dont-look-its-embarrassing

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Can you do a Clark Kent, with a mate? Maybe she gets jealous of Lois but doesn’t know why; an to get over him she tries to go out with another guy but Clark is like no. Your mine.

.⋆｡Office Crushes｡⋆.

Alpha!Clark Kent x omega!plus size reader

Little bit of Bruce Wayne x plus size reader

Your best friend has an office crush that seems to be becoming something more, maybe you should get your own office romance but not because you’re jealous- obviously

Warnings: a/b/o, jealousy, mutual pining, idiots in love, little bit of angst, protective!clark, fluff

WC: 3.1k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

It was quite common for any office to have its workers develop a sort of infatuation with each other. A confined space where you spend upwards of 40 hours a week with the same people, feelings are destined to arise, especially when it’s such a large mixture of alphas, betas and omegas. Hormones tend to go wild.

You were proud that you had never developed an office crush, knowing how disastrous it could be if the relationship ended, but you doubted your best friend could say the same. Clark had a big heart that he always wore on his sleeve and tended to attract a lot of romantic interest from practically everyone in the office. And apparently, Lois Lane was the lucky one who finally caught his eye.

A strange churning in your stomach began as you looked over the wall of your cubicle and spotted Clark leaning on the small kitchen counter, head thrown back in laughter as Lois chuckled over her now full cup of coffee. You know you should have seen it from a mile away- they were constantly paired up for articles, their chemistry was unmatched and they were by far the most attractive people in the office. You had even teased Clark on occasion for how often he met up with her after hours for some new lead, calling them dates.

Evidently, you were right. And for some reason, it was really bothering you. You felt physical disgust as Clark bent down to whisper something into the smaller omega’s ear and down right nausea as she placed a hand onto his broad chest to steady herself.

You swallowed down the bitter emotions and forced yourself to return to editing your article though a sour taste remained on your tongue. Maybe it was finally time to get your own office crush and the perfect opportunity had just landed in your inbox.

‘Bruce Wayne Interview- I trust you’ll get this done professionally’. You bit your lip at the offer, not only would an interview with Gotham’s golden boy boost your career, but whenever you had encountered the alpha before, he had always asked you out and you had always brushed him off. It was a win-win for you, and maybe it would stop the inexplicable rage you felt when you looked up and saw the goofy grin on Clark’s face as he sat back down at his desk.

Your nose wrinkled as you caught Lois’s scent clinging to him. Your fingers flew across the keyboard as you quickly sent a response back to your boss, accepting the offer. 

You just needed a distraction and then everything would go back to normal.

——————

The tension in the conference room at the top of Wayne Enterprise was so thick you swore you could cut it with a butter knife. You cleared your throat and tugged down your pencil skirt, over-aware of just how high it sat on your plump thighs as you reclined in one of the many expensive seats in the room. 

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to where your hands were curled into the material of the skirt and then back to your eyes but not before stopping very briefly at your lips. “Mr Wayne-“ You began again, glancing at your notepad. The small talk had gone well as did the customary chit chat about any new scandal he happened to have instigated and the photos of the both of you for the article.

“Bruce please, I think we’re far beyond that now.” He winked and you swore that his tone held a bit of a teasing purr. Your stomach flipped at the blatant attention from the alpha but it quickly dropped as yet another wave of thick, bitter scent filled the room making you cringe away from the other man standing to the side.

Through a series of several unfortunate events, your usual photographer had fallen ill and his stand-in got hired from right under the company and left so the only person that even had the slightest bit of talent with a camera in the office was forced to come with you today for shots of the billionaire. And in the worst stroke of luck, that person happened to be the very man that ‘inspired’ you to take the job in the first place.

Clark shifted on his feet and you barely repressed an eye roll. He had been very vocal in his disapproval of the whole thing given how often the mogul had put the moves on you but none of his arguments had done anything to deter you, instead they only fuelled the fire.

Bruce’s jaw clenched and you watched in fascination as the muscles beneath his skin moved, although they were not nearly as impressive as Clark’s (you would never admit that out loud). “Well Bruce,” He beamed at you, “Wayne Enterprises has just introduced a new product line that promises to ease the severe heats often experienced by omegas, my question for you is, what about this product is so different from all others on the market that promise the same things yet all others have failed?”

The alpha leaned back in his seat, his muscular thighs spreading slightly, instantly drawing your gaze to the thick bulge that was perfectly hugged by the material of his pants. Your eyes immediately flicked back up to him but given the smirk on his lips, Bruce knew exactly what he was doing. 

“I’m actually quite proud of my team for this, they’ve worked tirelessly on development for years and I believe that it really shows. While other products are usually prescribed by doctors in the forms of ointments and perfumes that mimic the scent of an alpha, which almost never work by the way, we have gone in a totally new direction. Instead, omegas can buy these pouches at any pharmacy and when heated, they give off the scent of a pup.” Bruce gestured to the small bags that were barely the size of your palm that sat on the table next to him. They gave the appearance of a miniature version of a microwavable heat pack but he was right, if you concentrated hard enough, you could smell the mixture of milk and flowers that all babies had.

“It is common knowledge that the presence of pups actually help to lessen the effects of a heat whereas the scent of an alpha is far more complex to manufacture and can actually make an omega’s heat worse if they don’t have any other-“ he paused then, his smirk growing as the room seemed to grow smaller, “-tools to help them through it.” You barely suppressed a squeak and quickly ducked your head as if you were checking your notes once more.

You gathered yourself for a moment then spoke again, missing the way that Clark was glaring at the other alpha over your shoulder. “And how affordable are these products?”

“Wayne Enterprises are donating 2 million to women’s shelters throughout Gotham and we plan to sell them for less than $10.” As if anticipating your next question, Bruce licked his lips and continued. “While it is not feasible to gain a profit from such a low price, I would rather give them away to the people that need it but I do have a board that I have to listen to… sometimes.” He winked at you.

Heat crawled up your neck and settled onto your full cheeks. You squeezed your thighs together though you weren’t quite sure if it was because you were attempting to feign arousal or keep him from looking up your skirt. You laid a hand onto your notebook, shutting off your recorder, as you leaned forwards and offered him your other one. “Thank you for being so open to this interview, you have been a hard man to pin down.”

You could feel the way Clark’s body seized as Bruce’s smirk grew and his eyes twinkled deviously. “If it’s by you miss Y/L/N, I would gladly be pinned down any time.” He shook your hand with a firm grip, letting the tips of his fingers brush against your wrist. “For an interview that is.”

He rose to his feet and politely helped you to yours, steadying you with a hand on your waist as you wobbled on your heels. Once he was sure that you were steady, he ducked down and grabbed one of the unopened boxes of Heat Helpers (quite the cheesy name in your opinion) and gave it to you, along with a small piece of cardstock. “Why don’t you take this, a thank you for a great conversation.”

You flipped over the piece of paper to reveal a phone number scrawled on in pen. You gave him a questioning look to which he chuckled. “My number, if you ever want to have a one-on-one with me, with or without the tape recorder.” 

You swallowed thickly and stuttered out some kind of polite response before Clark ushered you out of the room, muttering under his breath about being in a time crunch. You were barely able to catch one last, “Anytime miss Y/L/N” before the heavy door slammed shut and you were quite literally pushed into the awaiting elevator by your friend.

As soon as the doors were shut, you were on him. “What was that all about?” You crossed your arms over your chest and gave him a scrutinising look. Clark refused to make eye contact with you, instead he stared at the elevator doors like he was willing them to open.

“He was flirting with you.” You rolled your eyes and looked away from the tall alpha. “And you let him.”

“So what? He’s attractive and available, as am I. It was only natural.” Clark’s shoulders tensed, his grip on his camera tightening until his knuckles turned white. The confined space was now filled with a bitter scent that made your stomach drop and your omega howl in displeasure.

“Why are you so concerned about this, Clark?”

The elevator doors opened with a ping and he quickly walked out. “It’s nothing.” He said and you knew you weren’t going to get anything else out of him until he decided he was done throwing a tantrum.

——————

“So have you called him?” Lois was leaning against the bar next to you, her drink half empty but the flush on her cheeks told you that it wasn’t the first one of the night. 

“Called who?” She rolled her eyes like it was obvious.

“Bruce Wayne! He obviously wants you too, I saw the photos Clark took. He’s fucking—what’s the word— enamoured!” You scoff behind your tumbler of whiskey which you had been nursing since Perry gave it to you an hour ago. The whole office had gathered at the bar down the road for an end-of-workweek drink and against your better judgement, you had decided to join.

Clark had been convinced into joining a game of pool, leaving you without anyone to talk to but it’s not like he would anyway. For some stupid reason, the alpha had been giving you the silent treatment for days and it was really starting to piss you off. You regarded Lois with a look but she was far too tipsy to get it.

“He was just flirting, he does it with everybody.” You dismissed it but she scoffed.

“Then why did he ask Perry for your personal number?” Your head snapped up, your eyes wide. “Clark didn’t tell you?” Evidently, your wide open mouth and lack of a verbal response told her everything she needed to know. Suddenly, Lois was very sober, a serious expression on her face.

“We were in a meeting with Perry the day after the interview and Wayne just strolled in like he fucking owned the place. He said how great you were and that he was hoping to get your number for a follow-up interview sometime soon. Clark said he would handle it, I assumed that he would have talked to you.” Her gaze travelled over to said man. “Shit I guess he didn’t.”

You slammed back the rest of your drink and without any sort of conscious thought, stormed over to the group of men huddled around the pool table. “Where the fuck do you get off Kent?” You snarled. Immediately all of the men seemed to find their phones incredibly interesting.

“I’m sorry?” He asked in that way too polite way he did that really meant ‘what the fuck is the matter with you’ but you were having none of it.

“Why didn’t you tell me Bruce asked for my number?” 

“There’s a lot of Bruces in the world, you’ll have to be more specific.” He dismissed.

Anger flared in your gut. “You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about.” You snarled, making Clark stand up straight and meet your eyes. In the dim light of the bar, his expression was far darker than you had ever seen before as aggravation rolled off of his powerful body in waves. “You had no right to keep something like that from me!”

“I had every right! He was just going to use you and then never talk to you again! I was protecting you!” 

“I didn’t ask you to!” The bar went completely silent as Clark visibly flinched but you were far too upset to care. “You know what, I’m done.” You raised your hands in surrender as you turned and pushed through the stunned crowd, your anger slowly trickling away into sadness.

The night air was like a punch in the gut but it also eased the tenseness in your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself not to cry. It wasn’t like you were in love with Bruce, but even if you were, Clark’s blatant disapproval of him and his distrust in your decisions made you feel incredibly small. And it was breaking your heart.

He was your best friend, he was supposed to be supportive if not a little teasing about your choice in men. He was supposed to console you when things went wrong, not say ‘I told you so’. Why did he get to control your love life while you could only sit back and watch him fall in love with someone else?

Your feet carried you further and further from the bar as the urge to sob was quickly becoming overwhelming. “Y/N!” You turned in time to see Clark throw open the door, the light from inside spilling out onto the street as he endeavoured to chase you.

“Leave me alone!” You cried or at least tried to, but then suddenly, the air was knocked from your lungs and you were looking up at the stars.

The shrill screech of a speeding car came from somewhere on your left as bright headlights illuminated the mass of a man above you before the sound was in the distance and darkness folded over you both. His weight kept you pinned to the slightly damp grass and you had the vague thought that you must be in a park of some kind, even though just a second ago you were standing on a sidewalk- or was it the street?

“Are you okay?” That was Clark’s voice but he had been so far away from you. “Omega?” He sounded distressed and for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why.

“Say something!” His huge hands were planted by your head and it was only when one of them cupped your cheek did you find your voice again.

“Clark?” His whole body sagged with relief and he let his forehead rest against yours.

“Thank god. I thought I didn’t get to you in time. The car came out of nowhere and you were so close.” You turned your head away from him, your eyes focusing on the bar… that was across the street… a block away. The glint of something in the grass catches your attention, Clark’s glasses. 

He looked so different without them and all your confused mind could think was just how blue his eyes were when they were unobscured by the glass. 

His button up shirt which was normally so perfectly done up was unbuttoned, exposing the tight material of something navy beneath. “What?” But you couldn’t get out anymore, not when he shifted his weight, exposing even more of what was covered by his shirt and you were stunned into silence.

The red ’S’ practically glowed as realisation dawned into you. His brows scrunched in confusion, following your gaze. “I- I can explain.” Your head spun as he yanked you to your feet, though his hands never left your skin like he needed the reassurance that you were still there.

“I was going to tell you but then I realised how much danger it would put you in and if you were hurt in any way because of me, I couldn’t even stand the thought. And then we had known each other for months and Lois said you would feel betrayed so I kept it a secret-“ You placed an open palm onto his chest, stopping him in his tracks. His mouth snapped shut with a click.

“Is this why you were acting so weird about Bruce? You thought he would hurt me because of you?” Your voice wobbled with emotions as your nails dug into his warm peck. 

Clark’s growl was shocking in its intensity. The vibrations shot up your arm as the ground shook beneath your feet with its power. “No, he would never even dare to fucking touch you. He knows who you belong to.” Your heart skipped a beat, this possessiveness was nothing you had ever seen from the soft-spoken reporter before. You knew that you should find it disgusting considering how he had been treating you but instead your veins filled with warmth.

“And who is it that I belong to? There’s no claiming mark on my neck.” His grip on your hips tightened which should have been a warning but the anger was quickly returning now that the foggy haze of danger had passed. “If I can remember correctly, you’ve been courting Lois, not me.”

“I’ve been asking her for advice on how to ask you out!” He said, exasperated. “I just couldn't find the perfect time to do it.”

“You’re an idiot.” You retorted before grabbing his black curls in a tight grip and yanking his mouth to yours. His body tensed but then quickly melted into you, groaning against your lips. 

Maybe you did have an office crush but it’s not like you’d actually admit it.

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[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Hero vs Civilian smut thoughts

Civilan Clark is the type to be soft and slow with you. Oh Clark, sweet sweet Clark. He is such a giver, can you say service dom. He lives to serve and that applies inside and outside of the bedroom. We know this man is busy all the time, but when he has those moments alone with you, oh boy. Alot of people assume the only reason he is so gentle with you is due to his strength but I think it's mostly because he is a love maker.

Love making is his specialty, he's so much more into the intimacy itself than the feeling of his cock squeezing your insides. Just kissing and licking down the nape of your neck, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Just you two holding each other and being in the moment. Cockwarming, this man loves to cockwarm. Simpily just being their with you, inside of you, makes him feel all the more closer.

I'd also like to think that he can be a submissive as well. Clark is so tired after the day. He just need you to take care of it sometimes, he can't be super all the time. His life is so loud with the weight of him being Superman, but with you, it makes it so much quieter.

Civilan Bruce is a sub, sorry to tell ya. This man needs a break, he has to deal with so much shit whether its in or out of the clowl. Having to be a billionaire, batman, father, husband, philanthropist is all very mentally and phyically taxing, just wanting to be taken care of by his bae is not a lot to ask. Its actually a great dichotomy you get soft Bruce at home and rought Bruce in the streets.

Unless he's injured coming strait home from patrol, then you don't really have to be soft with him. Baby, his body is your toy to do as you please. If you wanna ride and suck and swallow him to your hearts desire who is he to argue with that. Between Bruce and Clark, Bruce is the more adventerous one in the bedroom, he is so much more willing to go with/ try these new and weird kinks of yours. Hell he even has a few of his own.

I think due to his lack of normalcy and weird attraction i.e Selena and Talia, attest to his will of being dominated.

Hero Clark is fast thruster, fast but not rough, if he go's rough, he might break you. There are two things I know for certain. One, he loves to fuck you behind. Your whole back pressed up against his chest, head tilted back on his shoulder while he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. His thick cock squeezing your walls, so warm, so wet, all that juice treatinging to spill out of you at any moment.

Two, he loves to see that pretty fucked out face of yours. He likes it when you lay on your back so he can see everything shake and jiggle. Having you pinned down on the pavement, watching how his cock slides in and out of your cum soaked cunt. Your juices dripping all over his thighs, the sounds your spewing, causing him to spill another load inside of you.

God, I just know he would look so hot fucking you in his suit. Man of Steel, coming to you to relieve the ach in his pants. He saves the world, but he needs you to save him.

Hero Bruce is the type be fast and rough with you. When he's on patrol he dosen't really have the time to be patient, quickies are a given. Going through the motions of him bending you over the batmobile in some dingey allyway, ripping off your panties, then spitting on your cunt before he shoves his cock inside you.

Girl you better be prepared for when he needs you, cuz if you aint good and stretched then your getting them thick gloved fingers spreading and splitting you open. You don't even have time to breath before he's slamming his cock in and out of you, arms pined behind your back, face pressed up against the hood.

You better go on and thank God for the noise of the city cuz the way your gonna be screaming. It don't even really matter if anyone catches y'all either, because who the hell is going to believe batman was in some allyway getting some nookie.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

*✩‧₊˚ YOU TAKE TOO LONG TO COME OVER

TEXTS starring my favorite DC men<3 (dick, jason, wally, bruce, hal, barry, clark)

cw: 18+ MDNI, f!reader, suggestive texts (the word pussy is mentioned), oral mention

2025 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

U N D E R H I S W I N G • fic teaser •

pairing: dark! clark kent x fem reader—intern au

genre: obsession, “I’d do anything to have you” vibes, smut, power imbalance, clark is a lonely boi who needs to find his one and only,

summary: you’re just his intern. but to clark kent? you’re everything he’s been waiting for—soft, brilliant, his. he watches you . he waits. he doesn’t plan to let you go.

“you’ll be shadowing clark kent,” perry white says, like it’s just another newsroom assignment.

he doesn’t know though. He doesn’t see the way clark looks at you—like he’s already imagined your entire life together. he doesn’t notice how clark’s eyes follow you. how he always knows where you are. how he stops smiling the second any man looks at you too long.

you’re just an intern and you’re quiet yet eager to learn the ropes.

but to him?

you are his haven , the one who he’s been needing in a world that’s forgotten how to be gentle.

•coming: post-superman 2025•

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Too much?

navigation | main masterlist | rules

Smallville Clark Kent x reader

synopsis: Clark was too busy saving Smallville, and Y/n just wanted a little attention. But when he told her to stop being clingy, She took it to heart— pulling away completely.

wordcount: 1,771

note: 16+ angst to fluff

divider from @enchanthings

"Am I okay?" Y/n echoed, tears welling in her eyes as she stepped forward. "You seriously had the audacity to ask me that?"

Clark blinked, completely thrown off guard. "What—?"

"Our date, Clark. You stood me up. Again."

His stomach dropped. And Clark opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Y/n wasn't finished.

"I waited for you for hours at the diner. I called. I texted. And nothing! No explanation, no anything. Just me looking like an idiot in front of everyone while my boyfriend completely blew me off."

Clark swallowed, "Y/n, I—"

"I'm so sick of this, Clark. This is the third time this has happened. And I know— God, I know you're busy. That people need you. But what about me? I'm your girlfriend."

Clark's jaw clenched. He had been through hell tonight, barely keeping Smallville safe, and how he was being berated for doing the right thing?

"Y/n, you know that's not fair." He shot back, voice sharper than intended. "I can't ignore people just because of a date."

Y/n scoffed. "Wow. That's just... great."

Clark exhaled sharply, patience wearing thin. "I'm not saying that, but you're acting—"

"Like what?" She challenged, tilting her head.

Clark hesitated, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Clingy. I just—" He groaned, running a hand down his face. "I need space, Y/n."

Silence.

And then, something in her head shifted.

Y/n quickly wiped the tears off her face. The anger in her eyes didn't die out, but something colder settled in. Y/n inhaled a sharp breath and took a small step back.

Clark immediately regretted it.

"Y/n, I—"

"Got it. I'm sorry." She said, voice almost detached.

Clark felt like the ground beneath him had just shifted. "Wait, I—"

But she didn't let him finish. She quickly turned to her heel and walked as fast away as she could.

And Clark did nothing but watch her disappear from his sight.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Clark actually got some rest. Deep, uninterrupted sleep. His body had needed it. His mind had been craving it. But the moment he opened his eyes, the argument last night was the first thing that crossed his mind.

Clark exhaled slowly, sitting up on the worn-out couch in the loft, running a frustrated hand on his hair. The barn was eerily quiet in the morning light, but his thoughts weren't.

He told himself over and over that it was probably for the best that Y/n was leaving him alone. That's what he wanted, right? He had been overwhelmed by Smallville's never-ending chaos, by his responsibilities, by the weight of everything he was trying to juggle. He just needed time to breathe, to think, to clear out his mind. And Y/n, for the first time, was giving it to him.

So why does it feel so wrong?

He shook the thought away, forcing himself to focus on the present. He had farm chores to do, and things he needed to take care of. He'd see Y/n later. He'd apologize after everything was settled down.

Except... he never got the chance. Because Y/n was nowhere.

She had stayed at Chloe's house for tonight. The next morning, she was out with her parents for the entire day. The day after that? She was doing something, somewhere, but Clark had no idea what. And the next day, and the next.

And suddenly, Clark had realized— he had no clue what she was doing at any moment.

For as long as he could remember, Y/n had always been there. She was in his messages before he could open his phone. She was calling him just to tell him something entirely random, or waiting for him at the Torch, or showing up at the loft with snacks. She was always present. But now? Nothing.

Clark had caught himself glancing at his phone every few minutes, waiting for a text that didn't come. His inbox was empty of her usual good morning and good night messages. No texts about her breakfast. No updates about her cat. No sudden burst of excitement at whatever TV show she was obsessing over.

Clark had shook it off, telling himself that it was fine. This is what he asked for and he should be grateful for it.

But the lack of her presence left a void in his heart. He missed her voice. He missed the way she would randomly call him in the middle of the day, just to tell him the most insignificant details of her afternoon. He missed her rants about school, her dramatic complaints about the people that pisses her off, and the way she would text him just because she thought about him.

Clark found himself staring at his phone, scrolling through their old messages, re-reading conversations he had taken for granted. He hovered over her contact, debating whether he should call first.

But he didn't.

Clark didn't remember running to Y/n's house. He didn't even realize that his feet had taken him there until he was standing beneath her bedroom window, hands shaking, heart pounding violently against his chest.

He had fought off yet another creature, saving Smallville again, but for once, Clark didn't feel like a hero.

For the past week, Clark had endured every kind of physical battle ever imagined— facing off against meteor freaks, barely dodging blows that could've shattered his bones, and throwing himself into danger with no hesitation. But none of those compared to losing Y/n. Nothing could've even come close to that.

His hands gripped the windowsills, knuckles turning white. He had climbed through this window a hundred times, sneaking into her room when he wanted to escape and when he wanted to see her. It had always felt so easy, so natural. But tonight, his knees felt weak.

Still, he climbed inside, landing on the floor, breath uneven as his eyes found her. She was curled up in her bed, her hair splayed over the pillows as she was reading one of the books Chloe had recommended. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated her features and Clark thought she was beautiful. Heavenly.

Y/n looked at him with a cold stare, sitting upright before setting the book down on her nightstand. She didn't say anything. She didn't rush into his arms. She didn't scold him for going through her windows like he always did.

"Why are you here?"

Clark took a step forward, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. "I wanted to talk."

Silence.

She just stared at him, head tilting to scan his face.

His heart clenched, his breath catching in his throat as his knees hit the edge of her bed. "Please," He begged, voice raw, and with pure desperation. "Please talk to me."

Y/n exhaled sharply, trying to toughen up as she could feel her resolve cracking. "What do you want me to say, Clark?"

"I— I miss you."

"You miss me?" She echoed, scoffing. "That's funny because a week ago, you called me clingy."

Clark's jaw clenched, regret tightening in his chest. "I was stupid. I thought— I thought I needed time to figure things out."

"For what, Clark? To decide if I was too much for you? That my love was overwhelming just because I wanted attention for my boyfriend who I haven't spent time much with for weeks?"

Clark opened his mouth, but the words died out his throat. Because deep down, he knew she was right.

Y/n looked away, angrily blinking away her tears. "I gave you space," She continued, voice quieter now. "I pulled away. I stopped texting, stopped calling, stopped clinging to you like you hated so much. Did it make you feel good now?"

"No," Clark immediately answered. "I hated it. I thought space was all I wanted. I thought it would make things easier. But it didn't." He took a hesitant step forward, reaching out, fingers trembling. "I missed you. I missed your texts. I missed your calls. I missed hearing about your day, about your cat, about your gossip with Chloe. I missed you— all of you."

"I thought you wanted to break up," Y/n admitted. "And I was ready to give it to you if it would make you feel any better—"

"No, no, no," Clark interrupted, immediately dropping to his knees beside her bed. He reached for her hand, grasping it gently as if she would slip away at any second. "Don't say that, baby, please."

Y/n stiffened. "Clark..."

"No," He pleaded, shaking his head. "Don't say it. Don't—" His breath hitched, squeezing her hands tighter. "Don't say we should end this. Don't say we should part ways. I can't—" His voice cracked, and suddenly, his vision blurred with tears. "I can't lose you."

"You hurt me, Clark."

"I know, baby, I know. And I'll spend forever making it up to you if you'll let me."

"I don't know if I can go back to how things were."

Clark exhaled shakily, hands reaching up to cup her face, his thumb brushing against her cheek with such tenderness that Y/n shuddered under his touch. "Then let's start over. Let me love you better."

Y/n let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. "You're such a sap, Kent."

Clark smiled through the tears, relief flooding his chest. "Only for you."

A long beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with emotions too big to be put into words. And then, Clark leaned in, his lips brushing against hers— gentle at first, testing, waiting.

Y/n melted into the kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him close.

Clark let out a desperate sound, his body pressing closer as if trying to mold himself into her as if trying to make up for every second they had been apart.

The kiss deepened— slow, intoxicating, filled with longing. Clark’s hands trembled as they slid down her back, holding her so close it almost hurt.

“I love you,” Clark whispered, lips hovering over hers.

"You better.”

And then she pulled him down again, her lips claiming his, her body pressing into him, her hands gripping him like he was the one who had been missing her all along.

Clark let out a breathless laugh between kisses, his heart feeling whole again for the first time in days.

Maybe he had been strong enough to fight monsters, to save a town, to lift things heavier than any man could imagine.

But when it came to Y/N?

She was the only one who could bring him to his knees.

©kjhbsies

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

DC ✢ When he admitted he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark. This is a companion piece to another headcanon called 'When he realised he loved you' linked here. Though, you can still read it independently.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

Bruce did not say it in a quiet moment — for such moments were rare. Though, when they did find him, he spent them with you in silence. Not with words but simply by being near, by existing in your presence.

No. It came during an argument. One of those arguments that shakes the very foundations of a relationship — not because of what was said, but because of what had never been, what was expected.

You had asked him — raw, wounded — what you meant to him. What all this was. Why he kept forming barriers between you, when all you had ever wanted to do was break through.

His answer had been frigid. Precise. Calculated and sharpened. A blade forged from old habits, Bruce wielded it with an unconscious mastery, a last-ditch defence mechanism perfected over decades.

You left. Not in fury, but in heartbreak, disappointment — the kind that does not cry, does not scream, but simply broods into silence. Your absence rang louder than a slammed door, louder than any yell you could have mustered.

Alfred did not speak. Just passed Bruce in the hallway with the kind of look that had once made him sit straighter as a boy. And now, it made him feel small once more, as though he were still a child.

Time passed and still, silence.

He found you in the garden, beneath a sky now thick with stars, the sun had still been gleaming when you had hurried away. You had not been crying. You were still. And in that stillness, he saw the damage he had inflicted upon you.

‘I can’t seem to protect what I love,’ he said, words fractured, conflicted. ‘Not my parents. Not Jason… Not you —’ 

You turned. Not startled by the confession, but by the break in his voice. You had never seen him like this before, never so fragile. 

‘But I do. I love you. I want… I need you to know that.’

It was not cinematic. No kiss. No arms thrown around shoulders. Just him, standing before you, hollowed by an atypical honesty, praying you would believe him — even if he was undeserving of that trust.

And you did. You believed him. Bruce could see it in the ease of your countenance, in the smile that now warmed your face. But even so, he apologised as though he had committed a most heinous crime.

You pulled yourself to your feet, still wordless. And enveloped him in your arms.

‘I love you too, Bruce.’

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

Dick meant to say it casually — with that charming nonchalance that usually came so naturally to him. He had rehearsed it, even. Smiled in the mirror once or twice. But it never felt right, never felt adequate. It was too simple a word to describe what he felt for you. 

But love, he discovered, should not wait for perfect timing.

It came unexpectedly late one evening, while a movie played in the background — some low-budget film neither of you had been truly watching. Your head was on his shoulder. His thumb was tracing invisible shapes into your side.

And then — suddenly breathless, it had grown too large to contain, he could not hold it any longer,

‘You know I love you, right?’

You blinked like someone newly roused from a dream, and looked at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language. Dick was not confident he had not. 

When you remained quiet, he chuckled, uneasy. And brought his hand to the back of his neck, in a nervous, boyish manner. 

‘I mean — I have. For a while. I just didn’t want to ruin it by...’ He trailed off, not quite sure what he was saying. 

You remained quiet for a few moments more, contemplating. The juncture of silence stretched taut, he held his breath. And then you smiled. 

As soft as the moonlight now shining through the curtains, you whispered, ‘I love you, too.’

He kissed you gently, as though he were trying to make up for all the times he had not said it sooner. In that moment, he was not Dick Grayson, he was not Nightwing or the Boy Wonder — he was simply someone lucky enough to be loved by you.

To this day, he cannot for the life of him remember the movie that had been playing. All he could remember was that smile — the way it had already lit up your eyes by the time it reached your mouth and the enthralling, glowing warmth that had flooded his system.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

You were stitching him up again — hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, skin cold under your touch. You sat cross-legged before him. 

