingers weaving into your hair as his thumb brushed along your cheekbone, eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorise every twitch and wince.

“Lemme see,” he murmured, already tugging your shirt up slowly, carefully, as if touching too fast might break you further.

The collective silence behind you stretched long. You were aware of every set of eyes watching as Daryl pushed your shirt up to reveal the angry red welt blooming across your side, his palm skimming up the bare skin of your waist to brace you steady while he looked.

And that was the moment it all clicked—for everyone.

Daryl’s hand was on your bare skin, thumb moving slowly, reverently over the rising bruise like he could soothe it just by touch. The way he held you—tender, intimate, like someone he loved—left no room for confusion.

You caught Rick’s glance toward Maggie, the slight raise of her eyebrows, and Tyreese's shuffling.

Daryl didn’t care.

“You should’ve stayed back,” he muttered, still crouched beside you, still holding your shirt like he hadn’t noticed half your stomach was on display. “Told ya I’d do the damn marking.”

“Yeah, well.” You winced, leaning into his touch. “Didn’t wanna make Kenny feel useless.”

“Think he managed that all on his own.”

“Still gonna punch him?” you asked, breathless but smirking through it.

Daryl’s jaw flexed, his voice low and flat. “Later. Let’s get ya to Hershel.”

Before you could protest, his arm slid around your waist, hauling you up from the dirt like you were weightless. His palm stayed warm and steady at your side, guiding you away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

The three still by the fence just stared at Kenny.

“What?” Kenny said, holding his hands up. “Hey, how was I supposed to know those were not walker scratches?!”

“Because he got them while he was in the watch tower, dumbass,” Rick muttered.

"But the bite-"

"He would have gotten a fever by now," said Maggie.

Kenny blinked, then his eyebrows shot up like the penny had just dropped. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, a grin spreading. “Ohhh. So that’s what that was. Damn, Dixon—”

From up ahead, without turning around, Daryl growled, “Shut up, Kenny.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, leaning a little heavier into Daryl’s side. “Guess the secret’s out,” you murmured.

You hadn’t made up an excuse, or had a fake emergency phone call at any point that got you out of dinner. But Ryland knew he’d fucked it up tonight. He was genuinely surprised that you stayed till the end. It was a simple date, nothing too fancy. And yet he believed he had ruined your night by yapping your ears off. He talked about everything and nothing all at once. His kids at school, his classes, his new research, all of it and more. 

He was a little embarrassed now upon realising that he’d been talking so much the whole night, rarely ever stopping. And he was so certain you’d never want to talk or even text him again. But then you asked him if he wanted to walk you home. 

Ryland agreed a little too quickly. Then he felt embarrassed again. But you just laughed at his awkward little mumbles as he tried to play it cool. 

The whole walk he promised himself he’d finally ask you questions and let you do the talking. But he ended up going off on yet another random tangent about why physical laws even exist at all. In his defense, your follow-up questions were so engaging that he felt like he could keep this conversation going forever. 

Before Ryland knew it, you were both standing on the steps leading to your front porch. With the soft golden light like a halo all around you, Ryland knew in that moment that you were the most stunning woman he had ever and will ever meet. And he felt even worse about the evening. 

He couldn’t keep it in anymore. So he rambled on. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, followed quickly by, “I know I’ve been a– a mess. I am a mess.” He repeated and carried on talking. “I really wanted tonight to go well and I ruined everything by talking so much. About school, about my research, about my students and work and– and I didn’t even ask you anything about yourself, or where you are from. I barely even let you speak. Or tell me anything about yourself. On top of that I’m wearing this stupid shirt. That’s not even the worst part. I didn’t let you speak. Can you believe that? I went on a date with the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met and I didn’t even ask her where she was born. All I know is that you moved here, but I mean–,” 

You cut him off by gently grabbing him by the collars of his blazer and pulling him in for a kiss. He wasn’t expecting it so Ryland was stunned for a second or two. Then he finally kissed you back, his arms instinctively finding themselves around your waist, pulling you into his warm chest. 

Fuck, he thought to himself, it felt nice to have his arms around you. 

When you pulled away, Ryland was still a little stunned. All he did was blink at you with his clear blue ocean eyes. He quickly reached up and adjusted his glasses which slid down his nose. But he said nothing. He just stared down at you. 

You kept your hands around his shoulders, looking down quickly and noticed that some type of nerdy t-shirt peeked through the blazer. It only made him even more attractive. What a nerd, you thought, sighing with adoration. 

“Listen here, Dr. Grace.” You teased him playfully, “I wouldn’t have agreed to go on a date with you if I didn’t like a passionate, awkward, kind of nerdy, incredibly handsome, and talkative man. Okay?” You smiled up at him. 

“Okay?” He sounded just a little confused. Poor thing. 

You leaned in and gave him yet another sweet kiss on the cheek. His rough stubble tickling your mouth as you did. Ryland spoke then, yet again apologising, “I’m sorry. I know that was a terrible first date. But I would really like a second one. Please, I’ll be better. I promise.” He said, giving you those sad puppy eyes. The depths of which one could write endless poems about. 

“You wanna come in for a bit?” You suggested. “And maybe we can talk about that second date?” You spoke, your hands deliberately trailing down his body. From his shoulders to his chest. He was nice and tall, the right amount of lean and muscular. Lots and lots of terrain to explore. 

Ryland was quiet, apparently captivated by the way your hands delicately roamed down his chest. His breathing deepened. His brain was short circuiting. All he could do was silently follow your hands and fingers as they drew random shapes all over his chest. He was certain you’d be able to feel his heart thundering inside his chest by now. 

“Ryland?” 

“Yeah. Yes? I’m listening.” He said, then cleared his throat. He hadn’t been listening. 

Fuck he was so adorable when nervous. 

“Do you plan on lingering out on my front porch, or will you please come inside so I can kiss you like I’ve been dying to all night?” 

— 

Stumbling into bed with Ryland crashing into you as you fell made you feel like you were floating. Like you were on a cloud and everything was perfect. Ryland was almost as giddy as you were. His touch was gentle, and a little hesitant. He waited for a greenlight from you each time his touch and kisses got more and more heated. He’d do that thing where he’d reach for you, but then look at you over his glasses to see if it was okay, then he’d proceed enthusiastically. 

It made you all warm and fuzzy inside each time he did that. 

Contrary to what Ryland thought, you would say you had a great night. Nice food with a gorgeous, intelligent man who was gentle and kind and cared about his job and the environment. Who also happened to be a passionate speaker, and who spent the whole night entertaining you with his silly stories and elaborate scientific theories and more. What bliss! 

“We can slow down,” Ryland said, in between steamy kisses, “If you want.” Another quick kiss. “We can watch a movie, or–,” He cut himself off by kissing you harder, pulling you closer. “We don’t have to, I mean I want to, but it’s not like I’m expecting you to–,” 

“Ryland. Shut up and kiss me.” 

“Okay.” 

When you finally got him out of his blazer, you had to take a moment and giggle over his dorky t-shirt. One with a giant cat sitting on the Golden Gate Bridge. He looked down and let out a dramatic sigh. 

“Please tell me you have another one of these.” You said, already working to get him out of the t-shirt. 

“I… I do.” He sounded defeated as he tossed his shirt over his head, messing up his glasses. 