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ you murmured, not for the first time and certainly not the last. 

He did not answer. Because what would he tell you? Not the truth, you would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that you cared; he could not resist the temptation. He did not believe you could love a man like him, but when he felt your gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn. 

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned your face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’

And then — something unspooled. A thread that had been pulled too tight for too long. Jason sighed.

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you —’ He looked into your eyes, gaze piercing, willing you to see the truth of it. 

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. ‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere you did not grace, the very notion made him ill. 

You stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work.

He was not looking for a response — only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But you gave him one anyway.

‘I love you, too.’ You had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching your lips, he may have missed it. His breath caught — not in fear, but in awe — as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.

Your words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin — like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.

He spoke up again, softer this time,  ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave you one of his rare smiles, and your heart jolted.

You silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing your head against his shoulder. After a short while you shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment, he felt that same electricity once more. 

Your hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message you were trying to convey, what you were trying to have him understand.

Jason did not sleep that night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

T I M⠀D R A K E

You both had been working late, each focused on your own tasks, yet relishing in the silent company of one another; the peace of it. Tim sat at his desk, while you lay across his bed, legs swinging behind you with a pen in hand.

Tim had asked you to stay at the manor for the night, but you had gently refused, reminding him you had work in the morning. You got up and walked over, placing both hands on either shoulder. You then pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear.

‘I better head off now.’ He leaned his head back into you, and his eyes met yours, smiling.

And then — too casually, too instinctively — he said, ‘Okay, love you.’

The words had flowed out like a torrent. A sudden, unexpected failure in his system.

Then a silence dropped like a stone in deep water — sudden, heavy, and irreversible; absolute.

He froze. His eyes were wide, as though the phrase had been spoken by an imposter, by someone else within his skin. He had known this fact for a long time, it had only been a matter of time.

‘I didn’t — I mean — that wasn’t—well, it was, but —’ He stopped. His words crashed over each other, panicked and sputtered.

You tilted your head. Shock the dominant expression on your face.

‘You love me?’

He nodded, slowly, it would be silly to deny it; to lie. Shame crept into the corners of his expression. What if he had said it too soon? What if the word drew you away?  Then suddenly you smiled, as though you had been waiting for this exact failure, this exact slip-up.

‘Well… that’s good,’ your whisper was tender. ‘Because I love you too.’

And just like that, his spiralling mind halted. His thoughts — so often a storm of what-ifs and whys — were suddenly still.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased and melted away. He let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding — shaky, but smiling. It was not his usual tight-lipped smirk, nor the polite upward curve he would give strangers — this one was real. Quiet, disbelieving and full.

You leaned downward and rested your forehead against his, your hand moving to cradle his cheek. Tim leaned into it like he had been starved of its softness. You spoke through a grin.

‘Maybe I should stick around. Was that your plan all along?’

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E⠀(Aged up as Batman)

Damian did not like the word love. Not at first. The word felt paltry. Trite. A flippant syllable never built to hold the sheer weight of what he carried for you.

You had just bested him in sparring. You always did, but only because he allowed it — Damian would sooner impale himself on his training blade than admit it, but it was not as though you were unaware. You had thought it cute, an adjective you would never dare utter to his face. 

Damian had no shortage of self-pride. The fact he was willing to sacrifice it, simply to please you, always left you breathless. 

You extended your hand to guide him up, but he simply stared at it from his place on the mat, his gaze shifting upward. You were standing over him, a barely contained smirk donning your features. 

‘You do not understand what you mean to me,’ he said, voice low and filled with a thousand ulterior meanings, though they bled through, his tone turning earnest.

You did not speak. You simply waited.

‘This feeling,’ he tried again, ‘it disrupts everything. My training. My thoughts. My plans. Everything. It… it…’ He trailed off, not sure how to finish what he was saying, not confident that the words capable of conveying these feelings were extant across any vernacular, it seemed too implausible. 

You smiled, faintly. ‘You mean love?’

He flinched like you had cursed. But then — after a moment — he nodded.

‘Yes. That.’ It was not enough, but he figured he would concede. ‘I feel it. Unwillingly. But truthfully.’

You laughed, it was warm and bell-like. It struck something tender in him, something still learning to hope.

‘I love you too, Damian.’

How was it, that word he had held with such contempt, such scrutiny and scepticism, was suddenly so weighted, so gorgeous uttered from your lips? How was it so impactful now it was directed towards him? 

He looked away, not from shame, but from overwhelm. He had fought assassins, atrocious criminals, and the weight of his father’s legacy — but never had he felt something as all-consuming as being wanted, as overwhelming as the thought of your love.

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He had told you on a rooftop. Not because it was histrionic, but because it was distant — far above the world’s inescapable noise, yet still beneath its stars. 

You were talking about something entirely ordinary. Rent, perhaps. The cost of your water bill.

But he was not listening, not truly. He watched as your lips moved and thought only of how he yearned to kiss them, to wake up to them each and every morning. 

And then he looked at you. Really looked. And the words came like wind through the ether — soft, inevitable.

‘I love you.’ He had cut you off, but it needed to be said. He could not have lived another moment without these words held suspended between you. 

You smiled, easy. ‘I know.’

But he shook his head. Shifting closer. There was an ache in his voice, a gravity to it.

‘No. I love you. Not in the way people say when they’re hanging up the phone. Or when they leave for work in the morning. I love you like… like…’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words —’ He places his hands on either side of your cheeks. 

You stopped breathing.

‘You’ve given me something no one else has,’ he said, his voice near breaking. ‘Not because you wanted a hero. But because you saw me — as nothing more than a man. The farmboy. The one who still forgets to fold his laundry, after you’ve already asked him five times…’

You let out a sudden laugh, but it was not for his joke, your joy at his admission could not be contained; it surged out. You kissed him.

‘I love you, too.’ You murmured, Clark could hear the smile within your voice. Then he thought of the stars glimmering upon them, they shone bright, yet still somehow paled in your comparison. 

I was thinking of expanding upon the Jason Todd section and turning it into its own one-shot, would anyone be interested in that? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Just Giving In

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, truth curses (with a silly twist!), light fluff, angst, smut (fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You're under a very annoying truth curse. The kind of truth curse that will kill you if one very specific, Dean-related truth isn't told. But apparently no one's allowed to just die in peace anymore.

Author's Note: It's amazing how I'm able to delude myself into truly believing that I'll actually write something short and only horny. No. We must write 3k of story and 5k of emotional smut. Enjoy!

Title from Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 8.6k

It’s past midnight when you get back to the bunker. 

You were supposed to be back that afternoon, but certain complications arose, and you’re back now. You’ll have a long, sleepless night to come up with an excuse for why exactly you were five hours late, didn’t text Sam and Dean that you were going to be five hours late, where exactly you were in the first place, and why the car looks like that. Scraped and dented and wrecked, like it had been put through a meat grinder and spat out in a hunk of metal that somehow didn’t explode when you drove it. 

You’re glad you didn’t take the Impala. If Dean yelled at you right now, you might start crying on the spot. Thankfully—in what should be a rare stroke of luck, but feels like a dagger right into your stomach—Sam and Dean seem to have given up on trying to wait for you to come home, so you’re free to retreat to your room and cry in private, like any reasonable adult who’s probably going to die within the week would-

“You’re back.” 

A light behind you flicks on as Dean snaps from across the room, and you grimace as everything inverts. Dean did wait up for you, and that’s tiny and electric high that goes right up your spine. You’re also not lucky, but that just feels like a given at this point. 

You will not cry in front of Dean. You have spent the whole night repeating to yourself that, no matter what happens here, you will not cry in front of Dean. He either think nothing of this week, and it will fade into the distance as you figure this out yourself and he never knows, or he’ll look back on it with nothing but simple grief and anger, remember you fondly and furiously instead of as a weak, emotional, manipulative bitch. Remembers you as the person you’ve spent so long proving yourself to be, instead of the feral girl they’d found you as. 

It doesn’t make turning around to face him any easier. He’s sitting in his usual chair, glaring at you with his arms crossed, and there are bags under his eyes that you put there. A tight line to his lips that’s your responsibility, because you’d fucked up and he knows it. He always knows it. 

Because you fuck up a lot.

“Hey, Dean, what’s up-“

“What’s up?” He snaps, and you have to force your body not to flinch. “You’re crawling back here at one in the goddamn morning without ever, I don’t know, thinking to fucking call when you realized you’d be late, and you’re saying what’s up?”

You swallow. “I lost my phone.”

“You, fuck-“ Dean rubs his jaw with a hand, giving you a look of pure disbelief. “You could’ve borrow someone’s, or prayed to Cas, or just, goddamnit-“ he mutters your name, looking at you with an exhaustion that makes your gut flail. “Where the hell even were you?”

“Um,” you glance down at your hands. “Hunt?”

“Hunt.” His voice is flat, and you wince. “That’s all you’re going to say.”

You nod. “Rowena called me. Needed help with something.”

“And you just fucking went with her, without telling anyone-“

“I didn’t just go with her, I brought a gun. I was careful.” you try to stand a little taller, looking back up to Dean, because you need to sell your half-truth of a story and get out of here. Out of where Dean’s just right there, and it’s making your skin crawl and your blood cold and your eyes push out of your skull the longer you lie to him. “And I did tell Cas-“

“Son of a bitch, that’s not enough.” Dean groans, pushing out of the chair to glower down at you. It’s an intimidation tactic you’ve seen him use before, where he makes himself large and furious, almost beast like. Sometimes it makes him look bigger than Sam, and he only pulls it out when he’s furious, and demanding answers. You don’t think he knows that, when he uses it on you, it does not have the intended effect.  

“Dean-“

“Cas didn’t tell us.” Dean hisses your name, stalking across the room and getting far too close for your brain to function properly. “You need to tell us, because we were, I was-“ Dean cuts himself off with a grunt, his whole body rigid as he scans over your face. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, and it’s the truth, so it’s like clear, fresh water over your head and down your throat. “I didn’t mean to freak you guys out. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”

“You didn’t-” Dean’s jaw is clenched, and his words seem pushed through his teeth. “Just go to bed,” he mutters your name, and you feel something in your chest snap. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod weakly, and almost run away from him. But not to bed. You’ve already blown this up way too much to just go to bed. 

You go right to Sam’s room and bang on the door, keeping a careful eye over your shoulder for Dean to walk into the hall.

It takes a very long, tense minute, but eventually you hear a groan from the other side of the door, tired words muffled through the wood.

“Dean, she’ll be back, and you’re not helping anything-“ The door swings open to reveal a messy haired, bleary-eyed Sam, and he blinks at you with a frown. “Oh, you’re back. You should go tell Dean-“

“He knows.”

“Cool, that’s good.” Sam scans over you—bouncing slightly on your feet, every movement and breath feeling frantic and borrowed—and frowns. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Oh, uh, you need to talk about it-“

You don’t bother to answer, pushing past Sam into his room and dropping on the end of his mattress, watching him blink at you, his frown deepening every second.

“Yeah, you can come in-“

“Can you please close the door?” You whisper, like Dean might somehow hear from wherever he’d gone after your fight. 

Sam nods slowly, and the movement you hear the click of the doorknob, the words start to fall out of you like vomit. 

“I fucked up, Sam. I really, really fucked up, it’s bad, I’m fucking fucked-“

“Woah, slow down.” Sam moves across the room, running a hand through his hair. “Just, start from the top. Where were you-“

“Rowena called me for help. Some sort of coven drama, she said she needed some backup because her magic was weakened.” You take a long, shaky breath, unable to look anywhere but the corner of Sam’s carpet. “I told Cas, just in case it was a trap, and left. I owed her a favor-“

“Wait, since when did you owe Rowena a favor-“

“Mark of Cain.” You mumble. “I told her I’d owe her if she helped Dean. One favor, cashable on anything.”

Sam says your name slowly. “You didn’t need to do that, we would have figured it out. I mean, Dean wouldn’t want you to-“

“I know, I don’t need you to-“ You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can we focus on one stupid choice at a time, please?”

“Yeah, sorry, keep going. Why are you fucked.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, and decide to skip most of the details. Sam did not need to know about how the case was indeed at trap, or how you’d known it was a trap, but the favor had been a blood oath, so you weren’t able to run or call them. He didn’t need to know how you’d mowed down about five witches with the car—the sickening crunch still rattling around your skull—or how it wasn’t just blood and sweat on your brow, but something from an animal you’d really hoped you’d mistranslated from Latin. 

He just needs to know the reason you hadn’t killed Rowena when you’d escaped and taken out the rest of the coven. 

He just needs to know about the problem.

“It went to shit. Really big shit, Sam. I’m kind of… cursed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when you finally gather the confidence to look at Sam, he’s gaping at you, frozen in place.

“What do you mean,” his voice is low, every word slow and deliberate. “Kind of cursed.”

“I mean very cursed.” You mumble. “Really fucking cursed.”

“Shit.” He mutters, shaking his head. “I said you were probably fine, Dean’s gonna kill me-“

“No!” You stand up frantically, your voice almost a squeak. “Don’t tell Dean!”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I tell Dean?!” Sam snaps, looking at you like you’ve gone insane. “If you’re really cursed, we need all hands, and Dean-“

“He can’t know, Sam, please.” You might start crying, every word choked in your throat. “Don’t tell him.”

“I…” Sam trials off, his face dropping into a deep frown that seems to be mostly made of worry as he says your name. “What, exactly, is the curse?”

You sigh, hugging yourself as you speak. “If I don’t resolve my deepest secret, I’ll die.”

Sam blinks. “Like, die die? Death die?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen as the situation fully sinks in, his whole body going slack as he pulls the pieces together. “Fuck.”

You hum a soft agreement. “Fuck.”

“And why can’t I tell Dean? I mean, he’ll want to help-“

“You know why.” You whisper. “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Fuck.” Sam groans. “And you’d rather die than-“

“Yes.” You lower yourself down to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as you stare ahead at nothing. “I’m sorry, Sam, I just. I can’t. I don’t-“ You taste the sting of metal as you bite through your cheek. “I don’t know what to do. I’m going to d-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound, and hear the bed shift as Sam drops at your side and pulls you into a gentle hug.

“We’ll figure it out.” He mutters your name, and you make another weak, strangled noise. “I promise. You’re going to be okay.”

Over your first, weak sob, you don’t hear the door open. You only know it opens because Dean clears his throat, and your blood turns white-hot in your body, caught between embarrassment and nerves and a deep, soft and starved piece of your heart that’s trying to climb into your limbs and rip your body away from Sam’s to fly to Dean’s.

“Sammy, she-“ He cuts himself off as he sees you, and you die a little at how he says your name. Like he hates it. “You’re in here.”

You nod, keeping your face angled down, and you hear Dean shift slightly in the doorway. 

“Why are you in Sam’s room.”

There’s no good answer for that, and Sam doesn’t seem to have one either. There’s no plausible lie for why you’re on the floor on Sam’s room, why you’re sniffling, and why he’s hugging you that doesn’t sound insane. Even the truth wouldn’t exactly be an easy sell.

And it hurts. When Dean just sighs and grunts that he doesn’t want to know—that you and Sam can go back to fucking braiding each other’s hair or whatever—and stomps out of the room, it’s like a knife to your gut. But you can’t tell him. Not the truth. Not any of it.

So this will only be the first knife. And you’d worry about what you would be telling him when this was over—how you could possibly explain yourself—if you had any faith you were going to get out of this. 

But you don’t. The week crawls on, and it all only gets so much worse. Vague illness starts to feel like you’re being mauled from inside, and Dean’s anger turns to bullets.

You spend most of your days in the library with Sam, combing through book after book, looking for anything about how you can fix this, and every time Dean walks in, he looks like he wants to punch someone. Like he’s disgusted by your very presence where he can see you, like you’re a spider that’s crawled into his house and he can’t even stand the sight of you. 

“I’m getting dinner.” He snaps on the third night, and when you look up from your book—Sam standing behind you, having hunched over your body to read the passage you’d been pointing to—Dean’s jaw is clenched, his fists curled at his side. “Neither of you got groceries, so I’m ordering. What do you want.”

His voice is flat. It makes your chest feel like it’s being run over by a train.

“I’ll take whatever you get.” You offer him a small smile, because you can’t help yourself, and it just makes him glare more. “But can I please have a milkshake as well?”

Dean narrows his eyes at you. “You don’t know where the hell I’m going.”

“You’re going to the diner, Dean.” You shrug. “You always go to the diner.”

He grunts, something hot flashing over his face that you don’t understand. “Fine. Milkshake.”

He doesn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions. He doesn’t bother to wait for Sam to say what he wants. Dean just marches up to the garage, vanishes for an hour—the diner is ten minutes away, and you start to feel your stomach and heart twist the longer he’s gone—and returns with a slam of the door, throwing a salad at Sam and placing a burger and milkshake in front of you before stomping out of the library.

Dean got your favorite flavor. You hadn’t told him to, but he had.

It tastes like chalk. And you’ve never hated yourself more.

After that, he barely speaks to you. Just low grunts and glowers at you whenever you cross paths, his presence in the bunked suddenly scares. He’d usually sit with you and Sam while you read, cracking unhelpful jokes that make Sam roll his eyes and you giggle, but he’s just gone. Locked in the Dean Cave or the garage, shuffling around the kitchen with a sullen expression, swallowing his dinner whole and refusing to really even look at you.

It hurts more than any anger could. It’s lonely and cancerous the longer it goes on, because you’re still talking to and hanging out with Sam, but he doesn’t count. Your whole heart isn’t orbiting around Sam. The curse is completely indifferent to Sam. The curse doesn’t care when Sam grumbles or frowns at you. It cares when Dean hates you. You think it can feel that this won’t be resolved—because it won’t be, you grow more and more certain with every passing day that this is how you will die—and takes the opportunity to root deeper into your body. Every sneer or glare Dean gives you sits under your nails to claw at your skin. It covers you in sweat in the dead of night, and chokes you when you’re in the shower and the water’s burning your skin.

Sam keeps trying to convince you to just do it, just say the thing to Dean because the worst that can happen is that you’re heartbroken but alive.

“And I really don’t think it would even come to that.” He tells you from across the table at 2am, because you’re running out of time and sleep isn’t something you can even remember how to do anymore. “I mean, it’s Dean-“

“That’s the problem, Samuel.” You hiss. The curse has started to make you mean, and if you make it out alive, you’ll have to buy Sam a million bottles of hair gel to make up for what you’re putting him through. “It’s Dean. He already doesn’t like me-“

Sam frowns. “Why would you think that-“

“Because I’m a responsibility.” You’re spitting, and it tastes like venom. “I’m your kid shadow, I’m Dean’s kid shadow, I’m a burden-“

“You’re not a burden,” Sam says your name slowly. “To either of us. I mean, if what you said about Rowena is true, you saved Dean from the Mark-“

“That doesn’t count. That was just a deal I made-“

“A deal you made for Dean.” Sam’s pushing back. You wish he’d stop. “Most people in our lives wouldn’t have done that for us. And Dean doesn’t think you’re his kid shadow, by the way. I mean, I’ve only ever-“

“Sam.” Your voice is flat. A little broken. “Please don’t. Even if he doesn’t hate me, I- I just can’t-“

“But Dean-“

“Please.” You’re going to cry again. “You won’t convince me.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Well, we need to try something. I’m not just going to let you die.”

You don’t think that’s up to Sam. You don’t think it’s up to anyone anymore. You won’t tell Dean, because you’ve scanned over book after book about spell phrasing, and decided that telling Dean wouldn’t even help. You had to resolve your deepest secret. Rejection that burns your heart to ash, that clouds your lungs and makes you cower and falter won’t be resolving anything, and then you’ll just die in more pain.

You let Sam convince you to try something. More for him than for you. You lock yourself in the bathroom and stare at your hideous reflection in the mirror—your skin a little sunken, your eyes lined with red, your lips raw from being chewed until they bled—and start speaking a whisper, because you can’t stand the sound of your own voice.

“I love Dean Winchester.” You tell yourself, as if you’re not so deeply aware of how your love is tattooed onto your every breath and heartbeat. “I love him. I am going to die, and I love him, and I am very-“ You choke slightly, your eyes stinging as the world blurs. “I am very, very sorry. Not for loving him, but for forcing him to be loved by me. I’m sorry I don’t know how to stop loving him. I’m sorry I’m leaving him. But I am not sorry for loving him. I… I spent a lifetime surrounded by cruel animals who called themselves angels, and he’s the only person I’ve ever- I could believe- I just-“ You drop your head, turning up the faucet to drown out every weak sob and apology. “I love him. And he… he’s too good be obligated to love me. So I think I’ll just…”

You trail off, and crumble onto the tile floor. When you dry your tears and yank yourself back together, Sam’s waiting for you a little down the hall. You shake your head, his shoulders slump, and that’s it. For Sam it’s not—he turns around and marches right back to the library—but for you, it is. You’re done. 

You’ll hole up in your room and die alone. Like how’d you’d been meant to all along, lent only a little bit of extra time by Dean saving you to begin with.

And that time had run out. So you’ll just go die alone.

lay flat on your bed as your vision starts to dance with spots, and spend your time trying to image what a heaven you’re not allowed into will look like. Cas has told you every person gets their own, but you don’t really want that. It sounds like more of your life, and it’s pointless to worry about because you’re headed nowhere but down, but you’d still rather spend eternity with someone.

One person. You’d like to spend eternity with one person. 

The same person who had somehow gotten into your locked room, and is snapping your name as he stands at the foot of your bed. You’d be angrier he’d just barged in if you could remember how to be anything but in pain. You’d snap back if your mouth knew how to be anything but numb. 

“Dean-“

“What the fuck are you doing.” Dean hisses, and you close your eyes, the light suddenly painfully bright. “What the hell is wrong with you.”

“Nothing.” You whisper, and he scoffs. 

“Nice shot, sweetheart. I’m not an idiot.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Dean, I just don’t feel well.”

“That’s fucking bullshit-“

You sigh. “It’s not. I’m sick.” 

There’s a moment of silence, then, “how sick.”

“Fever.” You mumble. “Stomach bug. Maybe the flu. You should probably leave-“

“No,” he grunts, and you hear his steps. He’s coming closer, and your skin might be boiling off your body. “I’m not leaving you-“

“It’s not leaving if I ask you to go.” You mumble, and you can feel the heat of his body off to the side, can hear his breathing—maybe even his heartbeat—and it’s making everything worse-

“I’m not going.”

“Dean, just, please-“

“No, I’m sick of you fucking ignoring me, and I- I don’t even care what’s going on with you and Sam-“

You frown. “Nothing’s going on with me and Sam-“

“I have eyes,” Dean sneers your name, and there’s a tone in his voice that’s almost wounded. “You were hugging in his room, you’re always fucking whispering and hanging out-“

“That’s not-“ You swallow, dragging your eyes open to find him glaring down at you. He looks wounded too. “It’s for a case.”

“What case? A case that I’m not allowed to know about? Because that’s not a case, sweetheart, that’s a secret-“

You almost throw up, just from that word. “It’s- I’m not keep any secrets, Dean, just please go-“

“No!” He’s almost shouting, and the sound is like a cannon into your gut. “I don’t know what the hell is up with you, but you’re suddenly putting yourself in danger, and stuck to my brother, and you’re not talking to me anymore-“

“You’re not talking to me, Dean.” You whisper, his gaze burning you right down to the cavity of your chest. “I’m always in the library-“

“Yeah, I know, with Sam.” Dean scowls, and you’re too tired to think almost anything, but that’s strange. Dean never says Sam like that. Like it’s a horrible word. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, watching Dean carefully. “He’s helping me with something-“

“Something I can’t help you with?”

You blink, ready to lie and say no, but your mush of a brain doesn’t appear to be up to that task. “No.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So I could help you.”

“I-“ You feel a stab in your intestine, and your voice grows hoarse. “Please don’t ask me that.”

“Why-“

“Because I- Just go away, Dean-“

He shakes his head, saying your name in a stern, unwavering voice. “Could I help you-“

“N-“ You swallow a groan as your lungs contract, and this is dangerous. You’re too far gone to lie anymore, and that’s the only chance you have. If Dean keeps poking at you, you’ll tell the truth. You can’t tell the truth. “Please just leave me alone-“

“I’m not leaving you alone.” He snaps, dropping onto the side of your bed to prove his point. “You never left me alone, with the Mark-“

“That’s not-“ You can’t swallow your next sound of pain, or the whine that leaves your throat when Dean’s hand grabs your thigh. “Dean, please go-“

“Do you want me to go.”

“No.” You say it before you can think, and hate that the pain over your muscles lessens when Dean stays, and when his hand starts to rub slow circles. “But you- you have to-“

“I said I’m staying.” He grunts. “And you’re not changing my mind, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“I did.” You whisper, closing your eyes again. Looking at his handsome, annoyingly determined face isn’t helping anyone. “I’m sick.”

“Fine. What’s making you sick.”

“Curse.”

Fuck.

Dean’s silent for a long moment, then-

“What the fuck do you mean, curse.”

“Me.” You mumble. “Curse on me.”

“And how did a curse get on you-“

“Rowena.”

“That fucking bitch.” He mutters, and you feel his grip on you tighten slightly. Almost protectively. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me-“

That was probably a rhetorical question. Your sudden truth-telling streak doesn’t seem to care at all. “I was worried you’d hate me.”

“I- what?”

“I was worried-“

“I heard you,” he grunts. “I just, why the hell would you ever think I’d hate you-“

“Because I suck.” You whisper. “And I can’t- I don’t deserve you.”

Dean’s silent again. You wish he’d stop doing that. “You think you don’t deserve me?”

You nod, barely a movement at all, and Dean groans. You’re still not strong enough to look at him.

“Sweetheart, you- I’m not-“ He cuts himself off, his hand resuming his circles, you’re not sure he knows he’s doing it. “I’m going to ask you something, and you need to tell me the truth. Got it?”

You hum. Like you’d even have a choice.

“What will cure the curse.”

“I need to,” you try to fight down the words, but you’re light-headed and faint and Dean’s hand is really warm, so you fail. “I need to resolve my deepest secret.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “What’s your deepest secret?”

You’re going to bite off your tongue. And when Dean says your name again, his voice a little rougher, it drags your eyes open to stare at him. Watching you with a focus you can feel in your bones, that’s prying the truth out of you, and he’s just looking at you and you can’t do this-

“Dean, I-“ You digs your nails into your skin, something flashes in his eyes, and you can’t look away. But you can’t stop yourself either, and if you have to watch Dean’s disgust, that might kill you right here. “Please turn around.”

He frowns. “What?”

“I need you to turn around.” You whisper. “Please.”

He nods slowly, twisting away from you, and it’s like a green light to your stupid, traitorous mouth. The words fall out of you like vomit, and if this is the end, at least it might be fast. 

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years, and I’m sorry, but I can’t stop, and I don’t want to stop, and I love you. Only you. Just you. Can’t remember how to love anyone else, because I love you. I love your jokes and your grumpiness and how protective you are because you make me feel safe, and I love that you’re kind of a dork and a loser but you’re also so hot, I love your voice and your face and your hands, and I and I want you in a, um-“ You squeeze your thighs together, staring at the suddenly rapid rise and fall of Dean’s back. “A way that I shouldn’t talk about-“

“How do you want me.” He grunts, his voice low and a little gruff, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks.

“On me.” You whisper. “In me. I want you on my face and in my hands and fuck, I want your inside of me. But I also want to wake up next to you and hold your hand and fall asleep in your lap, and fuck-“

You cut yourself off with a whine as something sharp hits your right in the heart, and Dean’s silent. He’s not turning around, or leaving, or doing anything but sitting and breathing for so long, for too long-

“You-“ He shakes his head slightly, and you could swear he’s leaning slightly backward. “You want me.”

“Yeah, I- yes.”

“You love me.”

“Yes.” Too late to go back now. “I love you, Dean.”

“Why- why didn’t you tell me?”

He sounds broken. He sounds sad.

You’re so confused. It’s almost enough to distract from the pain racking your whole body.

“I- I didn’t think you’d-“ Not care. Dean couldn’t not care. He cares too much. “I wasn’t sure what-“

“What I’d say?”

“What you’d do.”

“What would you-“ He’s definitely leaning back. He’s closer, too. “What would you want me to do?”

“What would I want?” 

Dean nods.

“I- it doesn’t matter-“

“Yes it-“ He sighs, twisting around to face you. You can’t read the expression on his face. It’s lost and it’s afraid and it’s… hopeful. There’s this small light that’s so deep in his eyes that seems like real, true hope. “Please,” he mutters your name, and you might be melting. “Just, entertain me. What would you want me to do?”

“I’d want to tell me you love me.” You whisper, and if this curse is going to kill you, you hope it does it now, right before you lose all your dignity forever. “Like I love you.”

Dean shakes his head slightly, and your heart might be splitting in half. “But I- I tried to kill you-“

“The demon tried to kill me. That wasn’t really you-“

“Yes, it was-“

“No.” Your voice gains a little strength, and you push up on your elbows. “You saved me, Dean. You rescued me from the angels-“

“Anyone would’ve done that-“

“But they didn’t.” You snap. “You did. And I don’t love anyone, I love you.”

“That’s-“ He groans, his voice growing hoarse. “You- why?”

“What do you mean, why-“

“Why would you love me? I mean, unless this is some sick, fucked up prank-“

“It’s not a prank-“

“Well why?” He shouts your name, and he looks distressed. Like this is shredding him apart. “Why the hell would you love me-“

“Because I like loving you.” You grab his hand, his own panic starting to set into your own body, making this all the worse. “It feels right. And I- I know you don’t love me-“

You’re not sure what’s happening. Dean’s hands are cupping your face, and his mouth is on yours, and he tastes like whiskey and coffee and pecan, and you feel okay. You really feel okay. All the pain and sickness is dissolving from your body, and Dean is kissing you. Kissing you with an unforgiving, demanding desperation, his tongue down your throat and his body lowering down over yours, pinning you to the bed as he groans against your lips.

The sound jumpstarts something in you. Your arms wrap around Dean’s neck right before he can pull away or hesitate, and you throw everything he’s silently offering you back to him. Biting on his lower lip and wrapping your legs around his torso, grinding up into him as he makes a deep, satisfied noise and moves one hand to wrap around you waist, holding you steady against him as he rises up, moving you to stay in his lap.

“You’re, shit.” Dean lets out a low chuckle, pressing a small, gentler kiss to the tip of your nose as you breathe in ragged time. “You’re such a fucking idiot, sweetheart.”

You lean back to frown at him. “No I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. But I am too.” He sighs, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and speaking against your skin. “Seems like we’re made for each other, huh.”

“Dean, I-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean kisses up the column of your throat, ending right behind your ear, and his voice a low sound that falls right down into your core. “Gimme a second.”

“Dean-“

“Please,” he mutters, and when you pull back he looks nervous. It’s strange, but adorable, and you nod. He needs a second, you’ll give him a million. Anything to keep him here a little longer, to keep the ebb of the sickness going. 

“Okay.” You whisper, and—taking the biggest gamble of your life—lean forward to kiss him again. Just a light, almost innocent press of your lips to his. He tenses, his arms around you tightening, and you’d have panicked if it didn’t seem like he was clinging to you. Like he was afraid you were going to vanish. 

“I- uh,” Dean says your name slowly, and it’s odd. You’ve heard him say it exactly like that a million, but this feels deeper. Like a prayer. “I lo-“ He cuts himself off, his brow drawing tightly together, and you can feel your heart in your throat. Set to either explode or move into Dean as you hold your breath. “You. I- you- it’s- fuck.” He scowls, and you offer him your gentler smile, running a hand over the soft stubble on his jaw, even as you feel your blood start to go cold again.

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“Yeah. I do, I-“ He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles and speaking against them as if he’s trying to tell your body more than your mind. “I love you. A lot. So stop being cursed.”

You stare at him, your voice barely a breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Did it work?”

It did. The curse seemed to vanish the moment Dean kissed you—like it knew that what he was trying to tell you before he even said it—but now the world is just color and light and Dean. It’s enchanting. He’s enchanting. He’s all genuine and powerful focus on you, and. worry that makes you feel warm, and love you can suddenly see everywhere on him. You don’t know how you missed it before, because it’s in his eyes and coating his lips and in every flex of his body around you. It would knock you down if he wasn’t holding you. 

“Yeah.” You smile at Dean, and his own mouth tugs up slightly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He shrugs. “Any time. I, uh, sorry about getting pissed about you and Sam.“

“It’s fine, I-“ You paused, frowning at him. “Were you jealous?”

He scowls, his cheeks turning a little red. “Obviously.”

“Of Sam-“

“You were really close with him all the time.” Dean snaps. “And I- you seemed pissed at me, and super stressed, and usually you’d come to me for that stuff, but you were hugging Sam and talking to him instead of me-“

“Because I don’t love Sam. I love you, that’s why I told you-”

“I didn’t fucking know that.” He grumbles. “I- Sam doesn’t know everything about how I feel about you, but he knew enough, and I- I thought you were choosing him- And I- You’re not my girl but you felt like my girl and I didn’t-“

“Your girl?” Your face splits into a wide smile, and some of the tension seems to leave Dean as he nods. 

“Yeah. If you want.”

“Yes.” You squeak, and Dean’s hand starts to run slowly down your thigh. “Yes, please.”

“You sure?” He raises his brows, and it’s really hard to think when he’s so close, and this is suddenly overwhelmingly real. He’s really broad and warm against you, and he’s really touching you, and he said the thing but that doesn’t mean-

“Yeah, but are, are you sure-“

“Baby, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He drawls, and you swallow as he leans in closer, his nose bumping yours. “And I’d be very happy to prove that.”

“Prove it?” You whisper, your eyes trapped onto his glimmering, darkened ones. “I, um, that, how-“

“However you’d like,” he says your name with a smirk, and it’s amazing how any all insecurity he had only a minute ago seems to have vanished. “You wanna tell me how’d you want me to prove it? Or do you need some suggestions?”

You might be drooling. “Suggestions, please.”

Dean hums, holding you carefully as he rises on his knees, bends you down onto the mattress, and starts to trace slow, taunting hands over your body.

“We could start slow,” he mutters, playing with the hem of your shorts, broad fingers brushing over your skin. “I could take my time with you, sweetheart. Do the proper thing, take you out to dinner and movie, wait until the third date to give you everything-“

“No!” You yelp. “Not slow-“

Dean’s hand slides under your shorts, his palm resting right over your already sore pussy, and he chuckles at your high gasp. 

“Alright, baby, not slow.” He leans down to pull you into a long, slow kiss, smirking against your lips as you start to grind into his hand. “But we’re going on a date. I’ve had years to plan it, wouldn’t want all my hard work to go to waste.”

You nod a little stupidly, your nails digging into his arm braced near your head. “How- what do you mean years-“

“You’re not the only one who had that at first sight thing.” Dean mutters, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve lost sleep over you, baby girl. We’re going to do this right, no witches involved, but,” he drops his head to kiss right behind your ear, humming as a high moan escapes your lips. “I’ve got a million things I want to do you, and fuck me if I’m going waste time not doing them.”

“Yeah, good, do that-“ You gasp as Dean’s thumb finds your clothed clit, starting to draw firm, fast circles around it. “Shit, Dean-“

“That’s my name.” He growls in your ear, flicking against you and smirking at your high whine. “C’mon, sweetheart gotta get you ready for me-“

“I, I’m ready-“

He chuckles. “No, you’re not. Wanna make you feel good, not break you.”

“What if, fuck-“ You feel a brief, sharp moment of cold air as Dean pulls your shorts and panties down, shoving two fingers into your cunt. He’s watching you so carefully, like he’s studying your every hitched breath and blurred gaze, smirking as he begins to slowly move inside of you, scissoring and crooking and pushing in deeper every time-

“What if what, pretty girl?” He teases, his pace increasing slightly. “Use your words.”

Your back arches off the bed as Dean re-angles his hand, pressing his palm to your clit and starting to rub strong, sharp circles as his fingers reach a blissful, almost painfully good pace, but remain too shallow to hit that sensitive spot deep your cunt and send you over the edge. “What if I want you to break me?” You gasp, your arm wrapping around his neck as he groans, dropping his brow against yours. “Please, Dean-“

“You, fuck-“ He grunts your name, and you feel something prodding at your inner thigh. “Not now, baby, need to be gentle-“

“No you don’t-“

“Yeah, I do.” Dean’s movements still as he rises on his knees over you, and you’re pretty certain the authoritative thing is supposed to be stern and intimidating, but it’s mostly just making you grind on his hand and reach up for him pathetically.

“Dean-“

“Listen to me.” He snaps, grabbing your wrist and pinning it to the mattress, sighing as you moan again, squeezing around his fingers, still in your cunt. “Fuck, you nearly just died-“

“I’m okay now.” You whisper. “I feel great. I feel, fuck Dean, I feel so good-“

He hisses as you spread your legs, writhing on the bed for anything, at this point you’ll take anything Dean offers you-

“Fuck yeah, you do.” He mutters, his fingers starting to pump slowly again, scanning over your body with an almost awestruck expression. “Bet you feel like heaven, baby girl, but we need to go slow. I promise I can wreck you later, but today-“

“Slow.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Slow. But,” Dean’s free hand starts to trail under your shirt, palming at your breasts, rolling your nipples between calloused, strong fingers. “Doesn’t mean we can’t take care of you, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck this tight little pussy, still going to get you fucking cockdrunk. Okay?”

You nod, your eyes slightly glazed over, and Dean bends his fingers deep inside you, right one that spot, letting out a low gasp as you whine.

“Say okay, sweetheart.” He grunts, his hand moving from your breast, over your neck, to your mouth, pressing his thumb on your lower lip until it parts. You moan against him, your eyes fluttering slightly, and you’re already too high, too needy, to do anything but listen.

“Okay.”

“Good girl.” He coos, slowly pushing his thumb between your lips, his nostrils flaring when you start to suck on him with an abandon. “Fuck, so good, I can’t wait to ruin you, baby, you’re never gonna even think about another cock-“

You haven’t thought about another cock in years, and you haven’t even seen it yet. But Dean’s thumb is bumping the back of your throat, so all you can do is moan, give him your best pleading look, and let your head fall back as Dean’s fingers finally move inside of you, pushing and playing on the spot until your orgasm washes over you in bright waves of good. So good. Just, fuck, he’s good-

Dean’s thumb pulls out of your mouth with a pop, and he wipes a little bit of spit off on your upper lip before lowering his mouth to yours, this kiss far too soft and gentle for how you think you might die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“Look so pretty, cumming on my hand.” Dean moves to the shell of your ear, his growling promise sending a shiver up your spine. “Bet you’ll look prettier fucking squeezing my cock.”

You barely have time to whimper when Dean yanks his fingers out of your cunt, rolls you over so you’re straddling his torso, and raises you up by your hips before pushing you right down onto his dick. You don’t even remember when he took off his pants, or where your shirt went, but those are worries for someone who isn’t being split open on Dean’s cock. Who doesn’t have him drawing small circles on their inner thigh, or isn’t being held up by his hand on their waist.

But you do. You have Dean everywhere, real and warm under your hands as you grip his shoulders, bumping deep against your cervix as he lets you adjust to the size of him, one broad finger reaching down to press—light and taunting—on your clit, and groaning as you squeeze around him.

“Shit,” Dean grunts your name, looking up at you under hooded eyes in a way you don’t think anyone’s ever looked at you before. As if you’re somewhere they’d always expected to be, and they’re still in awe that you’re there. “Gotta be careful, want this to-“

Dean cuts himself off with a hiss as you grind on him experientially, clenching again as he hits that electric spot deep inside you. He grabs you firm by your hips, stilling your every movement as he gives you a stern glower. 

“You need to listen.” His voice is gravely and lower than you’ve ever heard it, and you’d do whatever he told you to, but that doesn’t mean you can’t whine and scratch lightly at his chest. 

“Dean, move-“

“You gonna listen?”

“Yes, just, fuck-“ You gasp as he pulls you up with barely a grunt, slamming your right back down with a roll of your hips. 

“Want you to feel good, baby girl, but you need to be careful,” Dean drags one had down to squeeze your ass, his hand still on your waist drawing light circles around your clit. “Or next time might be more than wrecking.”

Your moan is vulgar and shameless, and you’re more than ready to devote sleep to figuring out what more than wrecking will look like, but right now you just fucking need this. 

“Need more, Dean,” you whisper. “Need it so bad-“

“I know, sweetheart.” He mutters, trailing his hand up your stomach to squeeze your breast, groaning when you squirm around him. “Think you’re ready to ride this cock? Think you can handle, shit-“

You’d stared to move the movement he’d said ride, rolling your body and arching your back, dragging every bit of confidence you have to grind down onto Dean’s cock, your nails sinking into his abdomen.

“Fuck, yeah.” Dean’s voice is a breath under you, and when you scan over him, he lookslike he’sa little wrecked himself.His eyes on yours are hooded and low, his voice dripping with that same dominating confidence, but something more delicate in the way he’s touching you. Not as if he’s afraid to break you, but afraid you’ll shatter him. 

And you did that. You wrecked Dean. And that lights a wildfire in your gut, running through your nerves until they’re sensitive and bare, and into your brain until it’s all just Dean.

You start to move. Slowly at first to test the waters, but—when Dean just groans and ruts up into you—quickly picking up pace until you’re bouncing on Dean’s cock, your thighs squeezing his torso and your clit rubbing on his abdomen, his ever grunt and hiss and bruising grip just making your need grow bigger as you slam him onto that deep spot-

“Shit, I’m- Slow down-“ 

Dean’s hiss is low, and you immediately obey, changing to long, slow movements as Dean hums. 

“There you go baby, such a good girl.” His hand moves from your ass to your lower back, rubbing soothing patterns as he praises you. “You’re so hot baby, fucking ruined on my cock-“

You make a high, breathless sound you don’t recognize, moving your hips in a circle to try and chase more friction, and Dean chuckles.

“You alright up there-“

“Good,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut to try and focus your all on Dean beneath you. “So good, Dean, feels so good-“

“Need a little more?”

“Yes-“

“More descriptive than that, sweet girl.” He teases, and when this is done, you’re going to kill him. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to-“

“You,” the word falls out without thought, because most of you belongs to Dean. “Just you, only need you-“

“You love me?” Dean’s voice is low, and when you open your eyes to look at him, there’s a small chink in his armor. You don’t know if you pried it open, or if you’ve just never noticed, but you can see right into him, and he still doesn’t really believe that you love him.

And that’s the only thing you’ve ever really know. You loving Dean has been the only truly certain thing in your life, because Dean’s a given and loving him feels like breathing.

So you smile at him, reaching forward to cup his face, and tell him with everything you have, hoping he can hear how the words are in time with your heart.

“I love you,” you whisper. “And I’m yours.”

He blinks at you, shaking his head slightly even as his dick twitches inside you. “You don’t need to be, it’s- you know, dirty talk-“

“I know.” You shrug. “I’m still yours.”

Dean’s nostrils flare, and you know you’re not getting control back from him for the rest of the night.

You’re fine with that. Dean starts to rock you back and forth around him, letting you just fall into and around him, and your lost to any world that isn’t Dean. Isn’t his hand splayed on your lower back or his fingers digging into the skin of your hips and ass. Anything that isn’t his cock hitting part of you that you didn’t know existed and filling you up so much you’re not sure how you’re ever going to manage being empty again.

You don’t think you will have to manage. Dean’s holding you like he’s trying to brand himself on your body, like he needs you feel him for the rest of your life. And you will. You’ll feel the bliss Dean’s drawing from your body that’s better than any heaven you could have imagined, rising slowing below the surface, ready to burst at any moment.

You’ll hear him too. Hear every deep noise of his own pleasure, hear the slapping of his skin on yours, hear his low praise echo around your head and ribs for the rest of your life.

“You’re mine, baby girl.” He growls, the sound rumbling in his chest and rolling right into your pussy, making you throw your head back with a breathy whimper. “Fuck, you’re so hot riding me, feel so good around me, tight and warm-“

Dean cuts himself off with a hiss as you reach behind your body, your hand finding his balls to squeeze lightly. 

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-“ He groans, jerking slightly inside of you. “Fuck, keep doing that, so fucking needy for me, fucking soaking this cock-“

You grind around him, and his pace starts to lose rhythm. Even after he swats your hand away you know he’s lost his own self-control, and fuck he looks hot without it. Starting to rut up into you in uncontrolled movements, pulling you to pieces with a lustful, ardorous gaze and brutal pace and strong hands, moving back to your clit and rolling it between his fingers-

Your mouth falls open in a silent, needy cry of pleasure as your orgasm bursts over you. It’s not sudden, but you couldn’t never anticipated the power of it—like someone had doused you in gasoline that smells like whiskey and fruit, lit a match, and turned to into a star—or how it rides on and on, never seeming to crest or crash as Dean slams home inside of you, warmth coating your pussy and running down your thighs as he moans your name. 

Dean helps you float down to earth, leaving careful, deliberate touches on your skin and humming as his knees rising up to support you. You watch his gaze rakes down your body, lingering on where he can see himself spill out of your pussy, and moves to slowly drag through the mess, gathering some on two fingers before rising them up to your mouth. You open without hesitation and his throat bobs, his cock twitching inside you as you lick his release off his hand, your eyes never leaving his wide, reverent one.

“Son of a bitch.” He mutters. “How the hell did I get so lucky?”

You let out a soft laugh. “You stole my line.”

“Nah.” He shrugs, tracing a hand over your cheek. “You could have anyone you want, baby, but you’re here, with an asshole like me-“

“You’re not an asshole.”

“Yeah, I am.” He shrugs, like you can’t see how his own words pierce him through that chink. “Shit, I just accused you of sleeping with Sam-“

“And I’ve been lying to you for years.” You lean down, resting your chin on his chest, giving him your widest smile. “Neither of us are saints, Dean. And I happen to be the right kind of fucked up to let possessiveness hot.” You pause, giving him your best stern glare. “To a degree. I will slap you the next time you accuse me of fucking Sam.” 

Dean laughs, his around wrapped—gentle and relaxed—around you. “Yes, ma’am.”

You hum, resting your head to the side, and you might be here for a hundred years. Time blurs and slows until it’s just Dean’s heartbeat near your ear, his thumb tracing a pattern on your arm, and his face buried in your hair. The end of the world might have already come to pass when his hand moves to your chin and he angles your gaze to his, and you wouldn’t really care. You’re still where you need to be.

“Would you,” he lets out a slow breath, all his cocky arrogance gone, his eyes on yours nervous. The hope is back, but it’s wrapped in soft fear. “I’m not good at- shit-“

He’s going to hurt himself, and you take pity on him. You lean does to press a sweet kiss to his mouth, letting your tongue trail over his lips, and rising back up with a small smile.

“Can we go on a date, Dean?” 

He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah. Whatever you want, baby girl.”

Your smile strains at your cheeks, because you only want Dean. 

And you’ll have to write Rowena a thank you note, because you finally have him.

End Note: Me make a story with no prior lore challenge: impossible

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Taglist

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@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

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@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

The Flood Brings Clearer Days

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, smut (p in v sex, fingering, face sitting), the light angst, light fluff too, love confession, no-filter curse

Summary/Warnings: You're not cursed. You don't feel anything wrong. If anything, you feel better, because there's a weight lifted off your tongue that lets you say whatever you want.

And most of what you want is Dean.

Author's Note: Request from @deans-yn! This one was very silly and horny (the sweet spot). Enjoy!!!

Word Count: 8.2k

“Are you sure-“

“I’m fine.” You shoot Sam a glare over the table. “I’m not dead, or dying, and if you ask one more time if I feel okay, I’m going to throw you out the fucking window.”

Sam raises his hands in surrender, a wide look of shock on his face, and Dean snorts.

“You’re violent today, kid-“

“Stop calling me kid.” You snap, glaring at the papers in front of you. “Or you’ll get windowed too.”

“Defenestrated.” 

“Bless you, dude.”

Sam sighs, giving Dean a flat glare. “No, it means-“

“To be thrown out a window.” You grumble. “I know. I like saying windowed, because Dean won’t know what defenestrated means, and I’m trying to threaten him, not give him a fucking English lesson.”

“The threat might be the English lesson,” Sam drawls your name, and Dean scowls.

“Hey-“

“Don’t be a dickhead, Sam.” You snap, and Dean grins.

“Yeah, Sammy, don’t be a dickhead-“

“And you.” The look you shoot Dean is withering, and it immediately makes something whine and coil in your chest. “I- Sorry.”

Dean frowns. “You didn’t do anything, sweetheart-“

“I yelled at you.” Now you’re mumbling. This is a weird day. “Made me feel bad. Sorry.”

“Do I get an apology too-“

“No. Read.” 

There’s a stretch of silence, the guilt twists again—though now in your stomach—and you let out a long, slow breath.

“Sorry, Sam.”

“It’s fine.” He mumbles, but you don’t miss the look he exchanges with Dean.

One of those looks. Where they’re having a silent conversation or argument about something, and you usually have to guess who’s winning, or what it’s about, or why this has to be a silent conversation you can’t participate in.

But you don’t have to guess tonight. 

They’re talking about you. 

And you’re fine. You are. You feel great, and no amount of Sam and Dean worrying and flocking around you is going to change that. The curse didn’t work, simple as that. It missed you, or it had been cast wrong, or you’ve simply built up an immunity—that’s not really a thing, but it could be—and that’s it. You’re good. 

Some sort of odd weight feels like it’s been lifted from your head and tongue, but if anything it’s good. A little like being drunk, where the colors of the world are brighter and everything a little blurred, and Dean’s somehow prettier and Sam is somehow taller-

Sam says your name carefully, and it’s falling out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“You’re really tall.”

Dean snorts, and Sam lets out a heavy sigh. 

“Yeah, uh, I know-“

“Did you grow?”

“I’m in my thirties, I’ve been done growing for a while-“

You shake your head. “No, you grew. You’re taller. Just like Dean’s prettier.”

There’s a gagging and spitting sound from the couch, and when you glance back to Dean, he’s gaping at you, his whole face red.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean gives Sam another look. “I’m fine, just- Got caught off guard. Sam-“

“I heard it.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and watching you with a cautious expression. “You’re sure you’re-“

“Sam.” You hiss. “Windowed. I’m fucking serious.”

He drops it. Smart choice. 

You don’t think you’re strong enough to defenestrate him at all. And you wouldn’t defenestrate Dean. It would make him too sad. Which would make you too sad.

And you tell him that later, while Sam is out getting dinner, just so he knows. 

All you get is a blank stare in return.

“Dean, did you-“

“I heard you,” he mutters your name, shaking his head slightly. “I- Stay here.”

“Where are you going-“

“Out.”

“Out where-“

He sidesteps, blocking you from the door. “I gotta call Sammy. Stay.”

You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “I am not a dog, Dean Winchester. Although I do like doggy style, in bed-“

“Jesus fucking-“ Dean covers your mouth with a hand, and you freeze.

His hand is big. And warm. And it fits really well over your mouth, and would probably fit in it as well. Along with other parts of his body.

You’d tell him that, if he’d just fucking move his hand.

“You need to stay here.” He snaps, scanning over your face carefully. “No following me, no going outside, no talking to anyone else. Okay, kid?”

You raise your brows at him, your gaze flicking down to his hand—still over your mouth—and he sighs, moving it away.

“I really don’t like it when you call me kid.” You blurt, the moment you can. He needs to stop doing that, because it makes you feel small and sad and like a wet, pathetic fucking burden, and he should know that. “It makes me feel bad. I’m not even that much younger than you.”

“You- Alright.” Dean gives you an odd look, his jaw clenched. “Are you going to stay here?”

You shrug. “I’d do anything you told me to.”

That makes his face red again, but Dean just nods and—with one last odd look over his shoulder—walks away.

You miss him the moment he walks away.

And you tell the air, because there’s no one else around to hear.

You’re fine. You really are fine. You still feel a little high, a little strange, but nothing hurts. You aren’t forgetting who you are, or being someone you aren’t, or doing anything you normally wouldn’t-

Shit.

No. 

You’re fine. You have to be fine.

In the car, you’d told Dean his hands were hot, but that was just so he knew. And you’d told Sam his hair was too long, but it needed a cut. And you’d been complaining more than you’ve ever complained in your life, and you’ve been more forward than you reasonably should be, but maybe it was just the drunk feeling. Courage, flowing through your body and making you bold.

You were being bold.

But that shouldn’t be something to worry about. So you’re fine.

Dean comes back after an hour, and drives you both to the diner. Apparently, whatever talk he had with Sam was done, and-

“Why’d you leave?”

He glances over at you from the driver’s seat, a slight frown on his pretty face. “I had to call Sammy.”

“But you left. The motel.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze with a glare. “Why.”

“It’s-“ He sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you right now. Drop it.”

You might be pouting at him. You don’t really care. “Why.”

Dean grunts your name. “I told you, I can’t-“

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because explaining why I can’t tell you would be freakin’ telling you, sweetheart-“

You’re certainly pouting now. “But I tell you everything.”

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes- Well, almost everything.” You frown at the air. “I don’t tell you about all my dreams. I lie about those, when you ask how I slept, because usually it’s a dream about you fucking me and-“

Dean’s covering your mouth again, scowling at the road like it’s personally offended him.

“Dean-“

Your snap is muffled in his palm, and he lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. Still not saying anything.

“Dea-“

“Not like this,” he mutters, and it’s mostly under his breath, but you can still-

“I can hear you-“

Dean grunts your name, his grip tightening. “Whatever you’re saying, I can’t understand you. And I’m just going to keep this right here ‘till we get to the bar, alright?”

He squeezes your jaw, you moan–it feels nice, and he’s very handsome when he glaring at things—and Dean’s eyes widen slightly.

He heard.

You should probably care about that, but the weight is gone, so you don’t. You don’t really care about anything but Dean knowing things. All your lives are darkness and secrets and stress, and he should fucking know that you’re here, and you’re not leaving, and that you keep secrets, but they’re dumb, emotional secrets, so he doesn’t ever have worry about you. About you getting hurt, because you refuse to be a person he adds to the tally of people he failed to save. About ever failing you at all—he couldn’t if he tried—or you leaving him like so many other people have.

He should know that those people are idiots. That God himself would have to drag you away from him, and you’d still go kicking and screaming. That you love Dean, and you’ve never told him because he’s too good for you—too strong, and important, and there’s already so much pressing down on his chest without adding yourself to the burden—but he should now know, while the weight from your own mind is gone.

You would tell him, here, in the car, if he wasn’t covering your mouth. If the moment he removed it, he didn’t sprint out of the car and across the parking lot.

Away from you.

Maybe he’s-

“Are you mad at me?” You ask him as you drop in the booth, and Dean just shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes.

Sam says your name—carefully again, and it’s getting really annoying, because you’re fragile but like a bird, not fucking glass—and watches you carefully as he continues. “Why do you think Dean is mad at you?”

“Because he ran away from me.” You grumble, fidgeting with the paper napkin on the table. “And he covered my mouth the whole drive, and he vanished earlier, and he won’t-“

“We get it, ki- Sweetheart.” Dean mutters, still not meeting your eyes. “See, Sam? There’s nothing.”

“Nothing where?”

Sam shakes his head, ignoring you entirely. “I don’t know, dude, she took a pretty bad hit on the head too, maybe it’s that instead of-“ He shoots you a careful look. “The other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“It’s never just an injury. It’s always the fucking witches-“

You sink back into your seat as they continue to argue, never once even looking at you.

Dean’s not looking at you, and he’s mad at you, and you’ve obviously done something wrong, but you don’t have a single clue what. And he hates you. He must hate you, and if Dean hates you, Sam is going to hate you too, and you don’t want anyone to hate you, and the air is too thin and your heart and eyes and tongue sting-

“Shit,” Dean says your name like he cares, and a weak, strangled sound leaves your throat. “Fuck, what’s-“

“You hate me.” You whisper, shredding the napkin even further. “You hate me, and you won’t even say why-“

“Sweetheart, I don’t- Fuck, Sam-“

Sam shakes his head, raising his hands in a motion of surrender. “You made her cry, dude, not me.”

“I didn’t- Son of a bitch.” Dean reaches over the table, grabbing your chin and tilting it up until you’re meeting his gaze, and you’re still crying.

Which is odd.

You don’t really cry that much, most of the time.

But that weight is gone, and with it, so is your ability to care about being strong. If Dean hates you, he should just-

“Just say it.” You’re sniffling, but Dean’s still not moving his hand. “Say you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Dean mutters your name, scanning over your features with a frown. “I promise, kid, you’d know if I hated you.”

“Then why are you ignoring me.”

“I-“ He looks over to Sam for help, and only gets a shrug in response.

“Does Sam know?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, he does.”

“So why won’t you tell me-“

“I will.”

“But-“

“Later, baby, okay? How about I tell you tonight?”

You swallow, and he’s never called you that before. It’s strange. Spreading a warm, buzzing feeling through your whole body, taking you higher.

“I’d like that.” You whisper, and there’s nothing in the world to look at but Dean. Looking at you. Grinning at you. Not hating you. “I love you.”

Sam goes rigid, and Dean swallows, something flashing over his face that you don’t understand.

“Sure, sweetheart. Sammy, can you-“

“On it.” Sam stands up, grabbing your arm and pulling you with him. “Let’s go.”

You frown up at him. “Go where?”

“Sammy’s gonna take you back to the motel.” Dean pulls his keys out his pocket, but holds them back, out of Sam’s grip. “If I see one scratch-“

“You’ll kill me, Dean, I’ve heard the speech before-“

Dean raises his hand, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “I’m not done. If I see one scratch on either of them, I’m putting your number on a sex crisis hotline for grandmas.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s gross, Dean. I don’t even think that’s a real thing-“

Dean shoots you a wink, and it lights you on fire. “It’s not for you and me, sweetheart, but Sammy here’s probably got some-“

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam makes to snatch the keys, and Dean jerks the back with a frown.”

“I gotta hear it, Sammy-“

“They’ll be fine.” Sam snaps your name, still glaring at Dean. “It’s- She’s an adult, Dean, and this obviously isn’t killing her-“

“What’s not killing me-“

“And, I can drive. It’ll be fine.”

If Sam ignores you one more time, you’re going to-

“I’m going to punch you, Sam.”

Dean snorts, and tosses the keys into Sam’s indignant face. “Not a scratch. On either.”

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon,” Sam mutters your name, grabbing your arm.

“But Dean-“

“He’ll be fine.” Sam mutters, dragging you towards the exit. “He’s got some work to do, because you- Never mind.”

“Never mind what?”

“You’re cursed.”

You roll your eyes. “For the last time, Sam, I’m not cursed-“

Sam gives you a flat look, but just shrugs. “Alright. Keep walking.”

“But I want to go back to Dean-“

“I know. But you can’t.”

“Why-“

“Because if you tell him you love him again, he’s going to have a stroke.”

You frown, letting Sam herd you into the car. “Why? I- I know he doesn’t love me back, but I just wanted him to know. Is he-“

“He’s not mad at you.”

“So I should be able to stay-“

“It’s- Look, I promise Dean’s not mad at you, but we need to focus on fixing you right now, okay?“

“Nothing wrong with me.”

“Sure.” Sam sighs. Again. “How long have you been in love with Dean?”

“Since the vamp hunt in the swamp.” You shrug. “He picked me up, and he was really strong, and I thought that I wanted him to keep holding me forever. Then I cut off a vamp head and he laughed, and I wanted to hear that forever. Then he took his shirt off at the motel and I wanted to lick his abs.”

Sam clears his throat. “And that was love?”