“Good,” You fixed his glasses for him before you climbed onto his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed. Looking glorious, even more so than before now that he was shirtless, just in his jeans. “Because you’re leaving this one right here. For me.” You laughed when he tried to hide his face into the crook of your neck. 

“You can keep it.” His voice sounded all muffled as he spoke into your neck. Then he pulled away and looked up, his rough cheek tickling your skin in the process again. “As long as I get to take you out on another date.” 

When you smiled and nodded at him, before leaning in and kissing him deeply, Ryland felt like the world around him had gotten a little brighter. 

And he kissed you back with equal excitement, flipping you around and laying you down in bed as he hovered above you. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“It is a ‘yes’, Dr. Grace.” You confirmed, reaching to touch his face. 

Ryland smiled and said, “Well then I better make up for tonight’s disaster.” He leaned down and kissed your neck. “I’m sorry again, I keep rambling anytime I have the chance.” He kissed further down your neck as he spoke. “Shut me up next time. Tell me to shut up. Please.” 

You giggled as he kissed and carefully bit your skin along your collarbones, making you arch your back, pressing your body further into him. “I will.” You spoke, then gasped in pleasure and surprise when you felt Ryland’s warm hands on your inner thighs. 

He pulled away from your neck and looked down at you, “Are you okay, baby? Is this okay?” He asked in a hushed tone, keeping his hands right where they were on your skin. 

“Yes.” You whispered, then gasped again when he dove back in to kiss your neck while his hands caressed your thighs, massaging them gently. Almost lovingly. His touch was so slow in fact that you were getting more and more desperate the longer he took to touch you where you craved him the most. “Ryland?” You couldn’t take it anymore. He hadn’t even gotten you out of your dress yet. Meanwhile he was shirtless, all that body on display and torturing you. 

“Hmm?” He looked up at you. Mouth mere inches off your skin. 

You almost groaned at how he genuinely seemed to have no idea how badly you wanted him. “Please stop teasing me.” You began lowering the shoulder straps of your dress all by yourself. You needed him. Now. 

But Ryland stopped you by carefully seizing your wrists and pinning them above your head. He did it so smoothly too. “Now, when did I say you could do that?” He whispered against your open mouth. “Hmm? Did I ask you to do that?” 

You shook your head, looking up into his gorgeous eyes and wondering where that dominant tone came from. You weren’t complaining. Quite the contrary. “No. You didn’t.” 

He nodded slowly. “That’s right. I said I was gonna make it up to you, didn’t I? Well, I am. So let me take my time. Okay, baby? I know you want it. I can feel it. You think I can’t tell how wet you are by the way you’re drenching my hand.” For emphasis, he pressed his fingers in between your legs, pressing against your very wet, very thin underwear. “Hmm? You think I can’t tell?” 

“Ryland, please…” You whimpered when you realised he was purposely messing with you. And who knows for how long he intended to do that. 

“Oh poor you.” He teased, leaning closer until your warm breaths mingled. “I’m gonna take care of you, don’t you worry. Just let me take my time. I’ve got you. I know what you want, and I’m gonna give it to you. Just… let me. Can you do that for me, baby?” He kissed the corner of your mouth, making you whimper again, “Can you let me take my time with you?” 

“Fuck…” You mumbled. “Yes. Yes, please. Just… I need you to touch me, Ryland. Please.” You begged. 

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” 

He took his time in sliding the straps of your dress down your shoulders, dragging the soft fabric down your body, leaving you more and more naked and exposed under him. 

“So beautiful.” He mumbled to himself as his kisses followed the fabric of the dress lowering down your torso. 

You shivered once he left your dress bunched around your waist carelessly, not fully undressing you. It wasn’t just because of the slightly cold air that you shivered. It was because of how intensely Ryland was staring at you. His glasses had slid down that perfect nose yet again, he didn’t adjust it this time. And somehow it made him look even hotter. 

Fuck. Being so attracted to a man’s glasses’ placement has to be a more worrying issue. But you didn’t care. All you cared about was needing his hands on you. 

By the time Ryland finally got to actually touching you, you were a whimpering, panting, needy mess. Just writhing under him. Your brain all foggy. Your body aching with desire. 

But he was such a fucking tease it was driving you insane. 

He kissed down your exposed torso, your hips, your thighs, whispering, “Look at you, huh? So needy.” He kissed right above your clit, his warm breath making your body come alive. “Is this what you want? You want me to make you feel good? Huh, baby? Talk to me, come on. Use your words.” 

You weren’t sure if you’d sound coherent if you spoke but you tried your best. “Yes, please. Ryland… make it feel good.” 

“I will.” He whispered, as his hands spread your legs and you felt his mouth right on top of you. Hungry. Seeking. Wanting. His warm tongue licked along your slit, his hands spreading your thighs even further apart to give him better access. 

It was rare to find a man who knew what he was doing down there. Especially with his mouth. But Ryland surprised you yet again with that skilled tongue of his. Your hand moved lazily, fingers sliding easily into his luscious, silky soft hair, messing it up even more than it already was. 

You felt like your body was melting under his touch. His hands rubbing your thighs adoringly while his mouth drove you insane. He was good at making you cry out in pleasure. His tongue, skilled and soft against your wet folds. His lips with the right amount of suction on your clit. 

You held yourself up for a moment, your elbows digging into your mattress as you looked down at him. All that golden skin, that faint layer of sweat all over him… he looked divine. 

Then there were those eyes… 

Even through his glasses you could see the spark in them. You saw how they lit up each time you let out a higher pitch moan, or each time your fingers tugged on his hair, scratching his scalp so good he even let out a moan himself while he ate you out. 

“Fuck. Ryland.” You cried out, writhing under him as he pushed his tongue deeper into you. Teasing you with the softest, deliberate licks. You couldn’t look away then. His stare was intense, giving you chills despite the heat inside you rising like never before. 

He smirked then. The sound of his name leaving your mouth so desperately gave him such a rush. It drove him crazy. “Oh, you like that, huh?” He whispered, his rough stubble brushing against your skin, rough against your inner thighs. He slowly brought a finger up to your clit, sliding it agonisingly slowly down your slit, parting your wet folds. “What about this? You like this? You sound like you do.” He paused for a second, slid a finger inside you, stroking your walls gently while he placed his mouth back on your clit for a taste and said, “You sure taste like you do.” His tongue slowly circled your throbbing clit, then down, parting your wet folds with ease.  

Ryland had you coming undone all over his tongue in no time. His deep blue eyes watched you in awe and how you lost control under his touch, legs shaking as he teased your clit and finger-fucked your ever so gently.  

With his arms keeping you pinned to the mattress and unable to escape, he was so quick to figure out what worked and what didn’t. What made you squeeze his head in between your thighs and what made your back arch. What made you tug on his hair harder because he loved that and what made you breathless. 

“Come for me.” He whispered, before latching his mouth onto your pussy. Devouring you. His tongue moved in a way that made you lose control. 

You were gasping for air, moaning his name, wanting more, and more, and more… You came hard, all over his tongue, your walls clenching violently around his finger, your moans and gasps of pleasure filled the room. 