“Love was the decapitation. The abs were a bonus.” You pause, tilting your head at the air. “And when he covered in blood and sweat. That was hot. I wanted to make him look like that because I gave him a blowjob, because I’m actually really good at that, Sam-“

Sam shakes his head, almost frantically. “I- That’s good. Uh, for you. I think. Can you think, just try to figure out why you’re telling him now?”

“Because he should know.”

“But if you’ve been in love with him for that long-“

You cut Sam off with a shrug. “I don’t know, I just- I love him, and he should know that. I really don’t expect anything Sam, I promise. If he wants to fuck me until the bed breaks, I won’t say no, but I mostly just want him to know.”

“I- Fine.” Sam runs a hand over his face, shaking his head at the road. “Can we just listen to the radio?”

You nod, leaning your head on the glass, and yesterday Dean was listening to the radio, and-

“Sam?”

He grunts in acknowledgment, and you make a soft, almost dreamy noise that you don’t really recognize from your own body. 

“You know when Dean drums on the wheel during songs.”

“Yeah, I drive with him literally every-“

“I wish he’d do that to me.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when Sam break it, his voice is cautious again. “Drum on you?”

“Use his fingers on me during a song.”

“Oh my- You’re not going to be able to stop, are you?”

You blink at him. “Stop what?”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, just, uh-“

You yelp as he pulls a sharp U-turn, the Impala’s tires skidding on the pavement.

“Dean’s going to kill you.”

“Yeah, I know. But,” Sam lets out a long breath, frowning at the road. “I need a beer.”

A beer means eight beers. And when you ask him at checkout if he’s okay, Sam just shrugs and mutters something about a long night, and Dean owing him one.

But something is off with Sam. And the more you ask—you want to know, and there’s nothing stopping you from asking—the more he just shakes his head, his expression growing blanker and blanker as the night progresses.

And you can’t stop talking. You should. Reasonably, you know you should. It’s rare for you to speak out of turn at all—let alone this fucking much—but that high feeling is still strong all over your body, and you can’t stop. You tell Sam every thought that passes through you head, about the show, or the takeout Chinese, or how you’ve never been to China, but you’d like to go, if only because it’s historically interesting. That gets you half of Sam’s attention, for about fifteen minutes.

“I wouldn’t want to go without Dean.” You mumble, picking at the label on your own beer bottle. “I never want to go anywhere without Dean. I love him.”

Sam shoots you an unreadable, almost soft expression, scratching something in his notebook. “I know you do. But he can’t fly, he hates it.”

You hum. “Would it help if I gave him a hand job on the plane?”

Sam sighs, dropping his gaze back to his laptop. “Yeah. It probably would.”

“That’s good.” The label chips off onto the couch, and you kick your feet up on the coffee table. “I like it when he’s happy.”

“I know.”

“He’s really pretty when he’s happy.” There’s that breathy sigh again. You’d be worried about it, if it didn’t fall so easily out of your body. “I love him.”

Sam makes another note. “Yep.”

“He’s pretty all the time. Do you think he knows that he’s pretty all the time?”

Sam just shrugs, and you’re already talking again before he can answer your question. 

“I just- I love him, and I want him to be happy. And I really don’t care if it’s not with me, Sam, I don’t,” you sit up, twisting over the couch to give Sam a pleading look. “I promise. But I love him, and I want him to know, and that’s kind of selfish-“

“That’s not selfish.” Sam gives you an odd look. “Loving people is the opposite of selfish.”

You shake your head. “No, it is.”

“Why do you think loving people is selfish?”

“I don’t know, because then you’re expecting something of them. Depending on them. And that’s-“

“Depending on people isn’t selfish.” Sam’s voice is careful again, and this is the first time he’s cut you off since the car. “I mean, expecting them to be something they’re not is, I think, but I depend on Dean all the time.”

“That’s different. You’re his family, and he loves you, and I’m-“

“He-“ Sam cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, he better be back soon.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Will he? Be-“

“I don’t know. Watch the TV.”

You don’t move. You just frown into the now dark motel room, and you don’t know where Dean is, and there’s something stinging at your eyes again, and-

“I miss him.” You whisper. “I love him.”

Sam makes another little note. “I know.”

It takes a second of heavy breathing, but you turn back to the TV, and the pattern resumes. You talk, Sam—sort of—listens, and then night creeps on without Dean.

“I love him.”

Sam grunts, and you hear the pencil scratching.

“If he was here, he’d love this.” You tilt your head at the TV, watching the grainy old Western on the already poor-quality screen. “Dean loves Cowboys.”

“I know.”

“I love him.”

Pencil scratch. “Uh huh.”

You point to the TV, twisting over your shoulder to look at Sam with big eyes. It’s important that he hears this, so he understands your intentions with his brother. “I’d ride his face like that.”

Sam drops his head to the table with a long groan, and you frown.

“Are you-“

“I got it!” The door bangs open, and Dean marches through, turning something in his hand. “I’m gonna stab Rowena later, but shit, Sammy, this should work-“

“Thank God.” Sam mutters, pushing out of his seat. “Are you sure this will-“

“Pretty sure.”

“I can’t take pretty sure, Dean, I- Man, I’m gonna jump off a bridge if I have to put up with another day of this.”

“Hey.” You scowl at him. “That’s rude, Sam-“

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighs your name, desperation written all over his features. “You’re like a sister to me, I promise, but I’ve also had to listen to you talk about how you want to be bent over the table by my brother for four hours-“

“Sam.” Dean grunts, and his grip on whatever’s in his hand is suddenly white-knuckled. “Shut it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just- I’ll see you guys in the morning-“

Dean’s eyes widen. “Wait, where the fuck are you going-“

“I’m giving you two privacy, Dean. I’m already gonna have to put bleach in my ears-“

“We don’t need privacy-“

“You-“ Sam cuts himself off, his eyes narrowing, flicking quickly between you—still blinking at the from the couch—and Dean. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“But-“

“I’m not talking about this, Sam-“

“No, we need to talk about this-“

“Talk about what?” You cut in with a frown, looking between Dean’s set, unreadable expression, and Sam’s exhausted on. “What’s going on?”

Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re sick, sweetheart, don’t-“

“Don’t tell me not to worry, Dean!” 

Your words are spat out, and you push up onto your knees to glare at him.

It’s been a long, strange day. And they’ve both been ignoring you, and you understand that—you’d ignore you too, if you could—but they’re talking about you, and the weight is gone, and that means that there’s nothing to stop the sudden burst of white-hot rage through your body. 

“Neither of you telling me what the fuck is happening, and I’m not sick, I just- I feel weird but that’s not your problem, and it’s not even that bad, but I just want you to look at me and talk to me and I love you-“

“Stop saying that.” Dean snaps, and Sam punches him in the shoulder. “Fuck, what the-“

“She can’t stop saying it, you idiot. You know that, and thinking that you shouldn’t talk about this is insane, even for you-“

“Talk about what-“

“Sam, I swear to god-“

Sam ignores Dean, holding your gaze as he says your name. “Tell me when you fell in love with Dean-“

“I told you earlier, on the vamp hunt-“

“The one in Louisiana, right?”

“Yeah? I don’t know I’m not good at geography-“

“See?” Sam raises his brows at Dean. “That was four years ago.”

“But I was in love with him longer.” You snap, raising your voice so they can’t ignore you. “I’ve loved him since I met him, I think. I’m pretty sure. No, I know, I remember you walked into the bar, Dean, and I thought oh I want him to fuck me until I can’t walk-“

Sam tips his head up like he’s praying, and Dean grunts your name, but you ignore them both. You’re done being ignoring, because Dean should know this.

“And then we started talking and you were the most amazing person I ever met, and I never, ever wanted to leave you. Ever.”

There’s a long moment of heavy, long silence as Dean just stares at you, and Sam clears his throat.

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Sam, shut it-“

You shrug, talking over Dean’s hissed words. “Because that’s manipulative. And mean. And I can take care of myself, and Dean shouldn’t feel like he ever needs to do anything for me.”

Dean gives you an odd, strained look. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

“Now you know how it feels.” You stick your tongue out at him, and Sam sighs, running a hand over his face.

“And why are you telling Dean now? If it’s been so-“

“Because I love him.” Your answer is quick. You know it better than your own heart. “And he deserves to know.”

“Twenty-two.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve said you love him-“ Sam leans over, checking his notepad. “Twenty-two times, if you count that one.”

“Oh?” You pause, turning over Sam’s words, trying to work out why Dean looks like he’s been shot. “Why were you counting that?”

“Because Dean’s a fucking idiot.”

Dean’s dumb, blank expression falls into a scowl. “I’m not an idiot, Sammy, she just doesn’t know what the hell she’s saying-“

“No, but she knows what she’s thinking.” Sam shrugs, grabbing his wallet from the table. “Spell didn’t mess with her actual, you know, thoughts. Fix her and she’ll feel the same thing.”

Dean shakes his head, almost frantically. “Sam, I can’t-“

“No. You can.” Sam snaps, and he’s definitely taller now. Glaring down at Dean with a narrowed gaze, like he’s imaging slamming his brother into a wall. 

“You’re taller, Sam.”

He sighs, giving you another odd look. “I know. See you tomorrow.”

Dean still tries to block Sam’s path to the door. “Sammy, I’m serious-=

“So am I. Fix this. And not just that,” he points to you, still glowering at Dean. “All of it. For once in your fucking life, Dean, let someone want you.”

Then he’s gone. 

And Dean’s just fucking staring at you from the doorway, and he thinks you’re sick, but-

“I’m not sick. And I do love you.”

“Yeah. I know.” he sighs, glancing down at-

“What’s in your hand?”

He gives you a strange look, then shakes his head. “It’s for you. To help you.”

You feel yourself almost physically wince at the words. Help. You’ve become something Dean needs to help.

“I really do feel fine.” You whisper. “I do. You don’t need to- To worry about me-

“But I’m gonna.” He shrugs, and you swallow, watching him cross the room.

“I’m sorry I got angry-“

“’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” 

Those words sound heavier than they should be, and Dean looks… weighed. Like whatever’s been set free from you is still crushing him by his temple down.

“Dean?”

He grunts, dropping down on the couch at your side. 

“I love-“

“Just- Don’t.” Dean passes a little vial into your hands with a sigh. “Drink it. You’ll feel better after you drink it.”

“But-“

He mutters your name, staring at his hands. “Please. Drink.”

You glance down at the vial. It’s green. A nice green, like-

“It looks like your eyes.”

Dean just leans back, staring at the ceiling, so you keep going.

“I love your eyes. They’re a really pretty color, and they’re always- You’re always watching people.” You tilt your head at him, he lets out another long breath. “I watch you, though. Someone has to, and I love you.”

Dean rubs his brow, shaking his head at nothing at all. “Alright. Here’s how this is gonna go down.”

“Wha-“

“Just listen,” he mutters your name, finally meeting your eyes, and you’d do anything he asked. 

So you nod. There’s a moment as Dean scans over your features, seems to decide you’re telling the truth, and then he gives a tight nod.

“Alright. You’re gonna drink that, and you’ll probably feel like shit after, but I’m going to be talking. Just- Let me talk, and then you can jump in with whatever you want. But you just need to drink, and listen. Okay?”

You hum, and glance down to the vial. “Do I just-“

“Yeah. Go.”

You down the liquid in one swig, and it’s fucking instant.

You messed up. You fucked up. You destroyed everything, because you had been cursed, and the weight that’s supposed to be there—that you need, that protects you from yourself and your stupid fucking feelings—crashes back down with a new, iron-clad ton of what the fuck did you do.

You told Dean you loved him. You were never supposed to do that, never supposed to be another person he was responsible for, that wanted something from him when the world took too much, and you had no right, you had no fucking right-

But Dean told you to listen. And even though the filter is back, you’d meant it. You’d do anything he asked.

Even sit in the vile toxin of your own, stupid fucking actions all day, being rude and crass and vulgar and telling Sam—poor fucking Sam, you’re surprised he didn’t throw you out the window—about how much you wanted to fuck Dean, and-

Dean mutters your name, and it snaps you just a little out of your rotting guilt.

“I- Uh- I’m not good at this.” He’s still staring at his hands. “I’m trying to be better at it, I’ve been trying, but it’s still. I’m not. I- Uh-“ He coughs, shaking his head slightly. “I feel it too. What you feel. I want you, want you all the freakin’ time, baby, and it drives me insane. You’re smart, and funny, and mean but in a really hot way, and I- Shit-“

“Dean-“

“No, I’ve got it, just-“ He takes a slow long breath, finally looking up at you, and it’s like once he’s there he’s trapped. His eyes widen, and he leans forward, and this is it.

The moment.

The one you’ve only allowed in dreams, where Dean is leaning in so close and if you reach out, you’d be allowed to touch him without it being a newer, worse weight.

“I need you.” He mutters, one hand slowly moving to cup your cheek. “I really need you, so much it scares me.”

“Dean-“

“I like needing you,” his words are growing a little firmer, and you can’t look away either. “I do. Fucking love it. And if it was the spell talking, all the stuff you said about me-“

“It wasn’t.” You whisper, and it’s not forced through anything. It just is. “I love you. And you don’t need to say that, Dean. I- If you mean it-“

“I do.” He grunts. “Son of a bitch, I mean it more than anything.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

You swallow. He’s still touching you, and if you’re not careful, you think you’ll melt all the way into him with no way out. 

You don’t really want one.

There’s no way to know who moves first. Dean fully grabbing your face between his hands and pulling you closer, the exact same moment your fingers fist in his shirt and you yank him down over you. It’s a rough, furious, bruising kiss made of spit and teeth, but you’ve both been starved. You know you’ve been dying of it—the need to fucking touch Dean, to tug at his short hair, to let your lips part for him and moan when his tongue moved against yours, to bite his lip and feel fire spark in your blood at his groan—but you can feel that Dean’s been burying it just as deep.

His hands are grabbing at every single part of you. Palming your breasts and ripping off your clothing as he hauls you over his lap. He swallows your every moan and throws it right back when you grind down onto where he’s pressing through his jeans, and fuck-

You’re already missing your shirt, when his kisses fall down your chest and full, firm lips start to suck at your nipples. 

“Dean-“

He growls against you, squeezing your hips as you roll against him, and the sound rolls through your whole body.

“Shirt.” You gasp, trying to peel it off his body. “Dean- Off-“

It’s only a second, when he leans back to help you, but then you’re gasping as he pulls you back down into a wet, sloppy kiss, and God, if this is what being cursed gets you, you should let it happen more often-

“I’ve got a game for you,” Dean mutters against your lips, and you lean back to frown at him.

But he’s grinning. Bright eyes, mussed hair, and an almost primal grin. “Dean, I just want to, you know-“

“I know.” He winks at you, and your nails scrape at his chest as he ruts up into you. “Trust me, we will, but c’mon. It’ll be fun.”

You sigh, nodding, and drop your mouth down to his neck. He hisses right in your ear, as you start to suck and kiss around his throat, but it quickly turns into a deep chuckle.

“That’s how we’re playing this, baby girl?” 

You can’t control the whine that escapes you, and Dean moans again. Big, warm hands rub all over your back, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Baby girl, and hands, and moaning-

“Son of a- Alright-“ Dean’s grip on your hips tightens, until you’re pinned right to his knee. “Can’t think while you’re doin’ that-“

You bite him, and the sound that leaves him should be considered a sin, or virtue, or fucking hymn.

“Shit-“ Dean tugs you back by your hair, and this kiss is no different from the last ones. Long and desperate, until you’re a little dizzy and looking at Dean with an open, needy expression when he pulls away. 

“You- Dean-“

“I know,” he mutters, watching you with an expression that’s dangerously close to adoration. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart, I promise, you just gotta be a good girl and listen for ten freakin’ seconds, okay?”

You nod a little stupidly, and the facts that you’re a little dazed from the taste of Dean still on your tongue and the way that your aching core is pressed right against the muscles of his thighs are the only reasons that smug grin doesn’t get punched off his face. 

“I want you to tell me everything you want me to do you.” Dean’s voice is deep and rough, and you would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t holding you up. “In detail. Then I’m gonna do it.”

You cough, already sounding breathless from nothing but his attention. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

“I, um, I-“

“And don’t get all fuckin’ shy on me now, baby.” He nips at your lower lip, and you swallow. “You can do it.”

He’s teasing you. You know he’s teasing you, so you whack at his chest, and he laughs, and it helps.

He wants you. To make you feel good. 

And you really would do anything he asked you, because he’s Dean, and you trust him with a little more than your life.

“It’s- I-“ You let out a breathy laugh. “This is a lot harder when I’m not cursed.”

“C’mon.” Dean starts to press soft kisses over your shoulder, just enough to make your nails dig into his forearms. “Try.”

“You- Your hands.” You might be leaving indents on his skin. He doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ve always- You have really good hands, and I’ve always imagined- you know.”

He leans back, the smug somehow only growing. “I don’t know. You gotta tell me.”

“Dean-“

“Ah.” He catches your hand as you slap his arm, kissing your knuckles before he continues. “Detail, baby. Please.”

You swallow, and something softens in his gaze.

“If you don’t wanna-“

“I do.” You whisper, shaking your head. “It’s just- It’s embarrassing. I might need a second.”

Dean just shrugs. “I got time, sweetheart. I’ll wait as long as you need-“

“I want you to finger me.” You let the words fall out of your mouth, grabbing Dean’s face between your hands. “Then I- If you want- I like your mouth, and I want it down there too, and then I want you to fuck me, hard. Maybe raw, if you’re clean, because I’m clean and I’m on birth control, and you know I- If it’s okay, I like it.”

You might be burning alive, from your center up, but Dean-

Dean looks like he’s going to try and eat you alive.

You’d really like to see him try.

“De- Fuck-“

You’re moving before you know what’s happening. Dean stands up, holding you tight against his body as he moves to the bed, dropping you down so you’re sat at the edge of the mattress.

“I-“

“I’ve got you.” He mutters, giving you another, heavy kiss before dropping to his knees between your legs. “God, you’re so fucking pretty-“

“Dean-“

Another, longer kiss, and you can feel his hands trailing up your thighs, right to-

“Fuck-“

“This wet for me?” Dean grins, running two fingers between the lips of your pussy, your underwear discarded somewhere on the floor. “You want me, baby girl?”

“You know I-“ Two fingers press right of your entrance, and you drop your brow to Dean’s with a shaking breath. “Please.”

He hums, flicking his thumb over your clit, swallowing your gasp with a kiss. “You gonna let me finally take care of you?”

“Yes-“

“You love me?”

There’s something more fragile in that question. As if he really is unsure of the answer, and this is your last out. Your last chance to tell him it really was all just the curse, and you want him to stop.

But he really fucking couldn’t drag you away.

“I do.” You smile at him, tracing his jawline with a gentle hand. “I love you-“

That’s it.

It’s like a switch flip in Dean’s brain, his eyes growing only darker and his whole body relaxing, and words seem to be useless. Those two fingers slam into your pussy, pumping and twisting and scissoring, driving you into a mess of whines and gasps of his name. And Dean doesn’t let up for a second. Any noise is devoured with deeper and deeper kisses, your grinding onto his hand is only met with fingers crooking deep in your cunt, right against-

“Dean-“ You grasp, tension building right in your gut, white-hot and readying to burst. “Dean, please-“

He only groans, tugging at your hair to mark and suck on your neck, and his thumb presses right over your clit. 

The tension breaks, and the sound that leaves you is almost unrecognizable. High and desperate as something falls out from between your thighs, and Dean pulls back with wide eyes.

His fingers are shining. Covered in-

Shit.

“I-“

Your words die in your throat as Dean brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking them clean and holding your gaze and you’re going to cum again, if he doesn’t look away-

“I didn’t know I could do that.” You mumble, fixing your gaze on his bare chest, and he chuckles, squeezing your thigh.

“Well, you’re doing it again.”

That makes your eyes dart back to his face. “Wha-“

“On my face this time.” He pauses, pouting like he’s trying to work something out, then nods. “Yeah. On my face.”

“Dean-“

“Hold on.” He rises to his feet, pulling off his jeans and boxers in quick movements, and your mouth falls open.

You’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about this. More than you’ll ever admit to him. 

But he’s still better, and thicker, and bigger than you’d guessed. And he’s fully hard, and stroking himself with a wide, lazy grin, and-

“Nope.” Dean swats your hand away when you reach for him. “Not about me tonight, sweetheart.”

You give him your best, sweetest, doe-eyes, and he just laughs, leaning down to pull you into another kiss.

“Asshole.” You mumble against his lip, and he smirks.

“You want it that bad?”

“You know I do-“

“Yeah, but I still got some things on our list to take care of.” Dean pulls your lower lips between his teeth as he draws away, and then he’s gone.

Moving to lay on his back, pulling you with him by your wrist and grinning at you as he sprawls on the mattress.

“Dean, what-“

“Sit on my face.”

You might be drooling, He’s just there, just muscles and softness in all the right places, and looking more like a god than a human in the soft motel lights, and looking at you, only you, and-

“I’ll crush you-“

“Nah, you won’t.” He tugs you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your inner wrist. “Trust me, baby, I’ve survived a lot worse than a hot lady sitting on me.”

“But-“

“You said you wanted my mouth down here.” He rolls his thumb over your clit, and you almost collapse over his chest. “This is how you’re getting it.”

You take a long, slow breath and nod, straddling Dean’s face until his subtle is rubbing on your thighs, and if you’re careful-

Dean doesn’t seem to care about careful. He grabs your hips, slams you down over his face, and you’re gone.

This has only ever been a fantasy. Never a thing you thought you’d actually get.

But Dean seems to have no interest in doing anything but surpassing every dream you’ve ever had, and you think you might be ascending, or falling, or just bursting into a million, perfect pieces.

His tongue plunges in and out of your cunt without relent, and that same stubble is burning so perfectly along the most sensitive parts of your body, and his fucking hands keep kneading your ass and holding your right against his mouth. Keeping your still as he takes your clit between his lips and suck and bites and flicks his tongue until you’re in a frenzy-

You might be swearing, or cursing, or praying, or just repeating Dean over and over like a long, desperate plea, but whatever sounds are leaving your body only seem to spur him on.

He rises without warning, right when you’re on the edge of release. Keeping his hold on your thighs firm and his head buried between your legs, Dean sits up until you’re fallen back against the mattress, grabbing at the sheets as his nose bumps your clit and his tongue never slows and fuck-

You cum with a scream of something, the coil snapping once more and soaking down your thighs, and when Dean pulls back his eyes are shining.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot.” He mutters, bowing over you for another, almost gentle kiss that you only whine into, your whole body only putty from his work. “Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart?”

You feel raw. Impossibly sensitive and fucked out, wrecked and spent and burning from every nerve point perfectly, as if you’re high and dissipated into nothing but a light, happy mist of Dean.

You nod a little stupidly anyway.

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Sorry, baby, I need wor-“

“Fuck me.” Your voice is only a breath. Based on the way Dean tenses above you, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Please, Dean, fuck-“

This kiss is deeper. Rougher. Almost feral, pressing you all the way into the mattress until you’re scratching at his back, and then-

You whine as Dean rises back up, but it turns into another gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, grabbing your ass up into the air and running fingers between the mess he’s left between your thighs.

“Son of a bitch, you’re amazing.” He mutters, and you don’t get the time to come up with something to say back before he’s pinching your clit, rolling it between broad, calloused fingers. “Ready?”

“Ye- Dean!”

He slams into you with one firm movement, your hands fist in the sheets, and the moment when he lets you adjust—hanging over your body, kissing over your shoulders and neck as he just sits in your cunt—is the longest in the world.

“Move.” You gasp, twisting around to try and meet his gaze. “Dean, move, please-“

His growl rolls through your whole body, and your hips jerk back into his. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t hold back. There’s one moment after Dean rises back up where he gives a slow, experimental thrust, but you moan his name and grind your ass up into the air, and he’s gone. Whatever he’d been controlling in himself vanishes, and he fucks you. Fully, properly fucks you, the mattress squeaking and his balls slapping over your clit and god, he’s too good at this. You’ve never been this full, this dazed, dragged right to the edge only by Dean slamming in and out of your pussy, his cock is hitting so deep in your body you’re certain you’ll feel it in a month. And his hands are pulling and rubbing at your skin, and his thrusts are measured but they’re quickly growing feral as you squeeze around him, and he’s moaning again-

“Fuck-“ He grunts your name, bumping right against that impossibly deep spot in your cunt. “So fucking tight, baby girl, taking me so good-“

“Dean-“ You bury your face in the bed, writhing below him. “Fuck- I- I need-“

“I know.” He lowers himself back over you, never once breaking pace and angling your face to crash his lips into yours, swallowing every needy, high plea of his name. “So fuckin’ close, sweetheart, you’re doing so well for me, being such a good girl-“

“Jesus-“

“One more,” he grunts down your throat, a hand snaking around your stomach to rub at your clit. “Just one more for me, baby, c’mon-“

That’s all it takes. Your orgasm bursts and washes through your whole body, leaving the world spinning and everything lost in a daze of pleasure and good, and you can only really hear Dean moaning your name as you squeeze around his cock, fucking you through your orgasm.

He pulls out when you’re shaking below him—hot shivers still running through your body in the aftermath of your release—and second later his cum is staining over your back, one gentle hand still holding your ass in the air.

He cleans you up. Of course he does. He’s Dean. 

He kisses the base of your spine before crawling off the bed, grabs a shirt instead of a rag—because he cleaned the shirt at the bunker but you’re both smarter than using a motel towel to clean anything down there—and wipes your thighs and back clean, before collapsing over your body and burying his face in your shoulder.

“You think Sammy’ll be back tonight.” He mutters, his words slightly muffled against your body, and you sigh.

“I’m worried he’s never coming back.”

You feel Dean’s frown against your skin. “Why-“

“Remember how he said I mentioned wanting you to, um, bend me over a table?”

Dean hums. “Shit, I forgot to do that-“

“Later, I kind of-“

You squeak as Dean grabs you by your hips, flipping you over until you’re nose to nose, and his boyish, smug grin is right where you could bite it off his face, if you wanted.

And you really do.

“We’re having a later, baby?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course we are, Dean, focus-“

His fingers start to trail up your inner thigh, and it takes all the self-control in your body to whack them away.

“I’m still sensitive-“

He shrugs. “I can work with that, sweetheart-“

“I know, but Sam.”

“You said he’s not comin’ back-“

“Yeah, but I need to send him like a fucking fruit basket or something.”

Dean frowns at that. “Why, what-“

“I told him everything, Dean. All the stuff I told you, and some, uh, other stuff.“

“What other stuff?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does,” Dean catches your hand before you can cover your face, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “I need to know what that smart brain is coming up with, how I need to be fucking you-“

“But-“

Dean drawls your name, raising his brows. “Look, that is far from the worst shit Sam’s heard. When I was heading to hell, he had to sleep in the car just so I could get laid. He’ll walk it off, then we’ll drop him at Eileen’s to get some of his own ass.”

You snort. “I’m sure he’ll be very thankful-“

“He better. I saw the marks on my fucking tires. Lucky I’m not defesternating him.”

“Defenestrating.” You hum, smiling as Dean settles back over your body, burying his head in your chest. “Close, though.”

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” You comb your fingers through his hair, unable to stop the final, soft statement from escaping your lips. “I love you, Dean.”

“Good.” He squeezes his hold on your body. “Same.”

You smile. He won’t say it back, but not because he doesn’t feel it. His weight is heavier than yours, and you know that, because you know him.

And love him.

And he does love you, but for now, that’s the best he can do.

It’s still better than you ever dreamed. 

But then again, so is Dean.

End Note: We've hit new peaks of torment for Sam Winchester. Sorry my king.

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[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you²,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester  genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 2263

notes / warnings. as requested by many families, here's the unholy part 2. i need to go confess myself now to the pope (my local priest isn't equipped enough) ✌🏻// explicit language, explicit sexual content ( sex on the kitchen table!!! ), just weird and kinda hot??

ᯓ★ read part 1

It starts to change after that night.

Not in any big way, not all at once. It’s not like Dean drops to one knee or Sam starts reading you poetry by firelight (though honestly, neither would be completely off-brand at this point). No, it shifts in the quiet ways. The subtle ones. The ways that feel like they’re nothing — until suddenly, they’re everything.

Like how Dean now insists on sitting next to you at every meal. Not across, not diagonally. Right next to you. Close enough that your elbows brush when you cut into your food. Close enough that his arm accidentally finds the back of your chair more often than not, his fingers ghosting over your shoulder, like he just needs to rest his arm somewhere. Totally innocent.

Sure, Dean.

Sam counters with morning coffee.

You don’t even remember telling him how you like it, but one day it’s just there — your exact brew, perfect amount of sugar, that one creamer you love but keep forgetting to buy.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, blinking sleepily.

He shrugs, easy and casual, but there’s that gleam in his eye. “Didn’t mind.”

Dean starts walking into the kitchen shirtless.

Because of course he does.

“Too hot to wear a shirt, sweetheart,” he says one morning, voice husky with sleep, like it’s a suffering he’s graciously enduring for your benefit.

Your brain hiccups for a second. Sam drops his knife against the counter with a little too much force.

It’s war.

You just sip your coffee and try not to combust.

Training sessions become the next battleground.

Dean offers to “spot” you during strength drills. And by spot, he means stand behind you, one hand on your lower back, one guiding your wrist, voice low in your ear, breath brushing your neck like he’s trying to reprogram your nervous system.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, just a little too close. “Keep that form tight, yeah? Just like that.”

Meanwhile, Sam’s out here playing the long game — patience and precision. He takes you through defensive maneuvers, calm and steady. But his hand lingers when he helps you up off the mat. His body presses just a second too long when you crash into his chest. And his praise?

Way more dangerous than Dean’s.

“You’re a fast learner,” he says one afternoon, gaze locked on yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone after a sweaty match. “I like that.”

You freeze. Swallow hard. Laugh it off.

They both see it.

They both want more.

One night, Dean finds you in the library, legs curled under you, hoodie slouching off one shoulder. You’re so into whatever lore you’re reading that you don’t hear him until he drops onto the couch beside you, legs spread wide, knee bumping yours.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks, all easy charm.

You hold up the book without looking. “Something about Norse possession rituals. Kinda creepy. Kinda cool.”

Dean watches you over the rim of his beer. “You’re kinda cool.”

You blink at him. “What?”

He grins. “Nothin’. Just sayin’. It’s… cool. That you’re into that stuff.”

You stare at him, a little amused. A little suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” He throws his arm across the back of the couch — again, purely accidental — and lets his fingers brush your shoulder. “You cold? You can borrow my hoodie if you want.”

You’re wearing a hoodie. His hoodie.

He knows. He gave it to you last week and hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’re about to make a joke when Sam walks in, sees you two curled up, and stalls.

Something flashes behind his eyes. Something dark and determined.

He says nothing. Just walks over, grabs a book from the shelf — and drops it in your lap.

“You should read this one next,” he says smoothly, ignoring Dean completely. “It ties into that ritual text. Same demon class. More dangerous, though.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you. His touch is warm and deliberate. You feel it all the way down.

Dean clocks it.

His jaw ticks.

Game on.

Later that night, you’re walking down the hall toward your room, yawning. Dean’s voice calls out behind you.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You turn — and he’s there, way too close, one hand braced on the wall beside your head.

His smirk is soft, but it’s hiding something sharp underneath. Something hungry.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, voice honey-slick and low. “Thinkin’ about takin’ you for a drive. Just us. Sunset. You know. Mood lighting.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Oh. Um. Yeah? That sounds nice.”

He leans in — just slightly — enough that your breath catches.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Before you can answer, a door opens behind you.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice calm but cool. He steps into the hall, barefoot, shirt rumpled, like he’s been pacing. “Didn’t know you were still up. I was about to make tea. You want some?”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t blink.

You’re caught between them, flushed and wide-eyed, every cell in your body screaming that something’s happening, even if you don’t know what exactly it is.

You laugh — nervous, flustered — and nod. “Sure! Tea sounds great.”

Sam’s eyes flicker to Dean. “Coming?”

Dean peels himself off the wall with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Nah,” he says, but the look in his eyes promises blood. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

And then he walks off, all swagger and smirk, leaving you and Sam standing in the hall like the first scene of a very slow, very dangerous fire.

Sam turns to you, gentle again. “Chamomile okay?”

You nod, suddenly short of breath.

He smiles, soft and devastating. “Good.”

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

It starts with a look.

One look, too long. Too loaded. Too everything.

You’re in the kitchen again. Nothing special — tank top, sleep shorts, mug in hand. It’s late. You can’t sleep. The bunker hums with quiet and warmth. You’re barefoot on cold tile, staring into the fridge like it holds answers to questions you haven’t asked yet.

And then Dean’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was born to brood, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, jaw shadowed with stubble and sleep. His eyes drag over you, slow and simmering, and for once?

He doesn’t look away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and sandpapery.

You shake your head. “Nope. Thought warm milk might help.”

He smirks. “Old school. Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, grandpa.”

But your heart ticks faster.

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches you, like he’s trying to memorize something.

You go to the stove. Pour milk into a saucepan. And then?

You feel him behind you.

Not close — not inappropriate — but present. Solid heat. Quiet intensity. You stir the milk and try not to notice the way your breath shortens. The way you’re aware of him in a way you weren’t before.

Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He’s just there. Waiting.

And then Sam enters — quieter than usual, in joggers and a soft black tee, hair mussed, eyes unreadable.

You expect things to ease.

They don’t.

He sees you.

Sees Dean.

And something shifts in him too.

He walks over to you — not Dean. To you. And places a hand lightly on the small of your back, fingers splayed.

“Everything okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with that same heat Dean’s carrying. A different flavor — gentler, deeper — but no less intense.

Your mouth goes dry.

Dean watches Sam’s hand. His jaw flexes once.

And suddenly… something clicks.

You freeze, spoon mid-stir.

They aren’t just being friendly.

They haven’t been for weeks.

The lingering touches. The quiet glances. The midnight coffees and training sessions that feel like something out of a dream you’re not sure you should be having. The way Dean’s hand finds your waist when you pass too close. The way Sam’s voice drops when he calls you by name, like he’s saying something sacred.

Holy shit.

You’ve been so dumb.

You look up — Sam on one side, Dean on the other — and finally, finally see it.

They want you.

Both of them.

The room tilts.

The milk starts to boil.

Dean moves first — reaches over you, kills the burner with one flick of the wrist. His body brushes yours, solid and hot, and you gasp just slightly when you feel his chest at your back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, mouth just behind your ear.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

Sam’s hand still hasn’t moved.

Dean’s breath ghosts down your neck. “You sure?”

You should say yes.

You should say you’re going back to bed, thanks for the weird vibe, have a good night—

But instead?

You turn.

Right between them.

Your eyes flick from one brother to the other, and for the first time, you don’t play dumb. You don’t look away.

You look back.

Sam swallows hard. Dean licks his lips. You feel the air crackle.

“Tell me,” you say, voice shaking slightly. “Tell me what this is.”

Dean tilts his head, watching you like a lion would a lamb that just bared her throat. “What do you want it to be?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, soft but certain. “We want you.”

Dean nods. “We’ve wanted you.”

The words slam into your stomach like heat lightning.

You blink.

“Both of you?”

Sam steps closer. “Yeah.”

Dean moves in, too. “We know it’s… different. But we’re not gonna lie to you. Not tonight.”

Your pulse hammers. “You’re serious.”

Dean’s fingers lift to your jaw. “Sweetheart. Do I look like I’m fuckin’ around?”

You open your mouth — to argue, to ask more, to do something — but then Sam kisses you.

Just like that.

Big hand curling around the back of your neck, mouth warm and sure, and it’s like your brain short-circuits. You melt against him instinctively, fingers curling in his shirt, lips parting under his with a helpless, startled noise.

And then Dean’s mouth is on your throat.

Not kissing. Tasting.

His tongue flicks along the line of your neck, rough stubble scraping gently, and your knees almost give out.

Sam pulls back just enough to breathe. “You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing. Hands under your thighs, mouth crashing into yours now — hot and filthy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

Sam follows, fast and quiet, hand sliding under your shirt, warm palm skimming your waist.

“Bed,” you gasp between kisses.

Dean growls against your mouth. “Didn’t plan on making it that far, sweetheart.”

They lay you out on the kitchen table.

Dean strips your shorts off in one smooth tug, kneeling to drag his mouth up your thigh, slow and reverent. Sam kneels opposite him, pressing soft, lingering kisses up the other.

You stare at the ceiling, panting, heart trying to escape your ribs.

This is real.

This is happening.

Dean hooks his arms under your knees, spreads you wide. “You still with us?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. God, yes—”

Sam’s mouth replaces your answer.

Warm. Wet. Perfect.

He eats you like it’s worship.

Dean groans at the sight, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Fuck, Sammy. That’s not fair.”

Sam pulls back just enough to smirk. “She tastes like heaven.”

Dean doesn’t wait — he takes the other side, tongue flicking over your clit as Sam pushes two fingers inside you, curling just right, deep and slow.

You scream.

They hold you down gently, murmuring filth like a prayer.

“Look at you,” Dean groans. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

“She’s shaking,” Sam says, awed.

They devour you.

And when you come — because of course you do — it’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s violent. Ripping through you like fire, hips arching, fists gripping Dean’s hair while Sam strokes you through it with something dangerously close to reverence.

When you finally breathe again, Dean’s standing, mouth wet, unbuttoning his jeans.

“You want more, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes blown wide.

You nod, half-drunk on bliss.

Sam kisses your shoulder. “You sure?”

You pull him down by the shirt and kiss him hard. “Yes.”

Clothes vanish — you’re not sure how. You’re all hands and mouths and noise. Dean presses inside you slowly, groaning so deep it shakes the table. He fills you like he was made for it, rocking into you with slow, brutal thrusts that make you keen.

Sam kisses your lips, your throat, your chest, whispering praise against your skin.

When Dean pulls out to let Sam take his place, your whole body trembles. Sam’s slower — deeper. He kisses your temple when he bottoms out, hands holding your thighs like you might disappear.

They trade you.

Again.

And again.

And when they both finish — one groaning against your neck, the other gasping into your mouth — you lie there, boneless and wrecked, caught in the heat and scent and feel of them.

You’re not sure who moves first.

Dean brushes your hair back. Sam kisses your knuckles. You curl between them, blinking up at the ceiling, heartbeat finally slowing.

Dean grins. “Still think we’re just bein’ friendly?”

You snort, dazed. “You two are the least friendly people I’ve ever met.”

Sam chuckles, breath warm against your shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to prove otherwise.”

Dean presses a kiss to your temple.

And for once, you don’t feel like the prize.

You feel like the winner.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Center of Their Universe 💞

Pairing: Soft! Sam Winchester x Reader x Protective!Dean Winchester (Poly Relationship — No Winc*st)

Setting: Bunker Era, Post-Hunt Comfort

Tone: SFW but spicy | Emotional intimacy | Worship vibes

You barely made it halfway to the bed before Dean had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth hot and greedy on your neck. His hands gripped your waist like he needed to hold you there or he'd fall apart.

“You have no idea what you do to us,” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Sam’s hands were already at your back, pulling you away from the wall and toward the bed with a gentler touch, but the same hunger burning in his eyes. “Let her breathe, Dean.”

“She can breathe when she’s not driving me crazy.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. His nose nuzzled into your neck before he kissed your shoulder slowly, deeply, like every inch of you deserved its own moment.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Don’t think we’ve told you enough lately.”

Dean joined you, sliding in behind you both. His hands slid around your waist from behind, warm palms splayed over your stomach, keeping you pressed right between them. You could feel everything.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Dean murmured into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “Let us take care of you.”

Sam tilted your chin to him and kissed you—slow, open-mouthed, deep enough to steal your breath. His hands cradled your face while Dean’s gripped your hips, rocking you back gently into his lap.

You whimpered softly, caught in the slow push and pull between them. Dean’s lips found the back of your neck. Sam kissed down your jaw. And your body was sandwiched between two men who adored you like you were holy.

Dean’s hips pressed up into yours from behind, slow and deliberate, and the friction sent heat crawling down your spine. His breath was ragged against your ear.

“Feel that, sweetheart? That’s what you do to me.”

Sam’s hands slid up beneath your shirt, warm and reverent as he kissed along your collarbone. “Every part of you deserves to be worshipped.”

Your head fell back against Dean’s shoulder as they moved together, slow, rhythmic—just grinding, just lips and touch, but it left you breathless.

They didn't rush.

They didn’t ask for anything in return.

This was for you.

“You’re the center of everything,” Sam whispered.

“The best part of us,” Dean added.

They kissed you like prayer.

They moved against you like sin.

And in their arms, you felt like you were both.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Irreplaceable

// Est. Dean Winchester x you

summary: you crashed the impala :/ // 1.3k // base content: car crash, drunk driver, anxiety of dean being mad, dean NOT being mad, protective dean

A/N: pulling this one from the vault. requests are open!! i have the energy just not the ideas :(:(

Dean is going to kill you.

That’s what you’re most scared of, truthfully. The fear in your gut at what he’s going to say feels worse than the probably shattered bone in your wrist. He’ll never let you behind a wheel again, probably not even in the front seat.

You fucked up.

There was a puff of steam rolling from the hood and a man in a crinkled pickup truck stumbled out with a string of slurred curses. You scoffed, seeing a dizzying trio of the man, he was fucking drunk.

If only you had the blood pressure to stand and march over there to give him a piece or two of your mind. He stumbles to the grass and pukes his guts up.

A groan of annoyance, pain, and anxiety rumble out of your throat and you feel sick. You fish for your phone from your pockets with your good wrist but hesitate on who to call.

Dean would be furious, Sam would be collected, but 911 would be smartest.

With trembling hands, you press out the three numbers and hit the green button. A drop of blood lands on the screen- goddammit. The line trills and you rattle off your location and a brief description, your vision blurring further.

The last thing you remember is sticky blood crying from your hairline and the throb of your wrist.

———

He knows that something is off when he realizes it’s taken you over an hour to pick up a few six-packs and some dinner. He should’ve gone with you, but he had been so fried from a recent hunt and you were so kind to offer.

It’s not like you haven’t driven his precious Baby before, he trusted you. He knew you understood why he really clung so tightly to the Impala of Theseus and he trusted you’d respect her even more than your own car.

But he felt sick.

And when his phone rang, he knew what it was regarding before he even checked the screen.

It was a number from the area with no ID and he answered it with bated breath.

“Dean Winchester? I’m calling on behalf of…”

Dean barked out a simple explanation to Sam as he passed the library, not waiting for a quick glance to make sure his brother heard him. He didn’t even bother with a jacket. Through the halls, he winds to the garage and snatches the first set of keys that he can reach.

The car roars under his foot as he pushes the hunk of metal to its limits. He ignores how Baby would’ve handled his persistence better.

He’s a force to not be reckoned with as he storms through the hospital and demands directions. His chest feels empty, like his bones are clustered and are pulling him to you like a magnet. Maybe he’ll be able to take a full breath again once he sees you, maybe.

He takes back that hope once he sees you.

A dark bruise blossoms from your temple and is iced with fresh stitches along your hairline. Your lip is split and your jaw matches your temple. There’s a few smaller, irritated cuts along your skin- presumably from shattered glass.

It doesn’t matter what caused it, what matters is that you’re okay.

Your eyes go wide once you see him and his chest pangs with confusion. He freezes at the doorway, taking you in. When you go to pull yourself up, you wince and he can’t help but flood by your side.

“Dean, I’m so so sorry. He came out of nowhere and he was drinking! They arrested him and I- I had them tow the Impala t-to that lot where you know that guy who knows us and what we do and I made sure-.”

“Is it broken?” Dean interrupts like he wasn’t even listening to begin with. He reaches out for your wrapped wrist. You dart between him and the cast as he examines it. His hands trembled and his breathing was in quick bursts.

“Y-Yeah,” you sink a bit into the plush pillow behind you. Dean flicks his head up with a tight jaw and slight twitch in his lip.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” he lets go of your wrist and paces away as he rubs his jaw. “He was drunk?” He bites, turning back to look at you. His eyes were filled with rage but the expression gave way to reveal his deeper disbelief and fear of the situation.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe out, looking up at him with glossy, tired eyes and he squints back.

“Why the hell are you apologizing for him? He almost killed you!” He barks but his fuse fizzles as he realizes what you mean. His shoulders slump and he feels gutted. “Sweetheart, I don’t give a damn about the car,” he comes back, swiftly pulling up a chair so he can sit right beside you.

You sniffle softly, looking down at your cast but his hand reaches out to cup the side of your jaw that isn’t bruised.

“Look at me,” his voice is level and gritty, and his eyes are solid.

“I thought you’d be mad,” you admit, a tear defying you and rolling down your cheek. You try to turn away but he brings his other hand to swipe it away. You flinch at the slightest pressure and Dean fights down the bubbling rage in his gut at the fucker who put you here.

Mad? You really thought he would be mad? The thought makes him recoil and he immediately thinks of his father. No, how could he let this happen?

He searches your eyes for any hint that you’re joking but it’s obvious you aren’t. You look worried and broken and he wants to take back anything he’s ever said about Baby in front of you. Sure, he’s protective of the car and maybe a little overbearing, but wasn’t it obvious his love of you was completely irrational in comparison?

Has he not proven what you really meant to him?

“Baby, all I can think of is how goddamn lucky I am that you’re here and breathing. I can fix her up good as new but I can only do so much to keep you alive and healthy.” The words spill before he can consider them. It’s more vulnerable than he intends, but it’s because that's what he’s willing to do for you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek and sniffle again, feeling a little embarrassed now.

“Please don’t tell me you seriously thought I’d care more about that car than you,” his words are a whisper, like he’s pained at just the thought. The guilt eats at him. He wants you to feel safe with him, always. He wants you to know that you can call him first, always.

You’re quiet and you look down, avoiding his gaze.

He leans forward, pressing a soft but firm kiss to your forehead. He breathes in the antiseptic from your stitches but your shampoo trails in behind it. He closes his eyes to savor the moment and before he fully pulls back away he plants another quick kiss in the same spot.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he admits, guiding your gaze back to him. “I would never value the Impala over you, sweetheart. You’re my priority, always,” he dips down for emphasis, hoping the words stain.

“I’ll help you fix her up, though,” you offer with a hint of a smile, still a bit embarrassed and disoriented from the concussion.

“Okay,” he accepts simply with a slow blink. His eyes are soft as he takes you in and he seriously cannot believe how angelic you still are even after a literal car crash.

He hates that you’ve been led to believe that he would set you aside for the sake of a car, but he makes a silent vow that he will spend the rest of his life making sure that you’re confident in his dedication to you and only you.

Always.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Hate What You Do To Me

// Dean Winchester x you

summary: dean has been unable to understand the emotions he feels when he's with you so he defaults to pushing you away to avoid the creeping ache in his chest, that is until he jarringly realizes what those feeling actually mean and decides to act on that // 2.1k // base content: quick enemies to lovers vibes, protective dean, make-out scene

A/N: pulling this one from the vault cause i’ve got nothing else to post atm😎 (i am completely wrapped up in a series i’m working on heheh)

He can’t do this right now. Watching your lips part to welcome the rim of an icy beer is fucking killing him. He could deck Bobby just for thinking of inviting you.

God, you.

You got under his skin and prickled like barbed wire, anchoring deep into his bones and refusing to escape his subconscious. He hated the feeling, of which he had no name for, that you awoke in his chest. It was his best guess that it was anxiety or maybe a type of annoyance he had never experienced before, whatever it was, he hated it.

Your laugh echoes through the room as Sam tells some joke that makes Dean roll his eyes. The belt of your joy only worsens the ache in his chest and he wonders if a hatred this deep was actually a common occurrence or rather a special instance for people like you.

Your voice is sweet and misleading, as if you were actually as kind and innocent as your tone insinuates. He’s not falling for it. He’s especially not falling for the warm gaze you give him that makes his stomach clench and ricochet like a ping-pong ball in his abdomen. He swears his lungs even cinch when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“Well that’s what I tried to tell him, but he was not having it,” Sam shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. You laugh simply out of a polite response, but it seems Dean’s cold glare has affected your mood. He was surprised when the reaction didn’t cause him pride but instead.. shame?

“Maybe next time you just give ‘em my number like you’re s’posed to,” Bobby grumbles, fingering the neck of his beer to bring to his lips.

Voices continue to carry but it’s mellowed down to just Sam and Bobby. The buzz under Dean's skin is almost numbing, like he missed your contributions. Of course, not because he actually liked listening to you speak, but because he didn’t feel like a dick for acting so cold towards you. But that wasn’t his fault. It’s not his fault you irk him like you do. He has to remind himself of that.

A phone chirps and you check your device, your face falling further. If Sam or Bobby notice, they sure don’t say anything about it. The irritation in Dean's chest ignites again, a burning restless feeling that makes him want to know who put you in a sour mood. Who overstepped Dean's effect on you? He couldn’t have that.

His eyes peek at the lit screen but it’s not like he can read anything.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, standing and leaving the room without raising much suspicion, at least not to a common onlooker of the conversation. Dean knew though. He knew your tells and mood shifts, he had to in order to be able tolerate your presence. He had to.

What really irks him too is how little he knows right now. God, you’ve left the room and you still have your claws sunk into him. It killed him to not know what was wrong with you. He’ll claim it’s because to be a hunter, you need to have a level head. All it is is hypocritical avoidance and unrecognizable emotions that he was never accepting of before.

He takes a deep gulp of his beer, trying to wash away the bubbling anxiety you’ve caused him.

And another gulp. And one more. But none of them make the time pass quickly enough and he’s even more restless in your absence. He can’t help himself, he has to know that you’re okay.

He stalls at the thought. He doesn’t have to. He just wants to. He wants to?

Doesn’t matter.

Dean excuses himself and goes off to find you. He follows the flow of an agitated voice and his brows furrowed slightly in confusion. The voice, your voice, leads him to the main entrance of the home. The door creaks open and he can hear you better, as if you just came in from talking with whoever was bothering you outside.

“Just leave me alone, I’m serious,” your tone is demanding and a little scary if he’s being honest- something that’s rare for him as of late.

He rounds the doorframe as soon as you hang up the phone and his presence startles you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, unsure if he actually even cares. He shouldn’t- he doesn't. He’s just curious about whoever seemed to have more of an effect on your state then he did. Dean is just a little cold and annoyed with you, that warrants a sour mood for the recipient, but who the hell thinks they have the right to make you talk to them like that?

“What-, like you care?” You ask in a dull bite, he scoffs.

“Shouldn’t’ve even asked,” Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and turning to leave but he hesitates. “Just-,” he clears his throat, “sorry ‘bout whatever you’re dealing with.” He turns to leave but the sickeningly sweet pull of your voice keeps him put. He holds back a sigh.

“I worked with a hunter a few weeks back and he’s just been.. clingy,” you cringe, looking down at your phone for a moment. Dean didn’t like that.

“Clingy?” He echoed, turning back around and furrowing his brow.

“Yeah…” you sigh, pocketing your phone and glancing back up at Dean. “It’s probably nothing, but he’s just lonely I guess and keeps trying to get me to work these cases with him,” your shoulders slouch, almost like the situation has exhausted you. Dean’s chest tightens again- annoyance, he deems. You turn to face the screen door, letting the breeze kiss past your tired face.

“And you don’t want to?” Dean completes for you, his tone indicating impatience and misunderstanding.

“Of course not, he’s a creep!” You turn back at him, your face contorted in disgust but your eyes glint something that eases the tightness in his chest.

“Just block him,” he says, like it’s that simple. You just scoff and look back out the door. You can’t even find the energy to walk through the whole situation with Dean on why you can’t simply ‘block him’. “Do I need to have a talk with this guy?” Your body stills and brows pull together as you look back at him.

“What?” You ask, completely caught off guard by the offer.

“I said,” Dean rolls his eyes subtly, “do I need to take care of him?” He repeats, staring right at you with a deep rooted anger burrowed towards someone else for once- it makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Why do you even care? Don’t you hate me?” You scoff, trying to remind yourself of the pain in the ass he’s made you feel like to him. He hated you. He did, right?

Something in your snap cracked some capsule in him and infected his veins, all the way to his fingertips, with a cold rush of realization.

“Hate you?” He asked himself as well as you. His chest cinched tightly at the accusation, that he hated. It’s like every memory of you flashed in his mind and in every scenario, he never remembers actually hating you but how you affected him. How you made him feel unnaturally unsettled and antsy, like he couldn’t stand the edge you teetered him on. His eyes watched your expression go from frustration to confusion and then to impatience and even then, as he watched your features melt along its expressive path, he realized that he did not hate you. “How could I hate you?” His words escape before he can filter them, but then he can watch as your annoyingly pretty features contort yet again to something indescribable for him.

He felt selfish, extremely selfish, for the way he’s pushed you away and treated you because he knows it’s not really your fault for how he feels. But then, why does he feel such strong and uncomfortable emotions for you? Why the fuck did you settle so deep into his very being that it’s uncomfortable for you to be here in front of him?

Your head tilts and you look so lost. Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips and it clicks.

The ache in his chest isn’t anger or annoyance, it’s a craving. Here you are, dangled right in front of him with your pretty eyes and soft confusion and he’s forced to just stand back and watch as you exist without him. Every time he’s seen you in the past, it washed over him that he’s just been needing something he subconsciously knew he could never take.

“You-,” he tried to start, his hands dropped to his sides as he figured out his next move. He wants so badly to just cross the invisible line he’s made for himself but you think he hates you.

“So you don’t hate me,” you try to state, keeping a suspicious eye on him as he shuffles through whatever is rattling behind his eyes.

Dean only shakes his head, taking a step forward without even knowing he’s moved until your face is just a wish away.

“Dean?” You ask, looking up at him and taking in details you never thought you’d get close enough to notice.

The sink in his stomach as you say his name scares the hell out of him but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to turn away now. Something so cosmic holds him still like he’s stuck in quicksand, ready to drown in you.

It happened so fast, that switch, like seeing your vulnerability as you admitted you felt hated by him made him fix his shit real quick. He couldn’t have that, he wouldn’t allow you to go on thinking he hated you.

“I’m an idiot,” he admits in a whisper that echoes faint beer, from the round just a few moments ago, over your cheeks.

“That’s one word I’d use,” you scoff lightly, your attitude altering the rest of your body towards turning away but you just can’t seem to get your eyes to listen and follow.

“Can I try something?” He asks, his eyes stuck into yours like glue, like he’s scared to rake over your skin and down to your lips, like he’ll jinx himself and lose any shot he never had.

“You’re a free man,” you challenge, narrowing your gaze and starting to expect his next move. But even with anticipation, it doesn’t soften the electricity that sparks as he pushes you against the screen door and directs your lips to his. His hand holds the back of your head so that the screen isn’t split and his other hand, without much planning, hooks just two fingers in your belt loop, unable to wait on finding a more suitable place.

Another fresh breeze falls past the slits of the screen and runs through your hair and over your exposed skin, tickling every exposed nerve that he bloomed under your skin.

With his lips fitting perfectly around yours and taking you in, he pulls in a deep, full breath to inhale your scent. The sweet pine from outside accompanies your signature scent that he convinced himself to hate long ago, but now he can’t get enough. He could actually laugh at himself for how stupid he’s been to think you would be nothing but perfect to him if he just welcomed it.

Because now that he has finally allowed you in, he doesn’t think he can ever let you go.

He pulls out of the kiss, his lungs burning for air but his skin aching for more of you. As you lean back to look at him, his greedy lips follow like a lost puppy, making sure he’s able to latch back on when he needs another fix of your taste.

“I’m being serious, y’know,” he breathes, his eyes still glued to your, now swollen, lips glistening with his spit. Fuck.

“Hmm?” You hum, studying the lazy droop of his eye lids, but your breath is sucked out of your lungs as his eyes snap right back into yours with a contrastingly serious switch.

“That prick that won’t leave you alone, I’ll take care of him,” he says, looking into your eyes long enough to make sure you understand. His hand at your belt loop now snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him and his eyes melt back down to your parted lips. “Won’t ever have to worry about that again,” he barely gets out before eating you right back up.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Tsu-tey - The Age of Arrogance (1)

CHAPTER 1

MINI SERIES MASTERLINK

➵ chapter summary: Despite your best efforts, being rejected by the clan Olo'eyktan to be is painful and infuriating. Yet, what happens when you rescue him from death? Will your clashing worldviews finally be set aside?

➵ pairing: enemies to lovers, tsu'tey x fem!reader(no use of y/n)

➵ word count: 3.1k

➵ warnings: descriptions of war and injury, near-death experience, cursing, angst, pining, tsu'tey is an asshole but he redeems himself later :/

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

On your first encounter with Tsu'tey, he pointed an arrow at your head, threatened you with a rock during the entire ride back to Hometree, and then proceeded to ignore your existence for the rest of your stay. 

It was comical how the sight of your face immediately triggered his sneer. His scowl had become infamous amongst your peers, and Dr. Augustine had even gone out of her way to print 'TSU'TEY IS WATCHING YOU' posters to hang around the science outpost.

Ever the hard-headed warrior, becoming accepted amongst the people was not enough for him to acknowledge your presence, let alone an ounce of your skills. He laughed hysterically at you during your Iknimaya - which, you admit, wasn't a very graceful sight, however, you were still better than Jake, who barely made it out alive. During your acceptance ceremony, he stubbornly refused to extend a hand to your shoulder, until Moat, the clan elder, gave him a good smack.

It wasn't like you craved the future Olo'Eyktan's approval, and it didn't matter when the best warrior in the clan scowled at you when you acclaimed the largest play during your first hunting party.

At first, you thought it was a gender issue until Grace and Norm intricately explained that gender roles didn't exist in Na'vi culture. Now, you were certain Tsu'tey hated you.

When the tall, majestic blue man with lithe muscles and glistening skin does nothing but sneer at you, insult your wonky bow work, and talk smack about your human features, you have no choice but to stop trying to get his attention. A woman could only go so far, you had to remind yourself.

Now though, as you run away from the whizzing RDA machine, you wish Tsu'tey was here to fend it off. His skills never failed to raise goosebumps– he would surely collapse the robot in one swift move. Dodging burning trees and giant leaves, your legs ache for some rest. You heave a breath, collapsing on your knees when the buzzing sound of the engine fades away. Your body burns in painful throbs, but you're safe for now. You take this opportunity to get up with a grunt and push your earpiece for some reassurance.

Your plan is simple; locate Jake and Neytiri, kill Quaritch like a badass, win the war (and maybe gain the favor of Tsu'tey).

The painful moan that echoes off the earpiece makes you freeze. Chills run down your spine at the prospect of someone being hurt, or worse, dead.

"Help, agh - Sooly, Neytiri?" the voice croaks, pained and muffled. Your heart drops further down - all of the pain you previously felt diminishes in an instant. Tsu'tey was hurt and calling for help.

You raise two fingers to your neck and press, slow and cautious. "Where are you?"

When silence meets your ears, the thumping of your heart fills the space. After a long pause, Tsu'tey whispers, "Near cave Kelkuk'tel. Quick,"

As adrenaline surges through your body, your objective echoes loud in your head; find Tsu'tey. Your legs, once in pain, become numb while you sprint through the tall trees. Tsu'tey, Tsu'tey, Tsu'tey.

The view that meets your eyes makes your blood run cold; He's lying on the ground with his head propped on a rock, a bullet wound on his chest and blood drizzling down his intricate accessories. You quickly kneel before him and examine his wounds.