Ryland finally let go of your shaky legs and kissed his way up your body, hovering above you again. He stared deep into your eyes. You couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried, look away from his pink, glistening lips. His hair was definitely messier now that you’d been so rough with it. You slid your hands back into his hair, massaging his scalp a little. 

Ryland closed his eyes for a moment, savouring your touch. Then opened his eyes again and asked, “Are you okay?” 

You nodded, looking up at him. “I liked that.” You murmured, giddy with pleasure. 

Ryland smiled down at you. “I know you did. Pretty sure I have scratches all over my neck. Gonna have to wear some turtlenecks to work for a day or two.” 

You both laughed. 

Then you asked, “Can I touch you now?” Your hands were already reaching down for his belt. He nodded, but you were already undoing his buckle as you pushed Ryland down on the bed next to you and got on top of him, straddling his lap. The rough denim brushing against your bare thighs. 

Ryland reached out to touch your face, caressing your cheek tenderly. “You can do whatever you want.” 

So you did. In no time you were in between his legs, ass up in the air, with his cock in your mouth. 

Ryland had that pleading look on his face, groaning as you took him into your mouth as much as you could. “Fuck, look at you.” He whispered, still caressing your face lovingly as your tongue teased him in the best ways. “Keep your eyes on me, baby. I like how you look at me.” 

He held your head gently, in that same adoring manner you were starting to get used to, and watched you intently with parted pink lips, gasping in pleasure, as you took him. “There we go.” He said, “You’re so good at this, aren’t you?” His voice was so gentle. “You’ve been wanting to do that for a while, huh?” 

You held his stare and nodded. 

Ryland was so gentle with you. Even as his gasps and moans got louder and louder. 

“Fuck.” He swore. “You want more, baby?” He lifted his hips up slowly, he held your head gently and pushed himself deeper into your mouth. “Yeah? Is that what you wanted?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing through your nose, taking him in until he hit the back of your throat. You felt all of him, his smooth skin, his raw taste, and you couldn’t get enough. Your fingers clawed at his thighs through his jeans as he groaned and grunted, filling your mouth. 

“Oh fuck.” He swore again. “God damn it, baby, slow down.” His voice cracked as he grunted while also moving his hips, shoving his cock deeper into your mouth and helping you swallow more and more of him. His head tilted back, his lips parted as he gasped for air while you moved your mouth up and down his cock. And he looked glorious while he lost control. Those damn glasses almost falling off his face. 

You teased him as much as you could, but he soon began begging for you to stop. 

“Come on,” He pleaded. “I can’t come yet, baby please.” 

Followed by more pleas. 

“Please, I really wanna fuck you.” 

“Oh my god, please slow down.” 

“Please don’t make me come yet.” 

“Slow down, baby.” 

All said in a desperate hiss. 

You weren’t ready for the whimpers that followed his pleas. And you almost gave in and made him come because his moans and whimpers were so damn hot, but then you slowed to a stop. Pulling away and straddling him again. 

Ryland did his best to catch his breath before flipping you two around, pinning you into the mattress again. Yet he was still panting as he looked down at you, his warm breath mingling with yours. “Had your fun?” He asked, using that playful, stern tone from earlier again. 

He sounded so different from the man who was whimpering just a minute earlier. 

You nodded, giggling, and clearly still riding that high from earlier. “You’re so hot when you beg.” 

Ryland let out a little laugh as he leaned in to kiss your nose. Then the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw, and down your neck. “Can I make you feel good again now? Hmm? Can I please fuck you, baby?” 

You whined before answering, your back arching already. “Yes, Ryland.” 

“Well spread your legs then,” He made you laugh again with his sudden, straightforward demand. 

But you obeyed quickly. Ryland cradled your head in his hands, holding you so tenderly as if he thought you were fragile. 

“I’ve got you.” He said, as he held your stare, slowly sliding inside of you, both of you moaning softly as he went. 

“Ryland…” You hissed in pleasure, unable to look away from his gorgeous blue eyes. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He whispered, nothing but desire and love in his eyes. He leaned in again, whispering against the corner of your open mouth, “Where have you been all my life, huh?” 

You felt his cock stretching you, filling you up. Every thick inch of him sliding into your tight cunt. “Oh fuck, Ryland…” You gasped. 

“I know, baby. I know.” He said, pressing his forehead to yours. He held you close as he moved his hips.

“You… you feel so good.” You could feel your eyes tearing up at how snug he felt inside you. 

“I know.” He almost whimpered again. 

He pulled away to watch you. Ryland held your stare as he reached down to grab your legs and wrapped them around his waist. He looked down to where your bodies connected, he watched his cock slowly moving in and out of you then leaned down to give you a messy kiss, swallowing your desperate moans in the process. 

“That’s it, baby. Let me in.” He whispered. 

You couldn’t help your loud moans as he moved his hips expertly. You thanked whoever or whatever taught him how to do that. You could feel your walls clenching around him as he sped up and pounded into you. 

You felt all of him stretching you, filling you up, moving rapidly in and out of you until he was all you could focus on. His eyes remained fixed on yours. Ocean blue, now familiar. 

“You feel so good…” He whispered, pounding into you relentlessly, his hand instinctively wrapping around your throat as he bent down to bite your lower lip and tug on it. “So perfect for me. My pretty girl.” 

His voice was driving you insane. You moaned at how perfect his lean body felt against yours, his weight pressing down on you. His slight stubble tickled your skin as he moved. And you slid your fingers into his hair, tugging on it even more now that you knew he liked it. He probably liked it a little too much since he wouldn’t stop letting out discreet whimpers each time you gave his hair a slightly hard pull. 

Your legs trembled as you wrapped them tighter around his waist. His thrusts, relentless and unbearably good. The pressure around your lower body, tight and hot.

Ryland looked down at you as you tightened around his cock. “Hey,” He spoke softly, his thumb toying with your lower lip. “Look at me.” When you did, he whispered, “Just hold on, okay? Don’t come yet. Just a little longer, baby.” 

You nodded, eyes half closed, but unsure if you could. He felt so fucking good and you were right on the edge… right on that fucking edge…

He must have noticed your eyes rolling back because he spoke again. 

“Come on, baby.” He pleaded again, pressing his warm forehead against yours. “I know, I know.” He reassured you. “But just hold it for me, okay? Just a minute longer, baby. I know you can do it.” He murmured. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

The tenderness and care in his voice only made you clench around him again. 

“Oh look at you. You can’t even hold it a little longer.” He gave you a lazy, cocky smile, “Are you gonna come for me now?” His hand squeezed your throat just a little, making you moan even louder. He gave you a messy kiss. “Come all over my cock then, come on.” 

You whimpered, unable to say anything because of how good he felt sliding in and out of you. The familiar pressure formed at your core and you whined again when his hand let go of your throat and his eager fingers found your clit, toying with it while he pounded into you mercilessly.

“That’s it.” He cooed when your moans got louder. “You’re doing so well for me, look at you. Now come, come all over me,” He whispered and that was all you needed to hear before you came undone all around him. Whimpering and back arching off the bed as you came hard around his cock, tightening around him. 

Ryland kept pounding into you as your orgasm washed over you, your walls squeezing him violently. Your body trembling under his intense gaze. You felt his thrust becoming irregular, and felt his cock throb against your walls violently. “Fuck.” He hissed again, then groaned as he quickly pulled out just in time and came all over your thighs.  