"Don't," he heaves for a moment, wide eyes darting around your face. "touch."

Your vision blurs with tears. You always regarded Tsu'tey as strong, beast-like, untouchable, and undefeatable. Seeing him in such a vulnerable position causes you to falter in your determination regarding the ongoing war. 

Quickly wiping under your eyes, you chuckle to hide the pain in your voice. "Fucking hell, Tsu'tey. You're unbelievable,"

He pinches his face, signature scowl decorating his features. You smile fondly, keeping a hand on his chest. "I will die here, it is the way."

"No, I'm not letting you die."

"No!" he grunts with gritted teeth. His pain is etched on his face as he struggles to breathe.

"You're so goddamn stubborn," you chastise, breaking off one of the large leaves that surround you and carefully wrapping his wound. It will have to make do for now until you get him to Mo'at.

Tsu'tey struggles to stop you, trashing around with the little remaining strength he has left. "Just let me save you, you utter asshat!"

"I do not know this," he starts, about to attempt the alien words when a coughing fit overtakes his chest. You panic, springing to action. You wrap his arm around your neck, position yourself so he's on your side, and pull him up with a raspy heave.

"Come on big guy, you're gonna be fine," you reassure, sweat running down your forehead. He's heavy, which was expected. You thought you could handle it, but as you struggle to walk through the heavy foliage, it becomes painful to ignore just how heavy he is. You push through though, groaning and moaning with wobbling legs ready to give out. Your entire body aches as you take a step - your back hunched and your face in a painful grimace.

"Ma ____?" the voice of Neytiri speaks through the earpiece. You curse under your breath, letting go of Tsu'tey's leg that you had perched on your waist for extra support.

"Yes, Neytiri. Do you copy?"

"____, we are victorious. We won against the sky people!"

The joy in her voice washes away all of the pain and exhaustion that held you captive moments ago. With a huge smile and surprised chuckle, you simply gawk at the surrounding forest.

"He's dead, ____! The bastard got what was comin' for him."

Jake's voice accompanies your earpiece and his smile is evident in his voice. With newfound motivation, the walk back to Spirit Tree feels all the easier. "Did you hear that? We won, big guy."

Tsu'tey makes no noise, you realize he passed out. Wincing, you quicken your step, the burn of your legs coming back to haunt you.

Living in a community where traditions are drastically important, saving Tsu'tey meant you snagged a title on your own; the privilege to be a member of Olo’eyktan’s right-hand soldiers– commandeered by yours truly, of course.

Yours truly, who is still passed out cold.

It has been exactly two weeks since Jake decreed that humans were to leave Pandora, and life has been nothing but peaceful. You accompanied Jake in his body transfer and were now a full-fledged Na'vi. You even had a kelku of your own, high in the trees. Jake insisted that you be neighbors.

The flow of life still seemed strange to you. The people would say you've adapted well to your duties and established a routine for your everyday life. However, whenever you closed your eyes, you still expected to wake up in the cold pod with the lingering blue lights and the muffled whizzing noises of the machine. It made you lose sleep, which was a problem because life started early in the Omaticaya.

In the crack ass of dawn, you would be in the nearby riverbank, washing your body for a fresh start of your day, and stretching your muscles for the upcoming work. The work, assigned to you by none other than the clan's tsahik, Mo'at. Saving Tsu'tey also meant that his recovery was partially your responsibility. The Na'vi believed that lest he didn't survive, you would have failed at saving him and shamed his honor. It was harsh, but it was the life of the most important warrior in your alien hands.

This morning is no different. Your responsibility is snoring softly next to Mo'at as she grinds some herbs into a fine paste.

You would rather be anywhere else than here, truly. However, Mo'at insisted that today was the day Tsu'tey would wake up. Not only that, but he would 'most definitely' want to thank his savior.  You firmly argued against the idea, because Mo'at hadn't seen you two interact.

Apparently, the Great Mother is an avid enjoyer of Tsu'tey's disinterest towards you, and she insisted to Mo'at that you be near him when he regains consciousness. Not being able to argue with the stubborn woman further, you complied.

Mo'at gently rubs the paste below Tsu'tey's nose, then chants some sort of a prayer. To your surprise, Tsu'tey's flat nose wrinkles, and after a pained groan leaves his body like it's been stored in there and irking to get out for weeks, he slowly cracks his big eyes open. They're still the same shade of beautiful amber, you note, like honey and gold. Calling them yellow eyes did him no justice.

"Couldn't you have done that earlier?" You say to Mo'at, gesturing the paste.

Tsu'tey sniffs, eyes darting around the kelku. Seemingly picking up a scent, your scent, his eyes land on you. You scramble towards him, kneeling beside his body and touching his arm, "Morning, big guy. How are we feeling?"

"Not bad, healed." He grunts, eyes darting to your palm encasing his shoulder. His muscles have deflated only slightly, but it was an easy fix for Tsu'tey. His body's warmer than usual, pliant under your fingertips.

You look at Mo'at and raise your brows. "Well, that's good to hear. Right?"

Mo'at nods once, then sits down next to you for some checkups. She asks him all sorts of questions and all the while he answers them, his eyes never leave you. You have no choice but to shy away from his gaze, the eye contact beginning to prickle your insides and cause your ear tips to grow hot. Tsu'tey still keeps looking though, burning your nape with nerves.

"You will rest for the next four days, no physical exercise - but you're free to go to your kelku."

Mo'at's all-knowing eyes survey you, "_____, help him."

Both you and the warrior’s eyes widen at the obscurity of Mo'at's request. Tsu'tey finally snaps his gaze away from you and gives the elder woman an incredulous look. "No! I can go on my own."

"The man says he can, who am I to argue?"

Tsu'tey scowls. "Finally, something we agree on, tawtute."

Your ears fold against your head when you hear the nickname. Mo'at notices and is graceful enough to intervene. "Arrogant child!" she chastises with a firm tone. "She is not a tawtute, but an important warrior of the people. Her effort will not be in vain by your rivalry - you will do well to acknowledge this."

Tsu'tey's head lowers as he mumbles out an apology. You've never seen the man look so small before, it feels weirdly satisfying. "It's fine, tsahik. You should've seen the-" You quickly stop, not wanting to dig Tsu'tey into a deeper hole. Mo'at narrows her eyes as she looks at the two of you, then ostensibly reaches a conclusion and ushers for you to leave.

You have no choice but to throw Tsu'tey's arm over your shoulder, contrary to his never-ending complaints. He insists that he can walk by himself, but when you let him, his legs wobble and he holds onto a nearby plant. 

"You'll recover eventually," you tell him, holding onto his arm that's over your shoulder again. "There's nothing to be ashamed about."

"There is," he hisses. "You do not get it. I should have been left to die an honorable death."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you faux innocence. "I must’ve misheard your cries for help."

Tsu'tey grumbles; a low sound in his chest. "I do not know what you speak of..."

You scoff, gently nudging his hip with yours. The expression he wears almost makes you snort, he looks deeply offended. Gritting his teeth, he nudges you back, though a little more harshly. You scoff all the same and nudge back once more.

The walk back to his kelku reminds you why you decidedly stopped acknowledging him. The childish hip nudge game between you never ceases as you try to heave him to his home. The man who’s leaning the entirety of his weight on your much smaller frame seems to have forgotten all the shame he was feeling moments ago– all too comfortable in your arms and determined to make you stagger.

Fumes of vetiver and smoked leather hit your nose when you enter through the flap of his home. Quick to direct Tsu'tey towards his unmade bed, you try your best to not glance around the interior and intrude any further. You're most likely an unwelcome guest in his intricately designed house, yet the itch to explore becomes almost unbearable.

Self-restraint has never been easy for you, but you manage to hold your head high and immerse yourself in the wellness of Tsu'tey. He's sitting on his nest, cross-legged, and gulping down the medicinal herbs Mo'at pre-admonished he drank. Your heart squeezes in your chest at his complete lack of decency. While you expected some sort of gratitude from the Na'vi man, he doesn't even look in your direction as you stand there.

The Na'vi prided themselves in their manners, and a proud Na'vi like Tsu'tey seemed to abandon all tradition when he was with you. You huff out a breath and put your hands on your hips. Tears threaten to spill, "You're horrible, Tsu'tey."

The crack in your voice alerts the man far more than you've expected. He's looking at you now, bandaged up and entirely too arrogant with his wide-eyed expression. Seeing him taken aback calms your aching chest, but his disapproval of you has already settled into your bones and has been eating away at your insides.

"Eywa, are you going to cry?"

Your lip wobbles when you hear his soft tone - a tone he never used with you before. The unfamiliarity of it all feels painful. "No..." you mutter, but the hot tears are already streaming down your face. "I saved your life and you didn't even thank me."

"I didn't ask for you to do that," he grunts, his scowl resurfacing again

"Yes, you did." You point a finger at him, gritting your teeth. "If it was Jake or Neytiri who saved you, you wouldn't be pulling this bullshit, would you?"

"I do not know this word, bullshit." his thick accent is evident when he attempts the unfamiliar word. In any other situation, you would laugh and make fun of him just as he had when he was teaching you Na'vi. Now though, your anger's consuming you - starting from your chest and growing until your blood turns a deeper shade of hot red.

You scoff, "You're avoiding the question."

Tsu'tey has the audacity to scoff back, standing up with a grunt. He makes no inclination to need your help, ever so stubborn-- so you merely watch him struggle. The visual is disturbingly satisfying. "I'm not wanting to answer." he answers in English.

You gawk at him, absolutely aggravated, and seconds away from wrapping your hands around his throat. It would be much easier to choke him out without his accessories...

In the earlier days of your Na'vi training, Tsu'tey wouldn't speak Na'vi with you unless it was completely necessary. It was his way of rejecting you amongst his people, and the action hurt much more than his scowls and hisses of discomfort. Reluctantly accepting you in his clan prompted him to abandon this habit, but it seems old habits die hard.

You swallow down the lump in your throat then take a deep breath to hold yourself back. "Will you stop being stubborn and act like an adult!"

Tsu'tey relents back to Na'vi. "Ha! Look who's talking."

The noise of frustration you let out makes his ears flicker. A smirk adorns his face, and the remains of his scowl make his expression seem devilish. 

He's proud, you think. He's making you angry, which is exactly what he wants.

"I'm talking, and you'll do well to answer me! What the hell is your issue, man?"

It's Tsu'tey's turn to gawk. He looks deeply offended that you're questioning him, yet impressed by your bravery. Nonetheless, he's angry. "How dare you take that tone with me! Do you not know who I am?"

You grimace at his pride -  it didn't matter to him that you saved his life and took care of him because his ego will always be in the way of his gratitude.

With this realization, you remove your filter of cordiality. "At this point, everyone knows who you are. You do well to remind them every single fucking day."

"Gah!" Tsu'tey stands up, but his wounds are a quick reminder of why he shouldn't. Stubborn that he is, he strides towards you and stops when your breaths intermingle intimately. "Watch what you say, it almost sounds like you're insulting my pride." he seethes.

"Wow! You're so smart, Tsu'tey." you say sarcastically.  "That's exactly what I'm doing." you finish obnoxiously. Tsu'tey hisses and you fight the urge to flinch.

"I was going to thank you ____," he spits your name like it's venom on his tongue. "But I've changed my mind. I don't thank immature girls who throw tantrums."

The irony of the situation makes you scoff and turn your head away. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting back tears. "I don't want your thanks, asshole. You know," you face him again, gritting your teeth. Your frustration makes your voice crack. "You're not all that. You don't get to insult me just because I wasn't Na'vi before."

He seems to be brooding, turning your words over and over in his mind until the edges are dull. "If you weren't Na'vi before, this wouldn't have happened." he points to his wounds, voice low.

"That's not my fault and you know it!" you poke a finger into his uninjured pectoral. It's firm and the action makes Tsu'tey's oh-so beloved scowl return.

"Watch where you touch girl," he warns, grabbing your hand.

You fight against his hold, squirming and desperately trying to break free. "Ugh, you're so frustrating!"

He grunts at your struggle then pulls your hand until you stumble upon his chest. The proximity of his face makes you gulp, you can smell the vetiver, the woody musk, and the medicine. All working together to dizzy your senses - the anger, the sadness, the yearning. His tone is hissed and low as he speaks. "Ever since you came to our clan you've been a constant aggravation."

"Good.". You stare back at him just as fiercely. "Re-dress your wounds yourself, since you're oh so resourceful."

With that, you turn on your heel and sharply close the flap of his marui. A much-needed breath enters your lungs and dizzies your head. You needed to clear your thoughts, ASAP.

You run to your kelku to grab your bow then stomp deep into the woods.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

If this isn’t specific enough if not pls just ignore this!! But i saw you were back and it made me so excited because I’ve missed you’re writing so much (it’s literally top notch) and you inspired me to start ACoTaR and OMFG I’m obsessed with the bay boys and was wondering how you think they’d be around there human soulmate like casual dominance to the max one of them would have to be with you at all times I feel like they’d be like “no baby let me do it” when ever you wanna do anything forget it if your hurt yourself while they’re not around they’ll be so upset

⁀➷ Nightborn Protectors // BatBoys (Acotar) x F!Reader

Summary: Your life was beginning to perfectly fall into place, especially when you're mated to three powerful Illyrians who would burn the world just to keep you safe. At first, their constant protection feels like overkill… until you realise that sometimes, being shielded is exactly what you need.

Requested by: My love, I absolutely loved this request. Thank you for sending it! I also fucking love that you have started acotar, it's the best right?!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, fluff, angst, teasing, alpha-batboys (showing off), possessive, protective, body worship, wrist injury, minor attack/threats, healing, threesome, oral (m receiving), rough sex, multiple orgasms

Words: 5.1k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The atmosphere was alive with soft, golden morning light spilling across the balcony, where the wind hushed through the curtains of The River House. The scent of coffee and something sweet wafted through the halls, mingling with the faint leather and metal scent that always clung to the males of the Night Court.

You were curled on the plush velvet chaise in the reading nook, sunlight catching the curl of your lashes, as you tried (for the third time) to lift a stack of books to reorganise the shelves. It had been your idea and project, something you’d been obsessively thinking about for weeks, but finally, you had the motivation to follow through with your plans.

What you hadn’t taken into account was the books themselves. The books were anxiety, heavy as stone, and you were barely halfway through the first shield before you heard the familiar, clipped thud of boots behind you.

Cassia, shirtless and smug, wings stretching behind him with a lazy ripple, leaned on the archway. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”

With a glance over your shoulder, you share a grin with your mate, pretending innocence. “Reorganising, obviously.”

Cassian’s brow arched. “Not with those little human arms, you’re not.”

“Cass-”

He was already across the room in three strides, plucking the books out of your arms like they weighed nothing. Casually, he tossed them gently onto a nearby table, turned you around, and lifted you into his arms like it was second nature.

Your mates were always like this. Teasing you, wanting to show their strength, their power. Using the excuse that you were human would sound condescending if it were anyone else, but it never was when it came from your mates. It was all to show off and treat you like their queen.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist. “I can do it myself!”

He smirked, “No, baby. Let me.”

Your bond with him shimmered like glitter in your chest, golden and sparking fire. His own glow pulsed in return, possessive, amused, and warm.

“You’re going to throw your back out again,” he teased, nose brushing yours.

“I did not throw my back out; you’re being dramatic, again.”

“You almost did.”

You rolled your eyes and rested your head against his chest. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, comforting, familiar. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Cassian chuckled and carried you into the training room, the floor below, where Azriel was already sharpening his blades.

The dark swirls of his shadows twisted toward you the moment you entered the room, skimming coolly against your skin like they missed you.

“Human pack mule today?” Azriel asked with his hidden sense of humour. He wasn’t even looking at you, assuming his little shadows whispered your current situation into his ear.

“She insists on lifting things, brother,” Cassian said solemnly, as if you had personally offended him. “As if she's not made of spun sugar and soft sighs.”

You stuck your tongue out at him whilst tugging on the low ponytail he had at the nape of his neck.

Azriels’ hazel eyes finally lifted to meet yours. “You smell like sunlight.” His shadows coiled tighter, floating across the edge of his wings. “And mischief.”

“Guilty,” you say, tilting your head back to stare at him.

Azriel finally lowers the weapons, steps forward, and takes your hand from Cass���s shoulder, brushing his lips over your knuckles. His touch is always ice cold due to the scars on his fingers, but it is needed, given how warm your body feels. 

“Next time, call me. Or the shadows. Or anything other than lifting ancient books.”

Cassian's arms tightened as he growled, “You told her she could lift them?”

Azriel raised an elegant brow, staring into the eyes of his best friend without a hint of fear. “I said she shouldn’t. She didn’t listen.”

Your mouth opens to retort, but Rrhysand appears in the doorway, his wings present, casting shadows across the floor. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and his signature smirk that could end empires.

“I bring offerings,” he announces, “ to my hardworking, book-hoarding mate and the two territorial bats who can’t go five minutes without fussing.”

“Rhys,” you sigh, delighted as he floats both mugs toward you with a flick of his fingers, showing off.

But when you reached out to take one, he suddenly reappeared by your side, his hand catching your wrist midair.

“Ah-ah.” Stepping closer, Rhys’s lips brush against your cheek. “No lifting. Didn’t Casian explain the new rule?”

“You’re being utterly ridiculous, High Lord. Anyway, I like carrying things. I’m not made of glass, you know.”

Rhys leans in, kissing your temple with care. “No. But you’re ours. And that’s more fragile than glass.”

The bond between you tugged tightly, a warm violet flame wrapping around your ribs, his presence sliding through your soul like silk and starlight.

You melted into him, resting your forehead against his whilst remaining in Cassian’s arms.

“I like it when you’re bossy,” you whispered.

He straightened his posture, nose brushing yours, “Careful. I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Cassian groans, “She does like it, I can smell her arousal every time you use that voice.”

“I do not-”

“Oh, you do.” Az’s shadows tangled around your legs, their version of a teasing nudge. “But we like it, too.”

You tried to stay grumpy. You really did.

But the three of them surrounded you, Rhys with his silk, Azriel with his shadows, Cassian with his grounding touch, and you felt like you were wrapped in the safest kind of armour.

Even if you could lift your own damn books, you let them fuss. You let them carry a coffee and smirk at each other like they’d won some ancient war over who could out-alpha the others.

Because you knew the hardships they’d endure in life and how much they deserved to be loved, if they wanted to show their love and caution to their human mate by fussing, you would damn well let them.

Mor, ever the nosy friend, peeks her head in later, seeing Cassian massaging your feet while Azriel lifts your drink to your lips, and Rhys is reading a book out loud. She nearly falls over laughing.

“I told you,” she snorted over her shoulder as Amren appeared. “You’ve spoiled her too much. She's going to forget how to walk.”

“Please,” Amren replies dryly. “She’ll weaponise it.”

You just grunt at them, completely content among your Illyrian mates. 

Later that afternoon, you found yourself nestled into a lounger on the balcony nursing a glass of piced wine with Mor and Amren flanking either side of you in their own chairs.

It had become a bit of a tradition, these slow, late afternoons spent watching the Illyrian males orbit around you. Cassian was sparring with Azriel in the courtyard below, shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles rippling as they moved with a grace that made even Mor whistle low under her breath.

“You know,” she said, sipping her wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen those three so obsessed with something before. You have them wrapped around your little finger.”

Biting your lip, you tuck your knees up under you. “They like doing things for me.”

Amren scoffed. “Like? Darling, they fall over themselves trying to impress you. You ask Rhys to pass the salt, and he makes it levitate into your hand with a bow. You so much as look at Cassian’s swift, and he’s offering to teach you ten new forms. Azriel won’t even let you open doors.”

Mor giggles. “I saw him growl at a poor steward who dared to open one for her once.”

“Growled?” you echo, not bothering to hide your grin.

“Growled,” Amren confirmed. “Those boys turn into beasts when it comes to you. And all because he thought someone else might take care of you before he could, it’s ridiculous.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and your heart beat harder, not just with affection but something deeper. That sacred bond between you and them thrummed in your chest like a second pulse, and in moments like this, when your friends teased you and the boys played at war below, it hit you just how rare and precious this life was.

Even for a human, so much more fragile and mortal compared to your friends and family. Yet they loved you like you were carved from stars.

Mor leans across the arm of the chair. " Do you want to test how far we can push them?”

Amren tries to hide her smirk around the rim of her drink. “Oh, please say yes. It’s boring around here without a little chaos.”

“Push them how?”

Mor grins wider, happy that you’re willing to entertain her idea. “Act helpless—just a little. Drop something. Pretend to shiver. Watch what happens.”

You laugh, head tilting back, “You’re evil, my friend.”

“We’re bored. Entertain us.”

With the glint of mischief lighting your spine, you rose from your chair and went to the balcony rail, where the boys were still mid-spar. You lean forward, ever so slightly over the railing and-

“Careful, sweetheart.”

Cassian’s voice booms across the courtyard, wings flaring wide like he’s a second away from flying towards you.

You blink innocently at him. “What?”

“That rail doesn’t look safe, and your centre of gravity is too sweet to be trusted.” He’s given up just watching and flies towards you, landing beside you, scooping you back from the edge and wrapping his arms around you from behind.”Don’t dangle. Illyrian air drafts are unpredictable.”

From below, Azriels gave you a knowing look and winked.

Cassian didn’t notice or say a word about how Mor was cackling behind you.

“This is going to be fun!” she exclaims.

Later, back inside, the teasing continued. You pretend not to be able to open a jar. Rhys appears instantly, eyes darkening with amusement, saying. “Here, darling. Let your High Lord mate assist.”

You sigh dramatically, leaning against the table whilst fluttering your lashes.

Azriel straightened every picture frame you touched, fixed your shoelaces, and insisted on tucking a blanket around your legs as you sat reading.

“They're obsessed,” Mor whispers gleefully, holding your outstretched arm. “Completely gone for you.”

Your gaze turns to the three males, quiet and alert, watching you from different angles.

Your heart ached for a moment because of how much you loved them. They adored you, and you worshipped them.

You hadn’t meant to go alone. You weren’t trying to prove anything, either. You just wanted to get a bottle of that rose-petal wine Rhys liked. A simple errand. One small task.

You slipped out before the boys returned from a meeting at a local Illyrian camp. Mor was busy with court business, and Amren was muttering about some ancient artefact in the study. It was supposed to be a dinner treat: a quick trip down the winding streets of Velaris to the little merchant outside Rita’s.

Only the sun was setting, and Rita’s was loud. The crowds and music thrummed against your bones. The customers spilt out over the cobbled street, the laughter bubbling in the twilight air.

You had to pass close to the edge of the building to avoid the commotion, and that's when you felt it.

A hand on your arm. Too tight. Too rough and very much unwanted as you’re tugged into the slip of alleyway between Rita’s and the merchant, away from most prying eyes.

You turn abruptly, blinking up into the face of a tall, tanned Illyrian male with scarred cheeks and cruel eyes, stinking of alcohol and grinning in a way that unsettles your stomach.

“Well, well,” he slurred, breath sharp and bitter. “Didn’t think they made little playthings like you anymore.”

You swallowed to try to coat the dryness in your throat, ignoring how your stomach flipped. Tugging on your arm, you kept your voice steady and firm. “Let go.”

He didn’t. “Come on now. A little thing like you shouldn’t be out here alone. Not safe for humans, is it?”

The words he was spewing would have had you laughing at any other time. Velaris was one of the safest places for you to be, especially in Rita’s, which was a safe space for you and your friends many times. This relates to you being human, but the fact that you were mates with three members of the inner circle, let alone the High Lord himself, shows that you were loved by the people living in Velaris and treated with respect.

Respect that this male wasn’t giving you, as he’d flown in from a camp nearby.

“I’m not interested, so let me go,” you say, trying to stay calm and muster the energy that Rhysand would give.

The male’s grin widens threateningly, “But I am.”

His hand moved to your waist, where it should not have been. And as you jerked away, his fingers closed around your wrist, hard, snapping a shock of pain up your arm. You cried out, gasping in pain.

Over the pain, warmth sparked to life in your chest from the bond as your pain and fear flowed through to your mates.

But they were already there, flying like black lightning strikes.

Cassian lands first, like a storm slamming into the stone, with enough force that cracks form beneath his knee. One moment, the Illyrian was sneering down at you, and the next, he was gone, hurled backwards with a thunderous crack as Cassian punched him in the centre of his face.

“You put your hands on her?” His voice was a snark. “You touched my mate?”

Azriel appeared next, shadows writhing like angry serpents. He stood beside you, instantly shielding you with one arm around your shoulders, scanning your face, body, and wrist. His voice was deadly.

“You hurt her.”

“She’s just-”

“You hurt her.”

Azriel drew Truth-Teller from his thigh sheath, the blade’s silver edge catching the light from Rita’s window.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was your mate-”

“She didn’t need to”, Rhysand demanded from the sky, descending like a god of night. Wings stretched, face cold. Power was rolling off of him in waves, ripping through the stones beneath your feet as the bleeding male dropped to his knees, begging to the cauldron.

“She is ours,” Rhys said, quiet and terrible. “And you laid your hands on her.”

The male tried to scramble away. Rhys didn’t let him. He waved his hand, and the Illyrian's body lifted off the ground, magic wrapping around him like iron chains. He choked as he floated midair, suspended like an insect as his eyes suddenly glazed over. Rhys was in his mind.

Cassian’s voice was a low growl. “You want him dead?”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows had already started pulling tighter around the male’s throat, like they also were trying to protect your honour.

“Not here,” Rhys said with a cold smile as he delved through the male's mind, finding every secret, every weakness this Illyrian had. “Take him to the dungeons. I want to look him in the eye when I decide how to end him.”

Azriel and Cassian flanked the still man, taking an arm each before disappearing into the skies.

Rhysand finally turned to you, “Let me see your wrist.”

You hesitated. The pain was duller now, but it was still there, blooming just beneath the skin and travelling the length of your forearm.

He took your hand so gently that it almost made you cry.

A cool shimmer of his magic curled around your wrist, settling into the bone and muscle, warming until the pain and ache completely faded.

“You healed it,” you said, obviously, confounded, as you wiggled your fingers, bending your wrist with ease.

“I’ll always heal you,” he promises, looking down at you with his brows furrowed with lingering anger. “But Cauldon, help anyone who ever gives me reason to do so.”

Rhys lifts your palm to his mouth, kissing it gently and resting it against his cheek, closing his eyes and having a moment. “We should’ve been with you.”

“I thought it was just a quick errand, I didn’t need you to go to the shop, Rhysand.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked beneath your palm as you ran your thumb across his cheekbone. “It doesn’t matter. From now on, you don’t go alone. Not even to the end of the street.”

The fierce pulse of the bond tugged in the centre of your chest. You could feel it, their guilt, their rage and their love. It wrapped around you like a blanket too heavy to shake off. 

Not that you’d want to. You let it cocoon you.

Back at the River House, everything felt softer. Slower.

Rhysand had refused to let you walk home. One arm supporting your back and the other beneath your knees as he carried you in his arms, flying the two of you home. 

Azriel and Cassian hadn’t returned, but you could feel their reassurance through the bond.

Rhys had settled you onto the sofa in the sitting room, wrapping you in Azriel’s favourite cashmere blanket, before pouring tea. His magic still hummed faintly against your skin, reminding you how close you’d come to worse.

The front door slammed open, and you immediately knew it wasn’t your mates storming in.

“I heard,” Mor snapped, striding like a golden storm in heels and fury. “Tell me that fucked is dead.”

Amren followed, her eyes glowing silver. “Or give me what’s left. I want to play Rhysand.”

You blinked up at them, blowing on the tea in your hands, “I’m okay.  Rhys healed me, stand down, ladies.”

Your attempt at trying to jest was swiftly brushed aside as Mor dropped to her knees before you, eyes flicking over every inch before resting on your wrist, like she could see Rhys’ magical imprint on your skin. “Your wrist?”

“Better, truly,” you reassured softly, lowering the mug onto the table to the side of the sofa, rotating your wrist to show it was fine.

Amren cross her arms. “Better doesn’t mean he shouldn’t choke on his own spine.”

“She’s safe now,” Rhys spoke calmly but with authority, stepping behind the couch to rest a hand on your shoulder. “Cassian and Azriel are locking him in the lower levels.”

“I’ll join them,” Amren said, already turning.

Mor kisses your cheek, her voice tight with barely contained wrath. “I’ll bring wine. Then we’re going to carve that bastard’s name out of the records like he never existed.”

You gave them a small smile, touched despite the violence threaded through their words. “Thank you.”

“You’re ours as well, you know,” Amren’s voice floats from the doorway. “And no one touches what’s ours.”

As they swept out, you released a long, deep breath that you hadn’t realised you had been holding as Rhys moved to sit beside you, his hand brushing your thigh over the blanket.

“How are you feeling, darling?”

“Fine, I just wanted to go and get you a little surprise with your favourite wine, I didn’t mean to be reckless.”

Rhys’s hand slid to cup your cheek, tilting your face towards him as you gaze into his violet eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He did.”

“I know. I just hate that you had to come save me again.”

A new voice, low and gravelly, came from the doorway.

“We live to save you.”

Cassian, with Azriel over his shoulder. Both were standing there, framed by the fae lights on the walls, wings tucked in tight, and the fighting leathers still dusted from the dungeons. There was blood on Cassian’s knuckles.

When your eyes met his, the tension in his body broke. You rose from the couch, blanket slipping from your lap. He crossed the room in two strides and caught you in a crushing hug, burying his face in your neck.

“I’m okay,” you reassure, threading your fingers into his hair and holding him tightly. Azriel steps up to your back, needing to touch you to ensure you’re okay. Reaching back, you cup the back of his head. “Because of you.”

You look at them, your Illyrian mates. Something deep shifted in your heart. A need. A purpose. They fought for you every day. Now it was your turn to worship them.

Turning in Cassian’s arms, he cuddled his jaw. His eyes widened just slightly, startled by the change in your soft and intent expression.

“Let me take care of you now.”

Those hazel eyes widen, “What?”

“I want to show you what you are to me. To all of you.”

Rhys’s breath hitched. Azriel went still, and Cassian’s gaze darkened. “You sure?”

You nod slowly. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”

The door clicked shut behind Cassian as you stood in the middle of the bedroom, bare feet on the plush rugs, wrapping in only one of Rhysand’s robes.

Closing your eyes for a single moment, concentrating on the humming in your chest, like a second heartbeat, the bond gave a comforting tug toward your mates.

They were close by. Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel. Three of the most powerful males in all of Prythian. Lethal, strong and right now, watching you like they were the lucky ones. But you were and needed to prove how much they meant to you.

“I want to worship you. All of you. You’re mine, and I need you to feel that, after everything you’ve been doing for me, always done for me, protecting and caring, I need to do this for you.”

Rhysand’s smile just falters, but it is noticeable to you. Azriel’s shadows stilled. Cassian’s jaw flexed as he stepped closer.

“You’ve had a rough night,” Rhy said, voice like midnight smoke, trying to sound reassuring. “We should be the ones-”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him. “Tonight is mine. You give me everything. You are everything to me. Let me show you.”

Then you dropped to your knees in front of them, removing the robe until you were bare before them.

Their silence was thunderous. Cassian’s cock visibly hardened, straining against his leathers. Azriel’s breath hitched, his wings expanding slightly. Rhysand’s eyes went nearly black.

“Fuck,” Cassian muttered lowly, taking a step forward. “You trying to kill us?”

You smile in response, leaning on your knees and reaching for him. Hands slow as you unbuckle his uniform, reaching inside to free his cock. He was thick, flushed and heavy in your palm. You licked a long, slow stripe up the length of him, eyes locked on his.

“Cassian,” you speak against his length, using your hand to move up and down the shaft in firm tugs. “You are the shield. The reason I can breathe easily. You’d burn the world to keep me safe, I just wish I could protect you the same. I love your strength, but it’s your heart that undoes me. So let me undo you.”

He groans, hips twitching as you take him as deep as your body will accept, tongue swirling around the head before bobbing lower. Your lips stretched wide, spit slicking your chin as you gagged around him, throat tightening, loving the weight of him against your tongue.

“So perfect,” you whispered against the tip of him. “Big, beautiful, yours. I love how you taste. Long how you feel in my mouth, Cass.”

“Fucking hell, Sweetheart,” he growled. “Your mouth’s made for this- mine.”

His hands fisted at his sides, the strain obvious as his hair falls into his eyes that are still staring at only you.

“I want you to come,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Come for me, Cassian, give it to me.”

With a curse, a steady hand resting on the back of your head, he spilt hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed every drop of his salty goodness, moaning as you did so. As he eases out of your both, you kiss his hipbone, praising him through it, licking him clean until he nearly trembles from the stimulation.

Cassian steps back, brushing his fingers through his hair until it’s out of his eyes and collapses back into the armchair by the roaring fire.

Azriel. He’s watching and waiting on the edge of the bed, his eyes fierce with emotions that he rarely verbalises, not that he’d need to, you can sense, feel how he feels. You crawl to him, ignoring the ache in your knees. Slower this time, your fingers run over his powerful thighs, palming his cock through his pants, feeling it throb in response.

“Az. I see all of you. I feel you. And I love every scar, every shadow, every silent part of you. Protecting us even without being physically there.”

He swallows, and you marvel at the sight of his beautifully tanned throat bobbing at the effort. A single finger runs from your temple, over your cheeks and to your chin, tipping it up whilst wiping some saliva from your time with Cassian.

“I need you.” his voice is rough and low, and your core tightens as the huskiness builds. In moments like this, his tough exterior shatters, becoming raw with his emotions.

You freed him and gasped softly- Cassian was thick, but Azriel had length, already leaking and pulsing in your hand. You licked the tip, catching the precum quickly, moaning at the taste, salty like Cassian but somehow having a unique taste. Sldiing him into your mouth as far as you could, tears burning your eyes as he fills your throat.

Azriel’s hands were firm as he brushed over the back of your head in reassuring strokes of his fingers.

“Don’t hold back, Az, use my mouth, I can take it.”

A shudder runs through him. “Please. Fuck-please,” he grunts out, head tipping back so you can admire more of his beautiful throat as he begins to thrust up into your mouth.

You worked him faster, worshipfully, loving how he lost control. You weren’t able to take much into your mouth without gagging so used your hand to stroke the rest of his cock.

When he came, it was with a breathtaking moan, shadows curling tight around your shoulders like an embrace, encouraging your actions as you swallowed every drop until he was slumping back onto the bed.

Rhysand was ready for you, where he was leaning against the wall, watching as you cared for his best friends. His cock was already out, his leathers resting mid-thigh as it had been obvious he’d been touching himself with the way his cock gleamed with the spread precum.

You’d intended to give him a similar treatment, but the High Lord was impatient as he moved towards you, tugging gently on your wrist as he sat further up the bed, resting against the headboard.

“You are my heart, Rhysand. My mind. My breath. Everything I am exists because you let me free.”

“The stars, the sky- I’d tear the world apart for you. I can’t-I need to be inside you,” Rhys rasped, helping you to climb into his lap, thighs straddling his waist, arms around your waist.

You guided him in slowly, gasping at the stretch. Rhys groaned, burying his face in your neck as you sank inch by inch, until he was fulyl seated inside your cunt. It was perfect, he was perfect.

“You feel like fucking heaven. So wet, so fucking tight. So mine.”

You rocked against him, arms around his shoulders, nails digging in as you moaned his name.

“You are mine and I am yours.”

Hearing your possessive words had his hips thrusting hard into you, his cock throbbing and balls tightening and from the moan you were sure he was already close.

“Not yet, let me just–”

Your hips continued to ease up and down, knocking the tip of his cock against that perfect spot, pushing your hips just slightly forward so that you could add pressure to your clit against his abdomen.

You kissed him then, tongues tangling together, so filthy and slow. Rhys whimpers into your mouth.

Then Cassian and Azriel were back, climbing onto the bed on either side of you, as naked as you were, watching as you rode their High Lord.

“Please come inside of me, Rhys,” you beg, cupping his cheeks so that you could stare into his eyes. You could tell he was still trying to hold back, but you didn’t want to wait; you needed to feel him fill you up.

“Shit-Fuck!” When he came, he sobbed your name, the bed trembling in time with his body.

You collapsed against his chest, breathing hard, pussy tightening and throbbing as his cum seeped out of you.

Cassian was behind you instantly, dragging you back onto your hands and knees.

“My turn, again,” he growled as you push your hips back.

He slammed into you. You screamed, back arching, and Rhys caught your hand and laced your fingers together as your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the welcome intrusion.

Azriel kissed your shoulder, your throat, your mouth, drinking down your pathetic whimpers.

Cassian fucked you like he owned you. A man without restraint, and every thrust of his hips was possessive.

“Tell me you’re mine, say it, sweetheart.”

“Yours, always yours,” you cry.

Rhys watched, stroking himself slowly as his cock thickened once more. Azriel leans down, whispering into your ear, “Open your mouth.”

You obey happily, and he fed you his cock again as Cassian drilled into you from behind. Your body shook with the force of it. Chin covered in spit and precum, your cunt soaked with arousal and cum. 

You’d nearly stopped breathing when you came, vision darkening for a second as your entire body tensed, cunt pulsing in waves.

Rhys doesn’t miss a beat and flips you onto your back, Azriel pulling your thighs wide apart as Rhys slides back into your soaked, fluttering cunt.

“Gotta keep you full,” Rhys promises. “You’ll never forget who you belong to.”

You’d not even noticed through your pleasure that Cassian had come with you, but he was there, holding your hands like Rhys had been. Azriel straddled your chest, not resting his weight on you but just so he could lean over your head, gentle hands cupping yoru cheeks as he fucks your mouth again. 

You let them take everything. Your moans echoed, mixed with theirs. Hands touching every inch of you, entirely owned by them. You came over and over until you were barely conscious, too blissed out to even move your body anymore with how good you felt.

Then things slowed, the touches lightened until everyone had found their peaks.

When it was over, they cradled you between them like something sacred: Cassian holding your trembling legs, Azriel wrapped around your side, and Rhys with his hand over his chest.

“I love you,” you say barely loud enough for them to hear, but they do.

“We can feel it here,” Rhys responds, tapping his hand to the centre of his chest.

“Sleep, love”, Azriel instructs, tightening his hold on you.

“You gave us everything. Now it’s our turn to take care of you, always.”

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐫 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲- 𝐀.𝐇.

Pairing- Aaron Hotchner x Girly!Assistant!Reader

WC- 7.5k (LORDDDD) (literally belle shut up challenge level impossible)

Summary- With your birthday around the corner, you decide to throw a blowout bash. The people you work with have no idea how to let go. Least of all your boss, Aaron Hotchner. Yet, he doesn't show.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, angst to fluffy smut(ish), girly!reader, reader has long hair she can run her fingers through, spicy but no explicit smut (still 18+ tho don't play), non-explicit sex scene, reader standing on business, discussions of Hotch and Haley's divorce

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !!

The satisfying click of your white kitten heels fill the hallway as you bounce off the linoleum tiles. You’re in a delicate balancing act, juggling a tray of your famous cupcakes as well as glittery pink invitations. Gold lettering splays across the front ‘You’re Invited!’ They’re cheesy little things you had made at the local print shop, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your gloomy office needs some cheer. 

You push the door open with your hip, backing into the room with small little steps as you enter the BAU. Your instantly relieved by a pair of strong arms guiding your through the doorway. “Got it, sugar?” Derek’s voice asks, his hands hovering in precaution. 

“I am just fine! Here! Take one!” You set the cupcake tray down, plucking one out for him, handing it to him with an invitation. His brow quirks, a small smile rising on his lips.

 “What’s all this for?” He asks, bemused. 

“Well, my birthday is coming up, so I thought I’d have a big, blowout, bash! It’s been too long since you guys loosened up, really got to let go and have fun!” You squeal, stepping back slightly as the rest of the team quickly finds the dessert. Like bees to honey, you like to say. 

“So, you decided that instead of celebrating yourself, to insist on us celebrating you?” Emily inquires around a mouthful of cupcake. 

“Pretty much!” You pinch her cheek affectionately, and she giggles. Your gaze turns ever so slightly, catching the window of your boss’ office. Bile rises in your throat. He won’t be so easy to coax out. Both now, and to the party itself. The mere thought of it makes you nauseous. 

Emily saddles up beside you, lightly nudging her elbow with yours. She nods to Aaron’s office, and blood rushes to your cheeks. Your gaze drops to the ground, which you scuff with the bottom of your shoe. You lift your head up, your hair falling down your shoulders like a waterfall. 

“He in?” You ask, resuming your naturally bubbly state, a wide smile plastered over your anxiety. 

“Yup, when is he not?” Emily responds, curious, like a cat. You snap out of your anxious state, giving a playful shrug. You bat your lashes and turn, grabbing the tray and remaining invitations. 

“Hey, I wanted seconds!” Spencer calls after you. You roll your eyes, your clicking heels once again the only noise as you walk away. It’s no secret who you’re going to see. 

Aaron’s office door is slightly ajar, so you enter the same way you did earlier, by hip. His brow quirks upon your arrival, but you don’t forget to clock the way his eyes catch you, scanning up and down your frame. You wore one of your favorite dresses today, a pink, ruffly number that resembles a sunset. It cascades down your body like it was made for you. By the way Aaron’s looking at you, he thinks so, too. The way he looks at you is electric, like a bolt of lightning cracking your spine as you take each other in. Your breath shortens, catching in your throat at the sight of his tired, brown eyes. 

“Hey, big guy,” you lilt, your voice in its usual effervescent tease. You don’t miss the way he flushes down to his neck at the nickname. 

“What is this all about, hm?” he raises a brow, his voice smooth like silk. His eyes widen as you set down the tin of cupcakes, revealing their chocolatey goodness to him. His favorite. You hand him an invitation, nerves bubbling in your stomach as he reads it over. Your cheeks heat, like you’re 17 again waiting for an invite to the prom.

Then, he glances up at you. There’s a sparkle in his eye when he looks at you. You’re not sure if he knows it’s there, but you cherish it. You cherish the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, the world. You cherish the way not a single other colleague receives the exact gaze you do, soft, patient, kind. It’s your best kept secret. 

You breathe out a sigh at that look, relief washing over you like fresh sunlight. 

“Did you make these? They’re beautiful,” he inspects the card in his hands, and your heart thuds against your ribcage, nerves buzzing once again. His nonchalance is like a tightrope, inching you closer either to safety or certain death. 

“Thank you,” you reply. It’s quiet. You’re afraid that if you raise your voice, your heart will come out of your throat. “I make them all myself.”

You settle on his desk, resting a light hip on it while you watch him intently. He studies you, eyes flitting over your face as he takes in the glitter of your eyeshadow, the soft swipes of gloss on your lips. His own are parted, tongue peeking out in a tantalizing way that sets your heart aflame. 

You raise a brow, asserting an effective upper hand. You watch his brow go soft, and you know you have him. It doesn’t take much for you to convince him. Of anything, really. Since you started working for him, he’s taken actual time off (rarely, but he has), eats dinner at a regular time each night, and manages to get a little more sleep. The team calls it witchcraft, sorcery. You’d call it the sheer force of the desire to keep the man you’re deeply in love with alive and healthy. That’d be too complicated, though, so you bat your lashes and accept their praises. 

“That’s really incredible,” it’s soft, his tone. Gentle and low in a way that’s reserved only for you, for these quiet moments in his office. Whether you’re talking about a case, your weekend plans, or the next set of nails you’re getting, he saves this special cadence just for you. Smooth and velvety, liquid chocolate spilling from his tongue. 

“Thank you,” your eyes glimmer as you shift on his desk ever so slightly. Your hip pops toward him in a way that has him licking his lips. Confidence surges through, you sit up taller. “Will you be there?” You bat your lashes, your prettiest doe eyes on full display. “It would mean everything to have you there.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Yay!” You squeal, hopping off his desk. You fix him a cupcake, taking the last one on the tray and placing it delicately on a pink napkin. 

“You’re only allowed to eat this if you’ve had lunch. Have you?” You’re all business again, in the blink of an eye. You poise a sassy hand on your hip, your brow arching. 

“I had a piece of toast and a pickle,” he admits. It’s sheepish, and you roll your eyes. 

“That’s a disgusting combo. Have another piece of toast before you eat that,” you roll your eyes playfully before stalking off. A barely audible ‘yes, ma’am’, follows you out. You pause, smiling to yourself before heading to your desk. 

“You really think he’s gonna show?” Penelope asks, her tongue swirling around her third daiquiri of the evening. You sigh, popping your hands on your hips as you take a step back from your large window, inspecting your decorative work. 

It’s the night before your big party, an event you normally thrive on hosting. Now, though, it’s the cause of the anxiety sparkling inside you, like your heart’s swimming in carbonated water. You adjust the rollers in your hair, the fluffy sleeves of your pink silk robe falling to your elbows as you do so. 

You center yourself for a moment, focusing on the comforting way the delicate fabric frames your body, falling over your tank top and sleep shorts. You wiggle your feet, currently stuffed into pink bunny slippers. Your gaze finds the moon, full and round, you absorb it. You welcome anything that helps you not crush under the debilitating weight of your affections for Aaron Hotchner. 

“I don’t know! He told me he’d be there!” Your voice is antsy, you wring your hands together with a small smile on your face that doesn’t reach your eyes. While Penelope’s brilliant, she’s not a profiler. She’s also drunk. You pray these two things add up in your favor.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw him go out. Not since the divorce, but if he were for anybody, it’d be for you. That much I know,” she pats a supportive hand on your shoulder, though it does nothing to quell the nausea that comes from the d-word. 

You’d been a strong reliant for your boss while he’d finalized his divorce, almost a year ago now. Getting him late night coffees, sitting on the couch in his office while he completed paperwork, bringing in little treats just to make him smile. They always did, everything you did garnered a smile out of him. 

That’s why you were teased in your first week on the job, after you’d questioned the team’s comments about their stoic leader. “He smiles all the time, what are you guys talking about?” Their sarcastic grins and chuckling was the first time you were fully aware that the relationship you had with your boss was…different than the others. The amount of time that’s passed since then, the bond you’ve made with your boss, makes your head spin.

Still, you aimed to be respectful everyday. No matter how many details you knew about his issues with Haley, the stress of taking care of Jack while he was away, you kept a professional distance. You would not cross that line. In the year since he’d taken the ring off, though, it’s been…different. A wall has come down, a layer unshed. You don’t know what to do with it, with him. 

“Hey, does this look good over here?” Emily calls, snapping you out of your Aaron-induced haze. You plaster another smile on your face, though this time it’s not too difficult. You were thankful to merely witness J.J. propping Emily up on a stool so she can pin a pink disco ball in the center of your expansive living room. Relief washes over you, the love for your friends momentarily distracting you from the ache in your chest. 

“Looks great, thanks Em!” you pat her ass playfully, laughing when she squeals. 

“Anything for you, my darling!” She calls after you as you make your way through the living room to the kitchen, grabbing your own glass of the elixir that now has Penelope fully slumped forward on your kitchen island. 

“Pen? You good?” You nudge her slightly, and she jumps at the contact. 

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah, I’m great! Cool as a cucumber!” She adjusts her own pajamas, a buttery yellow silk set that comes with a matching eye mask. 

You laugh, shaking your head as you pour your own drink. “You really think Aaron will come tomorrow?” You ask her, your voice is meek. You hate it, that this is what he does to you. 

“I would be truly shocked if he didn’t, my sweet,” she answers, and though her words are slightly slurred, her tone is serious. You smile. 

“I agree!” Emily calls, walking into the kitchen to refill her own cup. J.J. trails behind her, nodding emphatically. 

“I mean, have you heard anyone else here call him Aaron? Like…ever?” J.J. says. You jokinglya move your head side to side, rattling the thought around your head. They all giggle at your response, and your cheeks heat up. You rest your chin on your shoulder, avoiding eye contact with the giddy group. 

“He’ll show. Don’t even worry about it,” J.J. states, the others nodding in agreement. 

You blow out a sigh, downing the rest of your drink in one swig. 

The bass from the speaker reverberates through your house, the walls nearly shaking from the vibrations. You’re only slightly tipsy, a bit dizzy as you slide open the glass door leading to the patio. Nearly every square inch of the pool is full of people, bodies bobbing around, elbows above water to preserve red solo cups. 

The wind blows through your hair, your eyes falling shut. You try to bask in it, absorb the setting sun as you had with the moon the night before. It’s not working. Aaron still hasn’t shown. Your attempts to not get upset about it are weak, feeble, an embarrassment. You thought fresh air would do you some good, but now, in your tipsy, clouded haze, you scan the crowd of faces. Some of them you know, most of them don’t. Above all else, you still don’t see the one you want. You feel stupid for thinking you would. Your heart splinters, cracks in the foundation breaking the whole. 

You sit on the porch step, your face falling to your hands. What’s wrong with you? Throwing parties is like a love language to you- Gatsby himself would be jealous. It’s not atypical for friends of friends of friends to find themselves in your yard. Tonight, though, you’re upset. Upset that none of them are there for you. Upset that you don’t even matter. Upset that the one person who could fix this feeling hasn’t shown. He isn’t here for you. After everything, everything you have done for him. After he promised. Tears prick the insides of your eyes, and you release a shuddering breath.

“Hey, Party Princess!” You look up to find Penelope, arm in arm with Derek. Both of them look a bit too drunk for their own good. Penelope’s face falls immediately upon seeing your teary gaze, your pouty lips. 

“Oh angel! What’s going on?!” She squeaks, sitting down beside you immediately. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, and you lean into them instinctively. 

“Someone special not here, pretty girl?” Derek asks, crouching down to meet your eye level. The acknowledgement of your situation only makes the tears fall. 

Penelope forces your head parallel to the ground. “Look down! Don’t let the tears streak your makeup!” You release a wet laugh at that, inspiring laughter from Derek and Penelope as well. You can hear the relief in theirs, that Aaron Hotchner hasn’t rendered you incapable of laughter. 

You feel Derek’s hand over the expanse of your shoulder, a warm, comforting grip that soothes you only slightly. Your gaze is still on the concrete, shame creeping up your spine at your emotions. “I’m sorry, guys,” you splutter, tears falling faster now. 

“No! No, don’t apologize,” Penelope squeals, finding a tissue in her bag and handing it to you. “Blot those pretty eyes, hon, and let’s go dance! Don’t spend your birthday crying over some guy!” 

You do as she says, closing your wet eye so your lash meets the tissue, small bits of mascara left as residue. You finally lift your head up, meeting Derek’s gaze. “There she is!” He smiles, “the most beautiful girl in Quantico.”

“Hey!” Penelope smacks his bicep. He laughs, holding a hand there in a show of faux pain. 

“Sorry, one of the two most beautiful women in Quantico,” he responds, walking backwards to the bar. He grabs you a shot of tequila, your favorite, and propositions you. 

“That’s much better,” Penelope smirks, satisfied. She moves from beside you, ready to assemble a lime and some salt. You stop her, a hand to her forearm. “No need.” You throw back the shot, your head tilting all the way back as you down the burning liquid. It singes your throat, and you wiggle your head from side to side as it goes down. 

That same counterfeit smile curls your lips, your eyes just as sad as they were before. “Let’s party!”

Aaron Hotchner  is a piece of shit. He knows this. His ex-wife knows this. Hell, Jack probably knows it, too. But now she knows it, and for some reason, that’s his final straw. He stands at her front porch, suit jacket long abandoned, tie forcefully loosened from hours of hunching over his desk. His hair is messy, thanks to his fingers running through it every 5 minutes. The bags under his eyes have darkened throughout the night, and he can tell from his reflection in the window that he looks like hell. The last place he should be is at a party, let alone this party.

He takes in her expansive house, a gift she inherited from her parents once they moved to Calabassass, she told him once. The front is made of classic white stone, a baby blue trim framing the door and windows. It looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years, only to fine tune and keep it looking pristine. Though, the perfection on the outside provides a direct contrast to what little he can see going on inside. He has a view of the kitchen from where he stands, empty beer cans line the kitchen island, pink streamers and popped balloons litter the floor. 

He sees the outline of someone familiar enter the kitchen. Penelope, if the bouncing blonde hair streaked with hot pink was any indicator. He watches as she stumbles about, a large figure, Derek, holding her up by the elbows as she attempts to make a mixed drink. He hopes it’s not for herself. He then realizes what a creep he must look like, a dark figure standing alone in front of a house that’s not his, staring in the window at a party he failed to attend. He turns, ready to leave, firm in his decision that this was all a big mistake to begin with. 

He stops, though from the opening of the door. He whips his head around, relief and disappointment washing over him to see Emily. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if it had been her opening the door. Fall to his knees, grovel, probably. His cheeks tint a bright red at her knowing, disappointed stare. “You fucked up tonight, Hotchner,” her affirming tone washes over him like he’s been dipped in acid, singeing his skin and finding its way to his guts. He’s nothing but a puddle. 

“Where is she?” He asks. It’s meek, feeble. A tone nobody he’s ever worked with heard him use. Emily raises her brow at that, both in shock and suspicion. 

“The backyard, near the pool. She’s had a lot to drink, though. So be careful. You may not be someone she wants to see right now.” Emily’s pitiful smile only makes him feel worse. He can’t leave now that he’s been spotted, though. It would catapult him from normal amounts of jackass to the jackass Olympics, something he’d never be able to recover from. Not when it comes to her. 

He follows Emily in, the remnants of what seemed like a blowout bash now diluted to a handful of bodies in each room. Most of them are the team, who are shooting him looks of shock and pity as he makes his way through the house. His heart beats through his ears as he slides the glass door open, stepping under the pink balloon arch to find her. 

She’s sitting alone on the edge of the pool, her feet dipping in slightly. He takes her in, giving him a brief moment of selfish reprieve before she sees him, before he has to confront the ways in which he’s broken her heart tonight. A floral pink dress flows around her, the sleeves billowing in the wind. The ruffles of the tiered dress are bunched around her hips as she sits, the hemline raised to prevent wetting the fabric. She’s a vision, the pale moonlight ghosting over her frame like a spotlight made just for her. His heart breaks. All of this, and he’s left her so lonely. He is a piece of shit. 

The creak of the porch step calls her attention, her head swinging around her shoulder to see who’s come to join her. The look on her face as she sees him…it’s too much to put into words, even for a profiler as experienced as Aaron. He watches each emotion cross her face. Her instinctual reaction was relief, her eyes brightening like a lightning flash through his heart. Her brows furrow soon after, discontent clouding her features. Anger is soon to follow, the pink gloss on her lips shining as they curve downward. 

She lands on anger. Stays there as she moves to stand, not caring where the water splashes as she swings her feet out of the pool. She stomps over to him, feet smacking against the pool deck as she barrels into him. The force is light, her drunken state impacting the collision. He still stumbles a bit, catching both her and himself as they tumble. 

“Where were you?!” she spits, the fire in her eyes paralyzing. He’s speechless. “I waited for you! I waited for you all night! You said- you said you’d be there! You promised!” Her voice gets louder with each syllable, her fists colliding into his chest with each breath. She turns, walking toward the water once more. 

He follows slowly, tentative. His hand reaches to her elbow, fingers lightly touching the skin. She turns, smacking his hand away. He flinches at the sudden contact, not expecting such force from her. “No!” She exclaims. Tears prick her eyes now, her hand is shaking as she holds up a finger in his face. Aaron’s heart splinters at the sight, guilt searing his veins like a deadly disease. 

“You don’t get to touch me, you don’t get to act like you’re the victim here. You. Didn’t. Show.” She spits, venom punching every word. He can see the group forming at the door out of his peripheral vision. It’s just the team, thankfully. Though he knows he’s lost this right, he’s relieved random strangers aren’t privy to his colossal fuck up. 

“God, I feel so fucking stupid!” She exclaims, running ten fingers through perfectly tousled hair. “Sitting here in this dress, that I picked out for you, at this party, that I only threw for you!” Her voice cracks on that last word, tears finally spilling over her lash line. 

“Me?” He mumbles. It’s the first word he’s said to her all night. It makes him feel like an idiot. There’s heat in her gaze, a deadly forest fire. But she’s silent. He keeps going. “You threw this party for me?” He sounds dumb. He knows it even before she rolls her eyes. A fantastic idiot, that’s what he is. 

“God, Aaron!” She’s yelling, now. The use of his first name knocks the wind out of him every time. This time, though, with the pain lacing her tone, it hits like a tornado. “For the best fucking profiler in fucking America, you have no clue how to read people!” 

He raises a brow at this, and she yanks at the root of her hair, a loud, desperate, ‘ugh!’ tearing from her lips. “I’m so hurt, Aaron, You hurt me. I’m so angry, and I’m so, so in love with you, that I’ll probably fucking forgive you in the morning.”

The words hit him like a bullet train, slicing him clean in half. His mouth falls open, a small ‘o’ that only serves to make him stupider. She stalks over to the bar on the deep end of the pool, leaning over and grabbing a bottle of vodka from the interior. She takes a long swig, eyes falling closed. Tears fall down her cheeks, streaking her perfectly applied makeup. She stumbles a bit, nearing the edge of the water, and his heart rate picks up. He makes the mistake of reaching for the bottle. It only results in a forceful shove, the bottle falling between the two and shattering on the ground. 

Her fury only intensifies now. Her vindictive gaze could turn him to stone. He looks down at the mess, catching her shoeless feet. He grips her wrist before she can move. Her bare feet, drunken state, and the shards of broken glass are a recipe for disaster. He doesn’t care how big of an asshole he is, how much she might hate him right now, but he can’t risk letting her get hurt even more. He’s expecting her reaction, an immediate instinct to shove him off of her. He can’t even register the impact it has on his already fragile heart, because in her alcohol induced frenzy, her shove knocks them both in the water. 

The splash envelops Aaron like a slap to the face. He opens his eyes immediately, and he doesn’t even register the sting of the chlorine in his eyes. His only mission is to find her, to make sure she’s safe. He sloppily wraps himself around her, bringing them up to the surface. They both gasp upon arrival, breathing as if they’d never get the privilege again. He splays a hand across her back, pushing her toward him until they’re chest-to-chest, until she can’t wriggle out of his grasp. He won’t let her go until she’s safely out of the water.

The frantic rise and fall of her chest against his steadies him. It’s enough to ground him, to help him find his bearings as he spots the ladder leading out of the pool. He feels her relax slightly in his arms as he begins to move, her own wrapping around his neck. He lets out the smallest sigh of relief. She doesn’t completely hate him. With how he acted tonight, he’s surprised he’s even been afforded that much. 

He lets her go first, hands finding her waist and lifting her to the first step. His hands hover around her as she stumbles up the ladder, ready for any possible disaster to strike. He follows quickly, his white dress shirt sticking to his skin in a way that would make him feel exposed around anyone else. He rolls his sleeves up to his shoulders, shaking his hair out like a dog. She flinches when he sprays her, giggling quietly. The sweet, fluttering noise is contagious, Aaron laughs himself before muttering a quiet, “sorry.” 

He watches her face change as she remembers again. Remember why they ended up in the pool,  why she’s mad at him in the first place. Light, joyful eyes darken into a cloudy, stormy gaze. Her eyes are like a bow and arrow aimed right at his heart, ready for the kill. He’s ready to admit defeat, to just lay there and let her skin and eat him alive. He avoids her gaze. Cowardly, he knows. 