You whined and whimpered as you felt his cum drip down your thighs. 

“Fuck…” You whined as you caught your breath. 

“Come here,” He whispered as pulled out and he laid down beside you, pulling you into his damp, but warm chest for a cuddle. You curled up against him in no time. 

He panted, still catching his breath. “I think you deserve the t-shirt.”

You weren’t sure when it started to go downhill, it was gradual, like an avalanche starting with the smallest snowball. 

You used to start your days rolling around together in his sheets, snoozing the alarm both of you just begging for a few more minutes in his arms. 

Now? 

He was gone before you woke up, and wasn’t home until you had already gone to bed. You were two ships, barely passing in the night. At work, he only talked to you when it was necessary, gone were the days of teasing each other over the nurses' station or hidden kisses in the break room.

Now you were lucky that he called you anything other than Dr. Y/l/n. 

The sex had started off hot and heavy. It was sex in on-call rooms and being bent over whatever surface he could find. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had sex, but when you did it was missionary that lasted less than 10 minutes. He’d grunt, kiss your forehead, and roll over. Long gone were the days he’d spend in between your thighs, making sure you came before he did. 

Date ideas were shot down, he’d take extra shifts or have ‘meetings’ into late hours of the night. You weren’t dumb, you weren’t oblivious to the signs that were right there, but you were blindly in love. You thought he loved you, thought he still held the same admiration and respect for you as he once did. 

When you’d voice your complaints he’d apologize, buy some cheap flowers, and take you out on the way over to your apartment, but lately he hasn’t even done that. 

No one really knew, not really. Everyone knew something was up with Robby, but no one was able to get the truth out of him, so why bother?  

It felt like you were dating a ghost of the man he used to be, so full of life and passion for his job. 

You hadn’t seen him outside of this ED in almost two weeks, he was snappy and dismissive, always droning on and on about this sabbatical he was going to be taking. You couldn’t give less of a shit, it was just another excuse to run away from his problems, and more importantly you.

Which is why when McKay came over, talking about how she needed to get laid, you interrupted. 

“Me too, sister.” You sighed, chewing on the straw of your slightly watered-down latte. “It’s been like…..months.” 

They all looked at you like you had grown a third head, even Samira’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Really?” McKay asked, her voice quieting in concern.

You just nodded, “Yup.” 

“You and Robby are still?” She trailed off, not wanting to overstep. 

“Yup.” You repeated, taking a noiseless sip of your watered-down coffee. 

She made a noise, confusion still written all over your face. “I’m sorry to pry, but… why?” 

“Yeah, you’re young and hot. Plus you guys used to be all over each other.” Samira joined in.

Another shrug, “Wish I fucking knew. I’ve been trying for weeks. I barely see him anymore, he says he still loves me but he won’t even look at me,” You breathe out, “And he doesn’t touch me. I mean I went out and bought an overpriced slutty little pajama set, practically threw myself at him and you know what he said? That I should probably start sleeping at my apartment again, because he’s gonna have Whittaker house sit for him while he’s gone.” 

Charts were long neglected, Samira all but threw her pager down on the desk as they crowded closer.

“Oh, oh no honey.” McKay frowned, “That’s not good.” 

“You’re telling me.” Your hands are thrown up, ignoring others' eavesdropping on the conversation. Dana had heard it all before, and you were certain Abbot was too busy trying to figure out how to handle this ED without the man you were all gossiping about. 

“I mean, if he’s not getting it from you I mean he’s getting it from somewhere right?” She says, as empathetically as possible. 

Samira slaps her arm gently, but she has that knowing empathetic crease in her brow. 

“What she means to say,” Samira smiles, “He does seem to be going through something, but I don’t think he’d do anything like that do we?” 

You met McKay’s eyes, both of you sharing a knowing look. 

“No, he probably would.” You admitted, sounding more deflated than you wanted to. 

It had crossed your mind, there was no way it hadn’t. He was just a man at the end of the day. The whispers of the nurse slash case manager slash pain in your ass had found herself in this ED almost every day, attached to the hip of none other than your boyfriend. 

“Or, he’s just going through something and he’s too ashamed to confide in you about it? I mean he is about to leave on some spiritual journey.”  She offers, with much more optimism than you’ve had in months. 

“Yeah, okay,” You laughed, “He’s on his big midlife crisis journey to find a little zest of life, a new sense of purpose. Whatever bullshit he’s convinced himself of, but why?” 

Your voice cracked a bit on the last syllable.

“I’m right here, but it’s like I'm invisible. Not since Noelle has been prancing around the ER like a bloodhound.” 

The drink in your hand is slammed on the counter, the condensation making it slide over a little as you continue. 

“Maybe bankrupting people on the worst day of their lives is a new turn on for him.” You grumbled, watching the man slip out of one of the rooms, avoiding even looking over in your direction. “I mean, he won’t even look at me. It’s like he’s a stranger.” 

“I don’t like her, and I don’t like him for treating you like that. He’s a grown man, he needs to at least communicate his feelings to you.” Samira sighed, picking her tablet up again, “I have a patient in south, but call me tonight if you don’t wanna be alone!” 

“Thank you.” You frowned, squeezing her arm as she ran off. 

You settled back next to McKay, arms brushing. 

“Do you think he’s cheating on me?” You ask as soon as Samira is out of earshot. 

A noise between a scoff and a cough leaves her mouth, “Fuck, I hope not. Maybe try to just ask him before he leaves tonight. The last thing you need is to waste 3 months waiting for him to come back if he’s already halfway out the door.” 

“He’s not even halfway,” You laughed, “There’s one pinkie toe left on the door frame.”

”See, you still have your humor. You’re gonna get through this, promise. Especially if you think it’s worth fighting for, but if not? Fuck him.” She smiled

Every part of you wanted to believe her, but optimism had felt embarrassing lately. Your failing relationship was put on display at work and at home. Sometimes it felt like you were the last person to know that it was over. Maybe you were clinging to the past, to the good parts that were no longer there. 

There you stood in silence, trying so desperately to absorb her words. Was it worth fighting for? You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you slowly. The last time he reached for you first. The last time he looked at you without something heavy sitting behind his eyes.

Dana was yelling about traumas incoming before the silence between you and McKay could grow any heavier.

“There goes our break.” McKay sighed, and your shoulders slumped. 

You laughed quietly and tossed your cup into the trash harder than necessary before following her out. 

By the time you reached the trauma bay, Robby was already there.

He stood at the foot of the bed pulling gloves onto long fingers, posture rigid with that familiar calm intensity that once made your stomach flutter whenever you watched him work. Even exhausted, even emotionally hollowed out by whatever private war he refused to talk about, the entire room still bent around him effortlessly. Residents straightened when he spoke. Nurses moved faster. Everybody trusted him instinctively. You remember when you used to trust him like that too. You remember envisioning him as a god in this ED. 

“What do we got?” You asked, slipping your gloves on. 

The kid could not have been older than twenty-six. Blood soaked through the front of his shirt and his skin already carried that terrible gray shade that always made your stomach tighten. What was even harder to miss was the large piece of rebar protruding from his chest. 

“High speed rollover MVC into an industrial plant,” the paramedic started rapidly. “Restrained driver. Hypotensive en route. Rebar through the left shoulder and upper chest. Heart rate sustained one-forty. BP eighty over forty and dropping.”

The patient screamed the second they shifted him onto the trauma bed, blood soaking through the towels wrapped around his shoulder. A rusted length of rebar protruded grotesquely through the upper part of his chest near the clavicle, disappearing somewhere behind his shoulder blade. Every movement made fresh blood well up around the metal. The room exploded into movement around him instantly. Trauma shears cut through clothing while the nurses prepped IVs. 

”Jesus Christ,” McKay muttered, doing the FAST exam while you tried to get breath sounds. 

 “Get vascular surgery on standby,” You shouted, pulling your stethoscope down, “Diminished breath sounds on the left, to be expected.”

The patient’s breathing was becoming shallower by the second, panic making his eyes glassy as he looked around the room.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.

“Stay with us,” you said quickly, pressing a hand against his good shoulder while assessing the wound. The bleeding had picked up noticeably since transfer and blood was now running steadily down the patient’s side onto the sheets below him.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess warned from the monitor. “Seventy-two systolic.”

Robby’s expression hardened immediately. “He’s gonna need an OR now, page surgery, again.” 

Ogilvie, the new intern, who was just supposed to be calling surgery again proceeded to spin around too fast bumping the rebar just enough to make the patient scream. 

Fresh blood poured out around the wound, spilling on the floor with such quickness it felt like a horror movie. 

“Oh my God,” Ogilvie gasped, “Surgery is on the way, O-oh my god.”

And before anybody could stop you, your hands moved.

You grabbed the exposed section of rebar firmly with one hand and shoved your other gloved hand directly into the wound around it, bracing the metal in place while applying pressure internally where the bleeding was coming from.

The patient cried out so loudly that the entire room froze while blood immediately soaked down your wrist. You could feel it dripping onto your legs, but you couldn’t do anything about it. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Robby snapped, spinning back toward you.

“He’s bleeding around the entry point,” you shot back through gritted teeth, keeping the rebar stabilized manually while your hand compressed whatever vessel had started hemorrhaging deeper inside. “If this shifts again he’s dead.”

“You do not put your hand inside a penetrating chest wound blindly-“

“He’s fucking crashing!” You nearly yelled, frustration pouring off of you in waves. “I know how to do my fucking job Dr. Robinavitch. Do you?” 

As if to prove your point, the monitor alarm changed pitch while the patient’s pressure plummeted again.

“Sixty systolic,” McKay called sharply.

”Do you?” He laughed dryly, “Because he’s still bleeding out while you’re having a fit.”

You adjusted your hand deeper despite the patient’s scream and suddenly felt it, hot blood pulsing hard against your palm before slowing significantly beneath your pressure.

The room went silent around the two of you except for the screaming monitor beside the patient. For one horrible second doubt crept into your chest. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe exhaustion and resentment and weeks of emotional whiplash had clouded your judgment. But, then the bleeding lessened almost immediately. 

”There,” You breathed out, finally looking up to see his hardened gaze still on you. “Fuck you.” 

If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the floor in this patient's blood. 

You ignored the gasps around the room, the heavy slam of his palm against the door after he stormed out. You were only focused on the patient, controlling the bleed while the others worked around you. 

Transport unlocked the gurney while blood products were rushed in behind you. Surgery came in not long after that, letting you ride up to the OR with your hand against the artery. As soon as he was stabilized, you were dismissed. Adrenaline crashed through your system all at once afterward, your hands trembling faintly as you stripped bloody gloves from your fingers, shedding off your ruined scrubs. 

You barely made it into the hallway of the ED before Robby caught your wrist hard enough to stop you. Like he had been waiting to hear you come down the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed.

You stared down at his hand around your arm before slowly looking back up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You do not disrespect me in front of residents,” He spat, “Here I am your superior, do you understand that?”

The disbelief that hit you almost outweighed the adrenaline still buzzing through your bloodstream.

“That’s what you’re upset about right now?” You could have laughed in his face. 

“You could have torn the subclavian completely,” he hissed. “You could have killed that guy.”

“If I didn’t do something he was going to bleed out before surgery even got down here.” You snapped, “I’m a good fucking doctor Robby, and you know it, yet you seem insistent on making me feel like an idiot.” 

His eyes finally locked onto yours then, dark and burning with something that looked dangerously close to humiliation. The station had gone completely silent around you both now. Even the residents nearby were pretending not to stare.

Robby stepped closer suddenly, crowding into your space just enough to make the air around you tense.

“Just because we’re fucking,” he said lowly, bending down toward you, “doesn’t mean you get special treatment.” 

The silence afterward was catastrophic. Your face went blank for a second before an incredulous laugh escaped you.

“Oh really?” you asked loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear. “That’s interesting considering we aren’t.” 

His jaw flexed hard, and you could see the anger brewing in his eyes. The same ones that used to bring you comfort were now glaring down at you.

You took another step closer anyway, eyes glassy now, and lowered your voice. 

“You haven’t touched me in fucking weeks, months even.” You said, your voice steady. “So what is it? Are you fucking her?” 

Robby looked genuinely caught off guard for the first time all day.

“What?” he snapped, after wiping the guilty look all over his face. 

“Don’t act fucking stupid.” You spat, pointing through the doors to where Noelle was standing around the hub. 

He laughed, actually laughing and shaking his head like he was dismissing something unbelievable. “That’s insane, Noelle works here.” 

Your expression shifted immediately, “Yeah? So do I.” You laughed humorlessly. 

“Nothing is going on.” He said quickly, grabbing your arm to pull you away from the nurses as they hovered around the hub. 

“You hesitated when I asked.” You barked back. 

“I did not hesitate.”

“You absolutely fucking hesitated.”

”You know,” His voice now boomed, everyone undeniably watching the interaction between you two. “Not everything is all about you. Maybe if you actually did your job instead of gossiping about things you know nothing about-“

“Brother,” Abbott’s voice suddenly cut in as he appeared beside Robby, grabbing his shoulder before the situation could combust any further. “Take a beat.”

You were both so lost in the heat of the argument that neither of you noticed him slipping into the hall. 

Robby yanked his arm back immediately. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Abbott replied evenly. “You’re not.”

For a moment you thought Robby might actually explode. His whole body looked wound tight enough to split apart, anger and guilt and exhaustion all fighting for dominance across his face. But then Abbott pulled him back another step, positioning himself between the two of you.

Robby just nodded, Abbot tapped his chest once before the two attendings stepped aside. You shared a look with Abbot for just a brief moment, before they disappeared down the hall. You slumped against the wall, the adrenaline escaping you so fast you felt lightheaded. 

Your chest hurt, there was this ugly aching pressure sitting right beneath your ribs, heavy and humiliating and impossible to ignore. The cruelty of his words opened your eyes. 

Just because we’re fucking.

Like you were some nurse he fooled around with after conferences. Like the last year of your life together had been reduced to something cheap and transactional the second he got angry enough. 

You laughed bitterly under your breath, scrubbing a hand down your face hard enough to hurt.

You pushed off the wall before you could start crying in the middle of the hallway and headed back toward the nurses' station on autopilot. Dana sat behind the desk flipping through charts, reading glasses low on her nose while complete chaos unfolded around her as usual.

She looked up immediately when you approached.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” you said, voice oddly flat even to your own ears. “What did Noelle want?” 

Dana hummed distractedly. “Yeah, something about some charts. I got a question for ya.” 

You swallowed once, nodding for her to continue.

“Does Robby sleep with his TV on?”

You frowned automatically, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” you answered slowly. “Drives me fucking insane, I’ve barely seen him lately. Been glad to sleep in the dark.”

Dana’s face fell immediately. clicking her jaw tight. 

Your stomach dropped so violently that it almost hurt.

There was a horrible pause before Dana looked away from you briefly, lips pressing together like she was debating whether or not to continue.

Then quietly, carefully, she said, “Noelle said something weird about him sleeping with his TV on. Asked her how she knew that and she just shrugged, said she had some papers to file.” 

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt physical. You stared at Dana blankly, your brain refusing to catch up to what your body already understood. Dana’s expression softened instantly the second she saw your face change.

“Oh honey,” she breathed.

“If he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from somewhere. McKay’s words came crashing back so hard that it made your chest cave inward.

Suddenly every little thing replayed itself with brutal clarity. The veil is finally being pulled from your eyes.

“How fucking stupid am I?” you laughed softly, though it came out sounding dangerously close to breaking.

Dana leaned forward immediately. “You are not stupid-‘ 

You cut her off with a shake of your head, humiliation already swallowing you whole. 

“C-can you get someone to cover-“ 

“Course, course.” She rushes out, and that’s all you need before your feet are moving you to the on-call room. The door is slammed with such violence that the sound makes your ears ring. 

You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened and you sank onto the edge of the narrow cot, both hands pressed hard against your mouth while you fought to steady your breathing.

The room smelled faintly like old detergent and stale coffee. Somebody had left a sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair. The television mounted in the corner sat muted on some daytime court show.

Even now, sitting there piecing together the possibility that he had been sleeping with another woman while coming home to you every night, some horrible part of you still wanted him to walk through the door and explain it all away. You wanted there to be another answer. Another explanation. Anything besides this.

There was a soft knock on the on-call room door, making your heart race. When you took too long to respond, it cracked open just enough for you to see Abbot’s head popping in the doorframe. 

You deflated, of course it wouldn’t be Robby coming to look for you. He didn’t care, and he probably hadn’t in a long time. 

“You decent in here?” His timber voice asked, making you rub your eyes gently. 

“As decent as I can be.” You answered, watching him take a timid step inside. 

He shut the door quietly behind himself before leaning back against it with crossed arms.

“You scared the hell outta Dana,” he said gently. “She said you looked about two seconds from passing out.”

You looked down at your hands instead of answering.

Abbot sighed softly after a moment. “Listen,” he started carefully, “Robby’s… not doing well right now. I’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it. He’s said some stuff to Dana today that’s really concerning.”

A bitter laugh escaped you instantly.

“No kidding.” You whistled, eyes focused on a crack in the tiled floor. 

”I also know he’s been using you as his emotional punching bag while he falls apart, instead of getting actual help.” 

“You seem to have it all figured out, huh?” You laughed bitterly, pressing your palms against your eyes so hard spots filled your vision. “Did you also know he’s been fucking the new case manager?” 

You hear his posture shift as he pushes himself off the wall, “What the fuck?” 

A humorless laugh broke out of you again before you could stop it, fraying at the edges as it built into something worse. 

“I think I’m probably the last person to know,” You laughed, “S’been going on for months. I just didn’t wanna see it.”

“He cheated on you? Oh, sweetheart-“

You don’t give him any time to start the empathy, the anger boiling up inside of you threatening to tip over. 

“Listen, I’m a feminist, but what does that bitch have that I don’t? I’m y-younger, I’m prettier, hell of a lot smarter, I don’t spend my time preying on men with girlfriends.” You cackled, “I’ve done everything for him. I’ve put up with his mood swings, I took care of his house, I attended all of his family bullshit, I put up with him putting work before me, I did everything. For what?”

Abbot was silent, his eyes darkening as he watched you lose your composure. 

“I mean,” A crazed laugh sputters out of your mouth, “he never even really took care of me. So I wasted all of that time for what? It was always all about him. Him, him, him-“ 

“I’d take care of you.” 

The words hit the room like something dropped too suddenly into still water.

Your eyes go wide, an anxious laugh escaping your lips. “Is that a joke?” You ask, but your throat is tight and suddenly your hands are damp underneath his attention. 

It’s then you realize during your rambling he’s taken purchase in one of the chairs across from the cot you were sitting on. Your feet nearly touching. 

“Nah,” His voice was rougher than before, and it made chills run down your spine, “I heard you earlier you know? Talking to McKay. He has a sexy young, incredibly talented doctor in his bed, practically half naked and he’s not taking care of you? That’s a fucking shame darling.” 

The room went silent after that except for the distant muffled noise of the ER beyond the door and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding so hard you swore he had to hear it too. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t do anything but stare into his hardened eyes. 

“So I’ll say it again, I’d take good care of you. God, if you were mine….you’d never have to worry about anything. I’d practically worship you.” He whispered, shifting his body closer to yours. 

“Is this a trick?” You asked, your voice shaky. So was your breath when his face drifted closer without you even noticing him move. He was close enough now that your words brushed against his lips when you spoke. Close enough to count every faint freckle scattered across his nose, every tired line at the corners of his eyes.

“Not a trick,” He assured.

“Aren’t you two friends?” 

“Best,” he whispers, and his lips just barely brush against yours. 

“Then why..” Your breath trembles.

”I’ve watched him have everything I’ve ever wanted and he still treats you like you’re disposable,” he said quietly, the words tight with something like anger he’d been holding onto for too long. “And I’ve had to stand there and say nothing about it because he’s my friend. I’ve stood there and defended him, because you said you loved him.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate.

When did he get so close? 

“That stops being easy after a while.” He said, his eyes back on yours. 

You’re practically panting into his open mouth before words manage to form, “How would you take care of me?” 

His honey brown eyes glisten, “I could tell you…Or I could show you?”

You should have stood up and walked out. You should have told him this was a mistake and you were emotional and hurt and angry and that this wasn’t how you wanted this to go. 

Instead, your body betrayed you completely.

Because for the first time in months, somebody was looking at you like they wanted you. Somebody who always saw you. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. You haven’t felt this alive in a long time.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately, letting his hand slowly reach up to cup your cheek. His callused hands held your face in his hands like you were porcelain. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

The words barely registered through the rush of heat and heartbreak and loneliness colliding inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t want him to stop, the tingle in your fingertips and the heat growing in your stomach wanted the exact opposite. 

Abbot exhaled shakily at that, forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly, eyes closing for half a second like he hated how much he wanted this too.

Then you kissed him.

It happened all at once and painfully slow somehow, your hand gripping the front of his shirt while your mouth crashed clumsily into his. Abbott made a rough sound low in his throat immediately, one hand holding your jaw while the other reached for your hips. 

The cheap cot squealed loudly beneath both your weight when you tugged him down with you, the sound almost drowned out by the chaos still carrying on outside the on-call room. 

Every kiss felt like you two were devouring each other. Your fingers pushed into his hair while his mouth moved hot and deep against yours, each breath stolen back only to lose it again seconds later. The tension wound through him was obvious now in the way he held himself over you, like he was trying so hard not to crush you beneath the weight of everything he’d apparently wanted for far too long.

His body was hot and heavy against yours, where you’d settled between his legs. His rough hands moving from your hips to cup your tits through your scrub top. He squeezed harshly, making a pathetic mewl escape your lips. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe and that was somehow worse, because his eyes were dark and blown wide with lust his mouth swollen slightly beneath fluorescent lighting.

”Darling,” he breathed warningly, one last final chance to leave this room pretending as if nothing had happened. 

All you could do was smirk up at him, “Lock the door.” 

In all of his years, Abbot doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast as he did. He was sprinting to the door, locking it, and pulling the privacy shade down. It wasn’t uncommon for it to be occupied during busy shifts. Dana was covering for you and Abbot wasn’t even supposed to be working today. 

By the time he hobbled back, you had slipped your scrub pants off, throwing your shirt to the side. You weren’t wearing any fancy elaborate underwear, a simple sports bra, and cotton panty for work efficiency, but to Abbot, you would have thought you were on the cover of a magazine. 

“So fucking gorgeous.” He said, holding his pointer finger up in a little spin, “Let me see you.” 

You entertained him, spinning around playfully. 

He let out a wolf whistle and lay himself down on the cot. 

“Do you need help taking these off?” You asked, your hands reaching to tug at the strings on his pants. 

He simply shook his head, patting his chest in a ‘come here’ motion. “You’re gonna pull those little panties to the side and sit on my face,” He said slowly, as if you should have known exactly what he meant when he lay down on the cot. 

“W-what?” You laughed shyly, “I’m too heavy for that-“

“That's what that bastard told you?” He scoffed in disgust, “I served years in the military, I can handle it. Come here.” 

A shiver ran up your spine as you got on your hands and knees, crawling over to him. His arms gripped your thighs, moving you into position as if you weighed nothing. 

You hesitated for a moment, feeling his warm breath hit against the embarrassingly wet spot against your underwear. 

“None of that hovering shit,” He whispered against you, “Want you to fuck yourself on my face. And I’m not stopping until you beg me. Gonna make up for every time that bastard mistreated you.” 

A gasp tore out of your chest when he helped you pull your underwear aside, his mouth attaching itself to your warm cunt. With the first swipe of his tongue, he was moaning against you, his cock twitching at the taste of you. 

Jack Abbot ate pussy like he was a starved man, which in a way he was. 

He’d spent the last year pining over you from afar, fisting his cock in the shower after a long shift thinking of you. Now? He was cherishing this as if it was his last meal, because hell it might be. 

You stayed still on top of him, too focused on the sensation crawling up your body to realize you weren’t moving.

A small smack echoed through the room, his hand tapping your ass making you cry out. 

“I said, fuck my face.” 

He could feel you hesitating, could feel the way our hips urged to grind against him on a particular lick.

“F-fuck,” You cried, “I can’t-“ 

He pulled away again, his eyes pleading with you. “Baby, I only got one good knee but I’ll get down on it and beg if I have to.” 

A huff left your mouth as you pressed further into him, letting your cunt drag messily against his mouth. The sensation had you crying out his name. Between the soft stubble of his jaw, the wet heat of his tongue, and his nose nudging against your entrance with each lazy drag you were falling apart against him in no time. He talked you through it, his hands forcing you to keep grinding against him. Urging you to keep going. 

“I c-can’t,” You cried out, and in response, all he did was laugh into your heat. The vibration causing your toes to curl. 

“M’ you can.” He spoke in between sloppy strokes of his tongue. 

It was like he knew your body like the back of his hand, already as he slid his tongue inside of you using his nose to rub against your swollen clit. 

You were coming again almost instantly, your hands coming down to run through his short curls. As you came you yanked against the roots, pushing him even further into your heat. All your fears of hurting or suffocating him were out the window, and Jack? Was living his absolute dream. 

“Oh, oh god.” 

You tried to pull off of him, only to be stopped by his heavy arms curling around your thighs once again. He just chased you, keeping his mouth attached to you. 

“F-fuck, I want you to fuck me so bad.” You were nearly sobbing, your legs trembling in his hold as your cunt practically leaked all over his face. He didn’t care, his tongue was still flicking expertly against you. “Baby, let me fuck you.” 

“One more time,” His voice was muffled, his eyes glazed over. Drunk on the taste of you and the sounds that were leaving your lips. “Let me taste you one more time and I’ll fuck you real good baby.” 

He was addicted, completely addicted to the feeling of you coming apart against him. 

“God,” The word ripped from your mouth, your hips betraying you by grinding down on his face yet again. The tip of his nose rubbing messily against your clit with each swipe. 

His fingers were digging so deeply into your thighs that you hoped it left bruises. He’s holding you down on him so hard you have no choice but to let him move you, his tongue hits even deeper inside of you. 

Then your eyes are rolling back in your head, your fingers tugging at his short locks as you cum around his tongue again. Each wave is more sensitive than the last as he coaxes it out of you. 

There are spots in your vision as you come down, watching him kitten lick your throbbing clit by the time you come back to earth. You’re panting against him, and he’s looking up at you like you’re an angel. 

“How was that?” He had the nerve to ask, sweat beading on his forehead while your release coated his face and neck. 

You swung your shaky legs off of him, plopping down on the couch with a groan. “You promised you’d fuck me.” 

At your pathetic little pleas, he smirked, bringing you in for a sweet kiss on the lips. You indulged him, ignoring that you could taste the hot, sweet taste of yourself on his lips. He’s content on kissing you until you’re all but pulling him on top of you. 

You’re so desperate for him when he finally stands up, you crawl over to the edge of the bed mouthing over his clothed cock. It sits heavy in his scrub pants, twitching at the slightest pleasure. 

“Oh you little minx,” He groans, reaching down to cup the back of your neck. “You wanna take it out?”

You nod, slipping your thumbs into his waistband to pull the fabric down his legs. 

You nearly gasp at the sight of his cock springing out of his underwear, the tip slapping against your face. He’s fucking huge, heavy in your hands as it falls to his mid thigh. Your mouth goes dry, eyes wide as you can feel your cunt clenching around nothing just at the sight. 

“Fucking knew you’d be bigger than him,” You can’t help but say, your hand unable to wrap around his shaft. 

“Yeah? You thought about it?” 

You nod, your embarrassment long out the window. “I see the way you walk around here, knew it was heavy.” 

A throaty laugh escapes him as you pump him a few times, he lets out a soft hiss when you swipe at the pre-cum leaking from his tip. 

“Come on,” He hums, “Hands and knees baby, let me see that ass.” 

A schoolgirl giggle escapes you as you comply, getting into the position that’s the easiest for him with his leg. 

His hand comes down and slaps your ass gently, just enough to make you cry out as he positions himself at your entrance. 

“Look at her,” he whistles, dragging his tip through your soaked folds, “She’s trying to suckle me in, you want this bad don’t you baby?” 

Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard already you know they’re going to ache. “P-please.” Your voice is agonized with need. 

“You deserve it,” He cooed, slowly pushing inside of you. “I got you, baby. M’always gonna take care of you.” 

Tears escape your eyes in relief as he fills you up, each inch he pushes helps relieve the ache. The stretch is painful, but delicious as your cunt molds to accept every inch of him greedily. Your face somehow falls into one of the pillows, muffling your sobs of pleasure. 

“T-there you go,” He praises, “Let it out. Taking me so well, almost there baby.” 

You feel like you’re being split apart, in the best way possible as his hips finally meet yours. 

“Knew you could take it,” he breaths out, his eyes closing for a moment in pleasure as your wet heat clenches around him, “Tightest pussy I’ve ever felt.” 

You let out a jumbled moan of incoherent words, begging, but you didn’t even know what for. He’s buried to the hilt, so deep inside of you it takes you a solid minute for your vision to come back to you. 

“It’s so- oh- Jack- fuck, yes.” 

“That’s my girl.” His hands are rubbing your lower back soothingly, waiting for the perfect moment to begin to move. 

His hips snap into yours in deep calculated thrusts, making you drool all over the pillow you’re clutching like a lifeline. 

The pace becomes relentless, his hips slapping so harshly into your ass that if it wasn’t for the loud sounds of the ER it would be echoing throughout the whole hospital. 

Just a few feet away outside of the on-call room door, Robby’s hands were interlocked behind his head, sweat threatening to slip from his brow. 

“Where the hell are Abbot and Y/l/n?” He asked amongst the other doctors all running to their destinations, “We’re drowning here and my senior resident and attending are AWOL.” 

He had no idea your hands were twisted in the cheap hospital sheets, your back arched as Abbot was splitting you apart expertly on his cock. 

You were so sensitive and fucked out, it was no surprise your fourth orgasm of the night was creeping up.

“I’m gonna-“ 

Abbot cuts you off, “I know,” His hand reaches around, desperately palming your clit, “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me take you home and show me those slutty little pajamas?” 

You nod wordlessly, feeling that familiar pleasure rushing through your body. 

“M’ gonna kiss every inch of your perfect fucking body, then I’m gonna fuck you to sleep and wake you up with my mouth on you. That something you want, baby?” 

“J-jack,” You cried out, 

“Breathe,” He demanded, his head falling on your shoulder to coo softly in your ear. “Breathe through it baby, s’just feel it. Uh, there you go. Good girl, good fucking girl.” 

You came with a shout, one so loud that he had to place his palm over your opened mouth. You bit down on his palm, drool falling messily through his fingers as he never once let up his pace. 

“Oh my god,” Your muffled cries only spurred him on, his balls tightening as your body became pliant in his hold. 

“Fuck,” He grunted, “S’good right? Just hold on a little bit, baby. You want me to come inside you?” 

Nodding limply against him, your eyes fluttered shut. You felt like you were floating, letting him use you to chase his own high. 

“M’gonna fill you up, give you everything you fucking want.” His hips stuttered, before he came with a shattered moan. 

“Such a good girl.” He whispered, his body heavy against yours. He pressed a sweet kiss to the crook of your neck, slowly laying you down and slipping out of you. 

The newfound emptiness made you whine softly despite yourself, the sound catching weakly in your throat as Abbott pulled away just enough to help clean you up. Your eyes stayed closed most of the time, your body heavy and loose against the thin mattress while the adrenaline and emotion finally began draining out of you all at once. 

Every nerve ending still buzzed pleasantly beneath your skin, your thoughts drifting in and out like you were barely tethered to the room anymore.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Abbott asked quietly. His voice sounded different now, much different from the voice that was just whispering filth into your ear. 

You smiled lazily, “M’so good.” 

He grinned at you, helping you slip your clothes back on with such gentleness it made your heart ache. 

Then he stood, holding a hand out toward you.

“C’mon.”

You looked up at him tiredly. “Where are we going?”

“You’re coming home with me after shift.”

Your eyebrows lifted, “I am?”

Abbott just shrugged like it was already decided. “I’m gonna take you to your place first so you can grab clothes and whatever else you need,” he said casually while helping pull you gently to your feet. “Then I’m making you dinner.”

You blinked at him. “Dinner?”

“Whatever you want.” His hands settled automatically at your waist once you were standing, steadying you when your knees wobbled slightly. “Pasta. Steak. Pancakes at midnight. I don’t care. You’re not going home alone tonight.”

”But-“ 

”No buts,” He cut you off, “We can deal with everything else another day. Tonight let me keep taking care of you.” 

You nod softly, your heart aching at the care dripping out of his pores. It had been so long since you felt so held by someone. 

“I’ll meet you in the parking garage?” You asked, bringing his lips to yours for one more kiss before grabbing the doorknob. 

”I’ll be counting down the seconds, sweetheart.”

When you slipped out of the door, it was impossible to hide the flush burning across your cheeks or the awkward unevenness of your steps. Your hair was a mess from Abbot’s hands in it and your scrub top sat crooked on one shoulder no matter how quickly you tried fixing it.

The hallway air felt freezing against your overheated skin. For one brief second, you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky. The corridor outside the on-call rooms sat mostly empty, only the muffled chaos of the ER carrying faintly through the double doors farther down the hall. Your shift was almost up, so you assumed they’d be stuck on handoff. 

Then you looked up and saw Robby standing there. You deflated, turning on your feet in an attempt to escape. He had clearly just rounded the corner, chart still loose in one hand, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. But the second his eyes landed on you stepping out of the on-call room alone, something in him visibly stalled.

His brows pulled together slightly while his gaze moved over you automatically, like he was trying to place why something looked wrong before his brain caught up to it. Your flushed face. The way you wouldn’t fully meet his eyes. Your hair slightly disheveled despite your obvious attempt to fix it.

”Hey,” he said finally, voice rough from exhaustion. “You okay?”

The concern in it nearly made you laugh. Where had a fraction of that care been the past year? 

Every part of you wanted to yell at him, to scream and punch his chest for making such a fool out of you. But you could still taste his best friend on your lips, so instead you just nodded too quickly and stepped around him before your face betrayed you further. Your shoulder brushed him lightly as you passed, and the second it did you felt him tense.

“Y/n,” he called after you, more confused now, “I wanna talk to you before I leave-“ 

His words died in his throat when the on-call door, the one you just escaped out of, opened from down the hall. 

Abbot had stepped out into the hallway infuriatingly calm, casually shutting the door behind him while his hands were tying his scrub pants together. His hair looked slightly disheveled, and worst of all there was a smug satisfaction written plainly across his face that made your chest tighten in immediate panic.

You kept walking, planning on grabbing your bag and meeting Abbot in the parking garage anyway. 

Robby just stared at him. 

The confusion on his face had vanished entirely now, replaced slowly by disbelief so stark it almost looked physical. His eyes flicked once toward the closed on-call room door, then down the hallway in the direction you had disappeared, before finally settling back onto Abbot again.

”What the fuck?” Robby whispered, a cruel laugh threatening to slip out. 

This only made Abbot’s smile grow wider, as he sauntered down the hall to meet his friend in the middle. 

“Listen, man,” Abbott said casually as he strolled closer, clapping Robby once on the shoulder like they were discussing something harmless over beers instead of detonating twenty years of friendship in the middle of a hospital hallway. “Your willpower’s stronger than mine.”

Robby hardly reacted, he couldn’t. His brain wasn't allowing the pieces to slot together.