“So. Fucking. Unfair.” They’re punctuated by a look of desperation and disdain, desire and destruction. His head shoots up again at that, shame creeping up his spine once more. It settles in his neck, constricts his airflow. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve treated you terribly tonight and-”

He’s cut off by a groan that could spark an earthquake. She pulls at the roots of her wet hair in frustration. “Not that. Well- partially that. It’s fucking unfair that you get to skip my party, break my heart, show up, and then emerge from my pool looking like some sort of Adonis. Un-fucking fair, Aaron Hotchner.”

She moves closer to him with each passing word, to the point where his name is merely a whisper, uttered to him only inches from his own face. He studies her, the water droplets falling down her tear-stained face, the look in her eye, now softened to one of desperate devotion, despite all he’s put her through tonight. She’s breathtaking. Just as she was the day they first met, and everyday since then. An otherworldly beauty that has seemed to captivate him, mind, body, and soul. 

She inches even closer, her fingernails raking up his bare forearms. A shiver unzips his spine, invoking a light chuckle from her. As her lips inch ever so closer to his own, he nearly lets himself get lost in it. When she releases a shaky sigh against his mouth, the potent stench of vodka strongly reminds him that she is in no place for such an activity tonight. He scoops her up, folding her over his shoulder as he turns to get her indoors. 

He ignores her squeals of protest, the splattering of her palms on his back, though he can’t help but imagine this exact scenario in a different light- one where she’s sober, and he’s carrying her through his bedroom door. He opens the glass door with one hand, sliding it the rest of the way with his hip. He thanks his lucky stars that the only people left are Penelope and Derek, who likely stayed in case of any possible drownings. He nods at them, a succinct, ‘we’re good, get out.’

The message is heard clearly, the two of them shuffling out the door, but not before taking multiple glances at their boss, who’s carrying his hammered employee like a sack of potatoes. He’s in for an absolute earful come Monday, he’s sure of it. 

Her room is easy to spot, a bright pink door with her name plastered at the top. He smiles to himself, his heart swelling at the way she revels in her inner child. Sparkly room decor, birthday party invitations, a birthday party in general. He’s almost envious of the way she effortlessly mixes her childish woe with her adult sophistication. Even around the office, she clacks around in whatever heel came out of her rotating closet that morning, all while spouting off fine tuned details of any current or prospective cases. 

These are things he’s lost touch with as he’s aged, that whimsy, the wild eyed gaze she gives to new challenges. He hopes she never lets it go. He hopes she’ll be 80 with bedazzled glasses and  the best hair in the room. Knowing her, he has nothing to worry about in that regard. 

He plops her down on the large couch on the far end of her room, not wanting to douse her bed with chlorine. She needs a good night’s sleep. She whines as she attempts to wiggle out of her party dress, the straps proving to be very stubborn as she maneuvers around the couch. He turns instinctively as she figures it out, her dress bunching around her thighs before she lifts it up over her head. The small sliver of thigh he did see is burned into his brain forever, though. There’s no escaping that. 

“Aaron, I need my pajamas,” her voice is soft, tired. 

Aaron clears his throat awkwardly. “Where are they, honey?”

He practically hears her gleam at his words. He knows she’s basking in his pet name the way she always does, like a cat who got the cream. “Top drawer. I want the silk pink set,” her voice has a certain lilt to it now that nearly has his eyes rolling in the back of his head. Pink silk. He’ll die. He could just die. It would probably be less painful than handling her delicate sleepwear, throwing it behind him without turning around. 

She giggles as she puts it on. “You can look now. I’m all covered.”

He turns, eyes trained on the floor, just in case. He’s truly not prepared for what he sees when he turns around. Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, her plush thighs filling out the fabric of her soft pajamas. The top is barely enough fabric to be called such, a thin tank top leaving so little to the imagination, he nearly combusts on the spot. The peaks of her nipples are enough to do him in permanently, to put him in the ground for all eternity. He’d deserve it, too. 

“I can’t move. Need you to get me to bed,” she mumbles, her body falling limp against the couch. He rolls his eyes, moving to scoop her in his arms, bridal style this time. The implication makes him choke on his own spit. 

“Wait!” She exclaims, just as he’s reached the foot of her bed. He stops in his tracks. “Need to get the rest of my makeup off, Aaron. Need the bathroom.” Her head falls against his chest, and he can’t say no. Sighing, he adjusts her in his arms and carries her to the ensuite bathroom. 

He sits her down on the closed toilet, covered in a pink, fuzzy fabric. She wiggles, getting comfortable as her eyes fall shut. 

“The soft, fuzzy washcloth on the counter automatically takes off makeup with water. If you could just wet it, I can get the rest.” She’s truly sleepy now, the alcohol taking her over almost entirely now. 

He won’t make her do all of that work, not after everything he’s put her through tonight. He heeds only part of her request, wetting the washcloth and ringing out the excess water. He crouches in front of her, putting a gentle hand to her jaw as he begins to lightly scrub the remaining bits of makeup off. She sighs, one of content and exhaustion. His heart soars. He thinks he may have to start going back to church just to make up for the grace he’s been granted tonight. 

After he moves through the next two steps- cleanser, then moisturizer, per her instruction- they’re back where they started, at the edge of her bed, her nestled in his arms. He lays her down gently, turning to sleep on her couch downstairs. He’s stopped in his tracks with a single tug to the wrist. His heart stops. 

“Stay,” she mumbles. He’s powerless. He peels off his wet clothes, making peace with sleeping in damp underwear, before she mumbles something more. “There’s extra sweatpants in the room to the right. Take them.” He has no choice but to listen. 

You wake with a pounding head, the morning light filtering in like a knife designed to split you in two. You groan, rubbing your eyes to adjust to the sober reality you’ve been thrust back into. You’re caught off guard when you roll into an absolute brick wall of a man, panic rising in your throat before you realise who it is. The only positive is that he’s familiar, that you know it’s not some random guy you hooked up with and let stay the night. On the other side of that coin, you’re waking up next to your boss, the day after you confessed your love for him. 

The arrival of that memory triggers the rest, and they flood in like a broken dam. Your tears, the vodka, the broken glass, the pool, the way his pecs looked in his white shirt, soaked to the bone and clinging to his chest. 

You shake off the thought, though the motion only wakes Aaron. You curse lightly under your breath. It takes everything in you not to crumble at the raspy groan Aaron lets out, seemingly just as surprised to be waking up in a foreign environment. His eyes widen when they find you, pure shock lacing his features before he slowly pieces together the events of the night before. A small smile curves your lips. “Good morning, party pooper.”

Aaron at least has enough gentlemanly instinct to make breakfast. He’s quick to tie your pink apron around his waist, cracking eggs and frying bacon with ease. You perch on one of the stools at your kitchen island, still littered with beer cans and empty solo cups. You sip your coffee as you watch him. You hate how gorgeous he is, how he has the right to look like that even when you’re mad at him. 

Sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lack of a shirt tantalizing. Your eyes zone in on the slivers of skin afforded beyond the apron. You squeeze your thighs together at the hair on his tummy, the hair that trails lower, and lower…

You jump as he puts a plate in front of you, not expecting for him to be done so soon. “Oh!” You squeal, the sound muffled slightly by your coffee mug. You’re using the glass dish as a crutch now, holding it in front of your face like a shield. You know he can tell exactly what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it, but it doesn’t stop you. He should know how you’re feeling right now, with him in front of you, looking even more delectable than the fresh, sizzling bacon. But he’s still the same man that broke your heart merely hours ago. 

He plates himself before nodding his head towards the semi-clean kitchen table. “Let’s eat there, so that way we’re not talking over pyramids of Sam Adams.”

You smile softly at this, swinging your legs around to hop off the stool. He takes your plate before you can, sitting it at the head of the table. You sit, and take a bite. It takes everything in you not to moan. If it weren’t for last night, maybe you would’ve. You sit in silence for a moment, soft chewing and forks clinking against plates the only noise. The only noise, at least, until Aaron looks directly at you. 

“I’m so sorry. I know that there’s not enough apologies in the world to make up for how I’ve treated you. I just- I couldn’t…” his voice trails off. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

“Couldn’t what?” It’s quiet as it leaves your lips, hanging between you two like a ticking time bomb. His eyes flit to the table, his hands clasped together in what looks like silent, desperate, prayer. 

“I couldn’t face rejection again,” he states, plainly. The wheels start turning in your head. Moving, but still unsure of the destination. “You saw so many details of my divorce, the ugly ins and outs. I couldn’t even fathom the thought that you’d be- that you would have any sort of feeling towards me. That you would love me in the way that I love you. Now that I know what I know…”

You’re there. You’ve reached your destination, and you can’t help but collapse your head into your hands and laugh at the stupidity of it all. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the noise you emit, but it’s all worth it at the smile that appears on his own face, cheeks bunching up around his eyes. It makes your heart swell. 

“So, you’re telling me…you didn’t come to my party because you were afraid I’d reject your feelings, and I spent the entire night drinking and crying on rotation because I thought you were rejecting me…” You spell it out, wild hand motions matching the absurdity of the situation. 

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” He smiles, and heat rises to your cheeks. A silence settles over you then, the gravity of what this means hitting the both of you like a truck. “I’m so, so sorry I hurt you. I never meant to, though I know that sounds redundant because of my actions.”

You let out an incredulous chuckle at that, a huff of air conveying multiple emotions at once. “Aaron…I need to know that you won’t just run when things get hard. I know that you and Haley had something…else. I don’t want to be a repeat of that in your healing journey, or get in the way of your duties with Jack, or-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, a warm hand grazing your forearm over the table. “You’re not just a part of my healing journey. I learned a lot when Haley left me. You saw it. You held a heavy hand in that change. You gave me something to strive for, a glimmer after I’d thought I messed everything up. And instead of treating you the way I know you deserve, I ran right back to my old patterns. I can’t explain how sorry I am. How can I make it up to you?”

You raise a tentative brow. “The self awareness is a good sign, Aaron, but I need you to know that I’m a one and done kind of girl. Typically a none and done kind of girl. I’m making a very special exception here, sir.” He nods at this, eyes boring into yours. “You’re not going to keep me if you keep your old patterns. It’s one or the other, and you can make it up to me by making that decision. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

He nods emphatically, fingers lacing between yours across the table. You sigh, a true, genuine smile on your face for the first time since before last night. You finish your breakfast in a content silence before dragging him back up to your room. 

“It’s one of the only spots in the house not littered with alcohol!” You’d told him, your reasoning quite sound in your eyes. Aaron rolls his, though a smile persists anyway. 

You fall onto your mattress, lifting your arms up for Aaron to join you. He lays beside you, your finger grazing along the waistline of his sweatpants. You revel in the way he shivers at the contact. He makes himself comfortable and you sling a leg across his hips, neck craning up to look in his eyes. A tense silence falls over you two then, thick and wanting. He tests the waters, slowly inching his face closer to yours. You bridge the gap, greedily smashing his lips to yours. 

He kisses you like a man starved, his arms curling around your back as he tries to consume as much of you as possible. You break from the kiss, only for him to pepper multiple tiny ones on your lips, his own drifting to your chin, your jaw, your neck. You turn on your side so your chest to chest with him, the feeling of your tits pressed up against his was enough to make your head spin. His rigid body relaxes in your arms as his lips find yours again. 

You clutch at his shoulders, a small whimper fleeing your lips in between greedy kisses. “You’re so beautiful, y’know that? Drive me fucking crazy,” he mutters, hands finding the soft skin under your sleep tank. “Yeah?” you coo, and he groans. 

“Yeah,” he nearly moans, and you clench your thighs together. His ravenous hands frantically search for every spare part of your body they can find. “Walking around the office in those skirts, those cute fucking heels,” he punctuates his statement with more kisses. Your head is spinning. 

“I’m glad you like them, I pick them out just to drive you crazy,” you joke, and revel in the way his eyes roll back in his head. You rock against his hard length, and he shudders. 

“I need you. Now.”

Aaron lays still under the covers, fingertips raking up and down her back as if she’s made of porcelain. He releases a shaky breath, lips pressing to the top of her head. She’s drifting in and out of sleep, and the selfish part of him wants her awake, to be there with him, to kiss him some more. The nurturing part of him knows that she needs the sleep, that her hangover likely isn’t helping in her fight to stay conscious. 

“I can hear you thinking, y’know?” she murmurs, her words smushed in his chest. He laughs, a small, breathy sound escaping his lips. 

“Yeah?” He inquires, voice coated thick with love. “Just thinking about you. About what you need to feel better,” he exaggerates this point by rubbing thick fingers along her scalp. She shudders in response. 

“Think I need to sleep,” she mumbles, her lids half shut. 

“I think you do, too,” he answers, his never ending smile still on his face. “But I want to be with youuuu,” she drags out the last word, her lips pouty. He kisses them eagerly. She responds with the same fervor, her arms slinking around his neck. 

He can feel himself stir again, his now naked frame hiding nothing from the woman in his arms. 

“I think you want the same thing,” she says, suggestively. Her eyebrows wiggle as her fingers slide dangerously low. Against his body’s wishes, he grips her wrist gently. She pouts again. He kisses her again. He’ll never get tired of it. 

“Boo!” She pouts, and it’s so adorable he almost pulls her on his lap to finish what they started. 

“You need sleep, honey. I’m going to clean up downstairs, you let me know if you need anything, okay?” She nods as he slides out of bed. He jumps when she swats his ass. 

“Hey!” He exclaims, but she just smiles, resting her head on her propped hand. 

“What? Like it’s my fault you have a cute butt!” She shrugs. He shakes his head, cheeks flushing as he moves to put on his now-dry clothes from last night. 

“Sleep,” He orders. She wiggles her brows in challenge. 

It takes all his will power to leave her there, naked and wanting. It’s for the best right now, for both of them. Her lids have returned to their half closed state, and he ghosts another kiss over her lips before he goes. 

“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth.

“I love you, too. Get some rest.”

“As long as you’re here when I wake up,” she mutters, nestling into her pillow. 

After last night, he couldn’t dream of being anywhere else.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Death Grip (Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Fem!Reader)

summary: You take a bullet for him and he’s not happy with you.

word count: 3587

warnings: mentions of alcohol/drinking alcohol, gun violence, blood, hospital, angst, comfort, as always if i missed anything please lmk

note: had this in the drafts for the longest time - not sure how I feel about this

Things between you and Hotch had been… weird lately. Weird is using the word lightly and doesn't even scratch the surface of the tension between you two. Since joining the team a little over a year ago, Hotch has gone from your stoic boss to a close friend.

It started small with a ride home from Rossi's after a few glasses of wine. You'd arrived with Derek and Penelope, who also had a few glasses too many. Hotch had offered to take you home as your apartment was on the way back while Derek took Penelope home.

You were sitting in his passenger seat, small hiccups and late night jazz filling the space when he finally speaks. "You don't drink much do you?"

You shake your head. "Wine has never really been my thing but Penny can be really convincing."

He gives a small, closed lipped smile that you unfortunately don't see. "I know from first hand experience." You turn to face him, watching as the lights from the traffic lights and neon store signs paint his face as he elaborates. "The only time I have ever gotten drunk in front of the team was because of her. Too many candy shots."

You cover your mouth, your hand stifling the laughter. You do see Hotch's smile this time as he takes a glance at you. "How'd she get you to drink that?"

"Told me if I had one, she wouldn't ask for the rest of the night. I believed her at first but then I was three shots in and being pulled to the dance floor by Emily."

"Please tell me someone has video." You plead, hands clasped together and pressed to your chest.

"I made sure all video and photos from that night were deleted." He shrugs. "Sorry." He parks the car along the curb and unbuckles his belt. "Don't get out yet."

Before you can ask, he's out of the car and slamming his door shut. You unbuckle your belt and watch as he opens the passenger door and holds his hand out. You step out of the car and hold onto his forearm as you make sure you have your bag and jacket. Hotch shuts the door behind you and walks you up to the entrance.

"I've got it from here." You assure him. "Thank you for the ride."

"Are you sure?"

You nod. “I’ll wave from the window when I get in.”

Hotch watches as you walk into the lobby, then to the elevator and waits until the doors close before he gets in his car. When inside he leans over the console, peering through the passenger window.

A few minutes later he sees a light turn on and watches as you push the curtains open, searching for his car. Hotch waves up to you. You register his movements and your eyes widen with a sparkle. You wave excitedly down at him before he pulls away. You don’t leave the window until his car is out of sight.

You’d figured that Hotch was just being kind in giving you a ride but as the weeks go by, he makes efforts to small talk. Even during cases, he takes small moments to chat with you, little breaths of air where you’re not focused on the horrors around you.

You learn a lot about his time before being unit chief and tell him a lot about your childhood. It feels a lot like you’re becoming friends and crossing a professional boundary.

“Do you need a ride today?” You hear as you’re ducked under your desk, fingers reaching for your phone. “Are you okay?”

“Just dropped my phone behind the desk. Derek won’t help me move it.” You sigh.

“Sorry, I’m still on light duty.” Derek shrugs. Hotch narrows his eyes at Derek before placing a hand on your upper back.

“Here, come out.” He urges, scooting back to allow you space to come out. He pushes the desk chair slightly to the side. Hotch stands at the side of your desk, lifting slightly and pulling it forward. He sets it down and leans down over all the cords, plucking your phone from its cord prison.

“You’re a lifesaver.” You laugh, taking it from him. “Oh, and no. I’m going tonight but I don’t plan on drinking. I should be okay to drive myself.”

He nods and leaves without another word, heart aching with a small sting. He’s not sure if it’s from the rejection or if he’s just looking way too much into everything. Into the small glances when he catches you watching him through his window or when you nudge his side gently, your arm barely ghosting his to check if he’s okay.

You are acquaintances, that much is clear but he’s craving for more. Whether that be friends or life partners. After years of mourning and solitude, a part of him wants and needs to fill that empty space.

Yes he has a son and he loves him very much but what happens when he goes off to college and starts a life of his own. Hotch does not want to be a grumpy old fart regretting not putting himself out there.

His spiraling has only gotten worse when you sit completely opposite of him, at the other end of the long table. Your attention has been taken by Emily and Penelope as Penelope recalls her night of speed dating last weekend.

The waiter approaches with the round of drinks, everyone thanking him and continuing back on their conversations. The waiter sets down Hotch’s go-to dark drink and a bright pink shot glass.

“Excuse me? This isn’t mine.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. It’s a gift from a secret admirer.” The waiter wiggles his brows, a slight giggle and smirk to his tone.

Hotch looks across the table to Penelope. She raises her hands, “wasn’t me, boss.”

Hotch then catches your glittering eyes beside Penelope's and the smirk you hold before you take a sip of your own drink. Hotch chuckles, turning his head down to hide his closed lipped smile, shaking his head. While he doesn’t drink the shot, instead passing it down to Penelope, his head feels dizzy and he reels from the small gesture.

Since then, the dam had been broken. You and Hotch had spent more time together on cases, him pairing you up together quite often. You’d both started having lunch together once a week in his office when cases and schedules allowed it. He’d even invited you to dinner, just the two of you getting to know more about each other. It had felt like a date but neither of you dared to mention it in fear of bringing the tension back.

Somewhere along the way, you developed feelings for him. It was during a simple Saturday where you’d both decided to go grocery shopping together. He judged you for some of your junk food choices and you judged him for some of his bland options. You’d departed at your cars, all your bags tucked into your trunk by Hotch.

You both lingered at your cars, making small talk to prevent having to say goodbyes but eventually you did need to leave. You had a tub of ice cream slowly melting away in the heat of your car.

"Alright, you better get going." Hotch smiles, reaching up to close your trunk for you.

You nod, a small smile making it's way to your face. "Yeah, you too. Can't be late for the game."

Hotch looks to his watch, "you're right. Jack won't be too happy if he misses pregame practice. I'll see you Monday?"

"Of course." You nod and take a step back toward your door. "Get home safe."

"You as well." He ducks his head down, moving slightly to the side so you have space to back out. When you finally get in, reversing out of your space, you roll down the window.

"Call me later, let me know how the game goes."

"Why don't you come?" He shoves his hands into his front pockets. "If you don't have other plans." He shrugs, not meeting your eyes.

"Text me the details." You hold out your hand. Hotch grabs your hand, giving it a squeeze. Someone honks at you, startling you both. and breaking the moment. Your hands drop and you jump. "I'll see you later. Text me. Don't forget."

Hotch chuckles and nods. "Go before they honk at us again." You roll your window up and back out, waving as you drive out.

Still, you and Hotch have not made any moves to solidify your relationship since then. You feel that there is a mutual understanding of where your relationship is at and where it's going and definitely what you both want. Each other.

You're on a case this week in New York. You're just two steps behind Hotch, guns raised in front of you. Morgan and Emily entered from a staircase on the left side of the floor while you came from the right.

The unsub, a security guard, had booked it higher up the building when he saw the four of you entering. No one had spoken a word to him but you all knew why you were there.

Hotch knelt down behind the walls of a cubicle, poking his head out to assess the situation. The security guard stood in a corner, pressed against the windows with an older woman in his arms. His company issued gun pressed to her temple.

“Put the gun down, Mikey.” Morgan called out. “Let her go.”

“Shut the fuck up!” He cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, loud voice ringing in the woman’s ears. She shrieks and writhes against him.

“We know you’re not in this alone. Work with us, tell us who you’re working with.” Morgan assesses his angle behind a large copier. The team had come up with the theory that there was two unsubs, most like an older and younger family duo.

You’re shocked that Hotch hasn’t said a word, hasn’t negotiated or de-escalated with the unsub. You’re shocked he’s let Morgan take the lead, not because he doesn’t trust Morgan but because it’s unlike Hotch to take the back seat.

You furrow your brows and attempt to look around Hotch and get a glimpse of his face. You can barely see his side profile but you do clock the tension in his jaw and scrunched up brow.

The click of a door handle turning catches your attention. You and watch as another security guard enters the floor. His gun is raised and his eyes search the floor. Among the chaos of office workers hiding under their desks, papers strewn about the floor, and office chairs turned onto their backs, the man’s eyes meet yours. His face hardens and he stomps his way into your direction.

“Hotch, we have a problem.” You say softly, ducking down.

You turn to face him and he’s standing at full height, inching toward the unsub as his attention is on Derek and Emily.

“Get down!” You call out to Hotch as you hear heavy footsteps pick up, coming toward you. Emily startles at your booming voice, gun raised in your direction.

You spring into action and full on spear Hotch forward. Your bodies collide with a water machine and into a wooden shelf stacked with binders and stuffed Manila envelopes. The contents of the shelves topple over, covering both of you. There’s wetness around your legs, which you assume is the now shattered water machine.

Your ears are ringing from the gun shots going off around you. You hear muffled glass shatter, lights bursting above you, and screams.

The only reassurance in this situation is the heavy breathing coming from your left and the slight movement of his shoe against your shin.

Derek barks out your and Hotch’s name, his gun tucked away as he pulls material off of you. He works through the pile until his sees Hotch’s red stained dress shirt.

“Shit, Hotch! You’re bleeding! Emily, we need medical.”

“It’s- it’s not mine.” Hotch groans, shoving papers off of his face. Hotch registers the situation and rushes to sit up, head dizzy. He gets to his knees, pulling office materials off with the help of Derek. "It's not mine." Hotch whispers, hands searching for you.

“Paramedics heading up now.” Emily breathes out a deep sigh, having taken over Hotch’s duties of ordering local law enforcement to evacuate the building and take the unsubs into custody. “How is she?” She directs the question to Derek.

Hotch is pressing his hands to your shoulder, calling out to you. You’re whimpering, head lolling to the side. "Hey." He says gently, one hand on your shoulder and the other, holding your chin. "Hey! Keep your eyes open, y/n." It feels like years before EMS arrives.

Emily ushers the paramedics over, placing a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. She pulls him back as the paramedics take over. Hotch stands between Derek and Emily, taking a big, deep breathe into a sigh. Hotch picks up both of your guns, tucking his away and handing yours to Emily.

“Let’s get you checked out.” Derek says softly, ducking his head down to try and meet Hotch’s eyes. Hotch doesn’t argue, following Morgan through the aftermath.

You had been shot in the shoulder, just centimeters from fatal. The surgery had went well but you’ve been in the hospital for two days. Two days of nurses, check ups, hospital food, and being showered in love by your team. All except one. Aaron Hotchner.

You haven’t spoken to him since just before the incident. As time goes on, you’ve gone from worried to pissed. You thought your relationship with Aaron meant more and now he hasn’t even checked in on you. Not just as friends but as boss and employee.

As you get dressed in some cheap sweatshirt and sweatpants combo that JJ picked up at a nearby store, you’re irritated and ready to get home. Most of the team was already waiting on the jet, prepped for your arrival and the teams departure back home.

Just as you’re signing your discharge papers and handing them back to the nurse, Hotch appears in the doorway. You take one glance at him and scoff. He doesn’t seem taken aback in the slightest by your reaction, it’s warranted but he too is angry with you.

“Let me go grab a wheelchair.” The nurse clears her throat.

“No need.” You assure her. “I can walk.”

“Don’t be stubborn.” Hotch scolds.

“I got shot in my shoulder not my legs, they work just fine. Let’s go.” You say with finality, pushing past him into the hallway.

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose before looking to the nurse in sympathy. She hands him the aftercare paperwork and purses her lips.

You step into the elevator, not bothering to wait for him. His hand shoots out to stop the closing doors. You cross your arms over your chest, hissing as you do so but turning your head away from him.

He sighs and presses the button to close the doors. “So, you’re not going to talk to me?” When you don’t move to interact with him, he stands directly in front of you, saying your name.

You look at him, eyes watery but no sign that you’ll relent and speak with him.

The elevator dings and the doors open. You round his body and exit the small space. You see the rental car parked at the hospital entrance with its hazards on.

Hotch unlocks your door and pulls at the handle. You push the door closed and nudge him out of the way, opening the door yourself and getting inside with a slam.

The ride to the jet is uncomfortable, for him at least. You’re snuggled against the door, turned towards the window.

He calls out your name softly, he knows your not sleeping but he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet too much. “Look, I know you’re angry because I haven’t come to see you. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just-“ His voice gets caught in his throat.

“You just what?” You murmur, turning to face him.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He finishes, anger lingering into the words.

“Done what?”

“The whole thing. Pushing me out of the way and putting yourself in harms way.”

“And what, let you get shot?”

“I’m supposed to protect my team. How can I do that when you act recklessly?”

“You’re serious? You're going to lecture me right now?" Your hands clench into fists.

“Very.”

“I don’t understand why you’re mad.” You emphasize the "you're."

“You shouldn’t be risking your life for anyone.”

“For anyone or for you?” You point at him. “Hotch, we risk our lives for people everyday. It’s part of the job.”

“You could’ve died.”

“Yes, I could’ve but I didn’t. I’m here, I’m safe.”

“Do you even know how I would have felt if you died because of me? In my arms?”

“Do you know how I would’ve felt had it been you?”

The car comes to a stop, as does Hotch’s world. This is the first realization that he means as much to you as you do to him. The first real confirmation that your friendship, your budding relationship is real.

“You can be mad at me all you want but I don’t regret what I did and I’ll do it again if I have to. I’d do it a thousand times if it means you’re still here with me.” Your lip wobbles, your words stronger than your voice as you slam the door behind you, heading to the tarmac.

Spencer meets you at the bottom of the jet stairs, walking behind you for support. He’s chatting your ear off about something you don’t quite understand but it helps alleviate some of the tension of the car ride.

The flight back home is filled with chatter about plans for the week considering everyone will at least get a few days off of work. No one mentions it when you don’t sit next to Hotch but you know they are wondering what happened.

They’ve noticed that he didn’t go to the hospital and they definitely notice how you avoid his eyes. The eyes that have been flickering to you for the past hour.

The eyes that meet Dave’s and Derek’s as they silently question what’s going on. Hotch ignores them each time and wallows in his cloud of stoic self pity.

Back at the office, you’re grabbing your documents to complete your paperwork at home, shuffling through your desk for your good pen.

“Can I drive you home?” His voice is quiet and opposite of his normal commanding demeanor. His anger has since left him, the few hours in the jet allowing him to think about your conversation and about his feelings for you.

You take a few seconds, make him sweat a bit before agreeing. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“I’ll wait. I don’t mind.” He holds your go bag in one hand, his own in the other. You’re walking in silence, side by side to the elevator. “Are you hungry?”

“I just want to go home, Aaron.” You don’t mean to be mean but you’re exhausted, sore, and still very hurt by him. “Please.”

He nods, doors closing and keeping you both in the small space. He loosens his tie around his neck, anything to relieve him and provide air to his hot skin.

The doors open and you speed walk out to the parking garage, Aaron trailing behind you. He lets you get ahead of him, giving you the space you need. He chucks the bags into his trunk and rounds to your side.

You’re facing the door, staring at his morphed reflection in the dark window as he comes in view. He doesn’t move to unlock the door.

“I didn’t visit you because I was mad. You were right about that. But I also couldn’t bear seeing you like that. Watching you bleed out, having your blood on me… it was too much and I’m sorry. I should have been there, as your boss and as your friend.”

Your shoulders drop and you wince. Aaron’s eyes widen and his hands reach out for you. Just as they graze your hips, you turn to face him. “Are we just friends?”

He sucks his lips in, breathing out a sigh. “No, we aren’t.” His fingers flex against your hips, tightening and loosening. “I was never really mad, I was scared. I-“

Your lean forward, your free hand gripping his forearm as you lean forward, cutting him off with a kiss. Your eyes are closed but you can feel his face twist into overwhelming relief as he stands frozen. The longer your lips stay attached the more he melts and moves his lips against yours. With caution, he squeezes you into him, bodies pressing against each other.

He pulls away, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, hands cupping your face.

You nod, “I’m sorry too.”

“Let's go to yours?" His breath fans across your cheeks, warm and minty.

“Actually I’m a little hungry.” You bite your lip, holding back your smile.

“Food first, then.” He kisses your forehead before opening your door, guiding you into his car. You plop into the seat, sighing in content as you buckle in. Hotch grabs your hand, giving you a gentle squeeze before shutting the door.

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse under your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley