hey!! looking for tips to sell art work successfully, any suggestions help!! I'm considering making prints but I have no idea where to even start đ
this is so sweet i just might burst
healing
billy hargrove x gn!reader
word count: 5,445
warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of past trauma (starcourt), slight sexual innuendos??
a/n: hi! remember when i made you do a poll for my 1k celebration? and one bed with billy won? well this is that fic! i'm sorry it took so long to get here, but school was kicking the ever loving shit out of me. anyways, i really hope you like it. it's a little different than other fics i've written, but i think that's a good thing. just for context, this is post the end of season three, with billy and hopper being okay and jopper being in full swing. i think that's all i wanted to say. thanks again for 1k followers. that's still so wild to me. i love you. and billy loves you too <333
ââââ
November 1985
âNo.â
âWhat do you mean no? You just fought an interdimensional being, donât you want a vacation?âÂ
Lucas wipes both hands down his face, flopping down on the arm of the couch beside where Max sits with El between her knees, tying off one of the two braids sheâs trying to make.Â
âMax, can you help me? Please?â Lucas has been arguing about this for fifteen minutes.Â
She rolls her eyes, but looks up from her work nonetheless. âBilly.â
The man in question crosses his arms, locking eyes with the redhead. âMaxine.â
Max finishes Elevenâs braid and she hops up to join Will where heâs working on a puzzle. Joyce brought it home from work a few days ago, and itâs been spread out on a card table in the corner of the living room since then. Will couldnât watch The Golden Girls with Joyce from the kitchen table.Â
âJust come with us, Billy. We all know you hate it here. Itâll give you a chance to get away for a little while.â
Except thatâs not totally the truth. He doesnât hate it here. Not with you around.Â
âThereâs a pool.â Will looks up, a little shyly, from the puzzle, fingers flipping around a single piece. âAt the place Robin found.âÂ
Billy nods, and itâs enough to make Will smile at the acknowledgment.Â
Itâd been Steveâs idea, after everything that happened in July. He thought everyone going on a trip together might be a good idea. Go a little ways out from home, calm down.Â
You and Billy started going to school, though Billy is still working. He found a job at a record store across the street from Melvaldâs that opened after the mall went to shit. It definitely wasnât his first choice, but it works. And heâs slowly fixing up the Camaro.Â
Steve had offered to pay for the repairs in full, considering he did most of the damage when he rammed the side of it, but Billy couldnât handle that. So far Max has only convinced him to let Steve cover the really expensive parts. It hurts Billy more than heâd care to admitâhaving Steve Harrington give him money.Â
But he canât lie, going somewhere away from Hawkins, even just for a couple days, sounds really nice. Itâs the group part thatâs bothering him. Heâs still not used to everyone wanting him to tag along, but apparently major trauma brings people together.
Thereâs the slamming of car doors, and footsteps running up the driveway before the door swings open, Robin bursting in with a stack of movies in her arms. Sheâs followed by Dustin and then Steve, bags and keys being tossed every which way.Â
Billy doesnât see you for a moment and starts to worry maybe you arenât coming. Heâs already supplying excuses for having to go home, but Steve left the door ajar, and after a moment, there you are.Â
You look sleepy, footsteps the quietest of everyone else as you carefully push the Byersâ door shut behind you. He watches as you accept a hug from Eleven, overhears her ask, âhow did your test go?âÂ
Heâs happy to hear you tell her it went well. Itâs only after youâve looked at her and Willâs puzzle and snapped a few more corner pieces in that you make a beeline for the open spot on the couch beside Billy.Â
When youâve settled, your knee bumps against his. âHey.â
He looks at you, a little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His arms are still crossed, thumb playing with the pendant resting on his chest. A chest surprisingly covered by a sweater, though the sleeves are pushed up.Â
âHey. Glad your test is over?â
That sound of his voice makes you smile, and heâs never been so grateful for something, even if itâs just an expression. âYeah.â
You glance down at the new tattoo on his arm, a dark colored snake wrapping around the skin covering his elbow. You run your thumb across the tail that flicks across his forearm, and Billy relaxes into your touch.Â
âYou have work today?â
Billy shakes his head. Youâre glad he had the day off. And youâd tell him so if it werenât for the sudden bombardment.Â
Lucas is suddenly standing in front of you, having returned from the kitchen where you think he and Dustin may have been cleaning out Joyceâs fridge.Â
âHoly shit, thank god youâre here. I need you to convince Billy to go on vacation.âÂ
You glance at Max, assuming sheâs already tried. She looks rather annoyed. âLucas, would you sit down?â
The boy looks at Max, and she glares at him. Clearly he knows better and sits down next to her.Â
âBilly doesnât have to do anything he doesnât want to do,â you finally say.Â
The man in question turns to face you. You have to lean your head back some because of how close he is.Â
âAre you going?â he asks, voice quiet and thick with something you donât know that youâre supposed to notice.Â
âY-yeah. I was gonna. Robin only went on about it to me for an hour over the phone last night. I just think it might be nice to get away for a little while.â Billy doesnât break eye contact with you, and while it makes you a little nervous, it tells you heâs listening.
âAnd I can watch Max for you if you really donât want to go. Just make sure she doesnât kill Lucas or anything.â Max snorts at your response, though Lucas looks at her in panic, already calculating how best to prevent that sort of situation.Â
Your gaze softens and you fight the urge to reach out and run your thumb across Billyâs cheek.Â
Please come with us. I want you to go. I want you there, you think. But itâs not what you say. You donât know how badly he needs to hear it.Â
âYou really donât have to go, Billy. Not if you donât want to.â
âBut there is enough space, man.â Steve stands behind the couch, handing El a scrunchie he retrieved from her bag. His voice is calm, informative. âIf you decide to go. Thereâs plenty of room, and weâd be happy if you did.â
Billy could make some smartass remark. But he wonât. He knows that Steve is being honest, and that heâs not trying to be a dick. It seems that witnessing the guy who beat the shit out of you almost die not even a year after he moved to town really brings you together.Â
Billy gives an acknowledging nod. âIâd be very happy if you did,â Eleven says. She loves having Jonathan as an older brother, really she does, but Billy lets her play with his hair. And in her books, that really ups the scale.Â
He smiles at her, and El considers that a win.Â
You notice him shift next to you, and then heâs leaning forward to whisper in your ear. âCome with me?â He cocks his head in the direction of the door.Â
He gets up, assuming youâll follow him. You always do.Â
When youâve shut the door, you move to the porch swing. Itâs your favorite spot out here, and Joyce says it makes her happy to see someone use it. She used to sit there with Will in the mornings after Jonathan left for school and read to him. She did the same with Jonathan, but he was a much more fidgety kid, wanting to find something else to do.Â
Billy lights a cigarette, and you watch where he fidgets with the ring on his middle finger.Â
Heâs standing a little ways away from you so as to not breathe the smoke directly in your vicinity, but you wish so badly that he was closer. You like having him close. The weight of his body next to you, the warmth, how solid his arm feels when itâs pressed to yours or when he slides down on the couch some and it's more so pressed to your side.Â
âWhich part of it are you worried about?â you ask him.Â
He shrugs. âYou really think they want me there? You think Max wants me around?â âBilly, I know she does. And I know that voice in your head is telling you that itâs a pity invite, but itâs not. And, besidesâŠâ you trail off, but heâs not having that. He needs you to reassure him.Â
âBesides what?âÂ
You look up at him. âI want you to go. And yeah, Iâll be sad if you donât go, but that shouldnât sway your decision either.â You push your feet against the concrete porch a little harder, and the swing responds to the movement. You move quicker, now feeling very pleased with yourself.Â
Billy almost laughs at the child-like look on your face, but you look so at home on the swing that he holds it in. A grin escapes nonetheless.Â
âSay that again.â He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray either Hopper or Joyce have left outside. Heâs watching you again.Â
âWhat?â Heâs not gonna let you go all shy on him now. He needed to hear that. He needs to hear it.Â
âYou know what.â
âI want you to go.â
âThen itâs settled. Need to get out of this shithole anyways.â
ââââ
The place Steve found is about two hours from Hawkins, with three bedrooms, a shockingly luxurious pull-out couch, and bigger common areas than youâve ever laid eyes on. Excluding the ones in Steveâs house. In short, the rental is like Hopperâs cabin, if Hopperâs cabin were updated and substantially larger. It feels like the kind of place rich people have to take weekend trips. Youâd rather not find out how much Steve is paying for the lot of you to stay there.Â
Robin takes you on a grand tour while everyone else explores the backyard. Dustin is already determined to climb a tree. One of the rooms has two sets of bunk beds, dedicated to the four boys. âTo ensure no cootie-spreading,â Robin proclaims.Â
She and Steve will share the couch, with Max and Eleven in the smaller bedroom.Â
Robin stops at the end of the hallway. âWhich leavesâŠâÂ
You and Billy.Â
You and Billy Hargrove.
Sharing a room.Â
Sharing a bed.Â
Speaking of, the man in question brushes past you, setting his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. Robin takes that as her queue to leave and gives you a thumbs up on the way out. You hope she can feel your death stare on the back of her head, and she knows it, being quick to run down the hall.Â
âSo weâre roomies, huh?â Billy says, gathering his hair at the base of his neck. You hadnât even realized he had a tie on him, and it takes him finishing off a lazy bun to realize itâs a blue scrunchie. You have to bite your lip to keep from saying anything.Â
âI can sleep with Max and El, if you want. Orââ
That crease between Billyâs brows forms. âWhy would you do that?â
Youâve gone all warm. Youâd have to sleep in bed with him. And you sit next to him all the time, but this is different. Isnât it?
Maybe itâs not so weird. Youâre just friends. Itâs like a sleepover, right?
âI donât know, you might not want to sleep together or something.â
He cocks a brow, but you catch the double meaning of your words just in time. âYou know what I mean, Billy.â
He sits on the end of the bed, and reaches out for you. You move towards him slowly, but the moment youâre within his grasp, Billy spreads his legs and grabs your waist, slotting your body between them.Â
âYou can go if you really want to. If you think Iâve got cooties or somethinâ and you donât wanna share a bed with me.â
You snort, and Billy drinks in the sound, knowing heâs the one that made you laugh.Â
âI donât think youâve got cooties.â
You realize in that moment that his hands havenât left their spot on your waist, never straying anywhere else. The weight of them on you is enough to keep you focused on him, and he seems to acknowledge that.Â
âThen what is it?â he asks, in that low drawl you fear could get out any answer he wanted from you.Â
You hesitate, but say it anyway. âYou donât think itâll be weird? Sleeping in the same bed?â
Billy fights the urge to rest his forehead against your stomach. He wants to tell you heâs wished you were in his bed on more than one occasion. Sometimes he just wishes you were there so it wouldnât feel so cold, so heâd have someone to pull him out of his thoughts before they eat him alive altogether.Â
âNo, I donât think itâll be weird.â
You nod your head, and try to move back from him.Â
Billy whines. âUh uh. Nope.â
You go to put your hands on your hips, and they graze Billyâs on the way. He grabs hold of them. âYou donât want to have a sleepover with me?â
Billyâs looking up at you with those watery blue eyes, and you know this is a battle youâll never win.Â
âReally?â
He lets out a breath of a laugh, and your eyes fall to his neck when he tosses his head back.Â
âYeah, baby.â
Baby.Â
It feels like every cell in your body has been sent into overdrive, like you canât compute a single coherent thought. All because Billy called you âbabyâ.Â
And if heâs being honest with himself, he feels the same way. He hadnât meant to say it. Itâs just that he calls you âbabyâ in his head all the time, and it justâŠhappened.
âIâd love to have a sleepover with you, Hargrove.â
âMhm. Thought so.âÂ
This time he lets the laugh out, and itâs a beautiful sound. The kind of sound youâd commit unspeakable acts to hear again. And this time, he does let his forehead drop to rest on your stomach. It surprises you, but youâre not mad about it.
âOh, fuck off,â you say, and you can feel his chuckle against your skin.
When he quits, you find yourself just standing there, find your hands moving around his back. Heâs always so warm. You rub your hands up and down his back, the denim of his jacket rough on your fingertips.Â
You feel him shift, feel his change in position, the hard press of his chin against you. Billy is looking up at you, and you know heâs hoping youâll return his gaze. His eyes bore into yours, and you hate to think of what you must look like from this angle. Clearly he doesnât mind.Â
You push a curl behind his ear, a shockingly perfect ringlet thatâs too short to be contained like the rest of them.Â
Billy would be taken aback by the gesture if it werenât for the fact that you always go this easy on him. Like you know heâs healing, in more ways than one.Â
âWe canât stay here forever, you know. I wanna go look around.âÂ
âYeah,â he laughs. âIâm sure itâs riveting.â He lets you go anyway, following you down the hall to the rest of the cabin.
ââââ
Your back rests on the base of an oversized chair, one thatâs surprisingly comfy, your body in between Robinâs legs. Sheâs sitting next to Steve, watching you moderate El, Lucas, and Will play Twister. Dustinâs already out.Â
âRight hand blue.â
âYouâre kidding right?â
âSinclair, have you never played this game before?â
Lucas scoffs, trying to reach the blue on the other side of the mat without toppling into Will. Max went with Billy to the store, but they should be back soon. You have a sick feeling theyâre taking advantage of having been given Steveâs debit card.Â
âYes, Iâve played the game before. If youâre so good, why donât you get down here and show us how itâs done, Harrington?â
âYeah, Harrington, why donât you show us how flexible you are?â Billyâs voice makes you look up from where youâve been mindlessly twisting the spinner on the board around with the tip of your finger.Â
He stands just inside the living room, holding the door open with his leg. He kicks it shut once Max has made it in. She heaves the paper bags sheâd been holding up and onto the counter. Steve rises to help unpack them. You follow on instinct, handing the spinner to Robin instead, and Dustin is quick to take Steveâs spot before Mike can.Â
Billy wonât let you take anything from him, but he will let you help figure out what the hell to do with all of it. âDo I even want to know how much you both spent?â you ask.Â
He gives you that fucking smile, and you know you donât. âMax said she wanted to have a spa nightâwhatever that meansâwith El, so we sort of split up. Iâm sure Steveâll live.âÂ
âFor your information, Lucas,â Steve continues, clearly not ready to let the quips towards his limberness go, âI was the captain of the swim team.â
âWhatâs that got to do with being flexible, dingus?â Robin directs the two remaining players, the young boy in question having just busted his ass.Â
âSwimming is an art form, Rob. You gotta learn to respect it.â
You choke on a laugh, and Billy is quick to rub your back while he chuckles into your shoulder.Â
âSomething funny over there?â Steve questions.Â
You straighten, trying to wipe the smile from your face though itâs to no avail. âNope, Steven. Iâm sure youâre just incredibly stretchy. Like Mr. Fantastic.â
His brow furrows. âMr. Fantastic?â
Dustin snorts, elbow deep in a bag of chips, and you quickly realize that you probably shouldnât have given him an opening, but you donât exactly regret it either.Â
The lot of you spend the rest of the night in this fashion, playing games, eating way too much food, taking turns smacking the top of the television so your movie will keep playing.Â
It feels like home. It feels safe. You wish it always felt this way.Â
ââââ
Youâd just finished brushing your teeth when you hear the bedroom door click shut, hear footsteps you can tell are in search of you.Â
You peek your head out of the bathroom and Billy grins at the sight of you in pajamas, a smear of moisturizer on your forehead youâve yet to rub in.Â
He squeezes in the small room, about the same size as his at home, to join you. Thereâs something about this moment, the domesticity of it, that makes your heart swell. It feels like something you could get used to, getting ready for bed with him. Neither of you have to say anything, you just do your own thing, but having him be there, having his presenceâitâs more than enough for you.Â
When you climb into bed, you try and read for a while, the sounds of Billy washing his face comforting you. You find it easy to read even when he does get in with you, the mattress sinking underneath his weight, the sheets rustling as he moves around experimentally, trying to get comfortable in a bed that isnât his own.Â
You feel odd though, reading when heâs right there, so it isnât long before you close the book and slide further into the covers with him. Billyâs quick to turn on his side, wanting to see you like this.Â
He watches you yank the blankets up to your chin, looking at him over a blur of fluffy white comforter. âItâs fuckinâ freezinâ in here,â you tell him.
âCâmere then.â
You burrow further into your pillow, fearing you know exactly what heâs going to suggest. âHuh?â
âYouâre cold. You always whine about me being warm or somethinâ and Iâm telling you to come here.â
âBilly.â
âStop.â He lifts the covers up some, untucking you from them, and he wraps his arm around your back, tugging you into his side.Â
Suddenly youâre pressed against him, having slid across the sheets easier than youâd have imagined.Â
Heâs let go of you, his arm hovering over your back. âYou want me to hold you or no?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
Billy lets his arm drop against your side, his fingers splaying out over your back. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, hoping itâll warm you up. âThis okay?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
He nods. Youâre looking at him like heâs something special.
Billy realizes, in that moment, that thatâs how youâve always looked at him. Even before.Â
He also realizes that your hands are tucked under your chin and your legs are curled up and into you like youâre afraid of making any contact with him.Â
âYou can loosen up, you know. Itâs just me.âÂ
You let out a breath of a laugh, and he can feel it against the skin of his neck.Â
âItâs okay, I promise. You can touch me.â Billy has this feeling that youâre afraid of hurting him. Heâs sure youâve noticed that heâs wearing a shirt to bed, something he never did before. And he thinks that youâre worried heâll break.Â
âYouâre sure?â
âWouldnât have said so otherwise.â
He watches you unfold your hands and stretch your arm over him, hooking it around his hip. You want to rub up and down his side, but youâre nervous.Â
Itâs just me.Â
âDo they hurt at all?â
Your thumb skates up a little further, and you donât have to tell him what you mean.Â
âNot all the time,â he says, voice low and thick with drowsiness. âAt first, yeah, like hell. Now itâs just sometimes. They can feel a little tight, or just bug me. Depends, I guess.â
You nod, feeling brave enough now to slide your hand up a little further. Your touch is light, barely there. You close your eyes, trying not to think about when it happened. How heâd screamed.Â
He can tell when youâve calmed down some, because your arm relaxes and you hug him a little more firmly. You scoot in a little closer, close enough that your noses would touch if you tried to make them.Â
âGoodnight, Billy.â
He makes the move, dragging the tip of his nose across your forehead. He kisses the top of your head, and you grin so wide you feel like a kid in a candy shop.Â
âGoodnight, baby.â
ââââ
When you wake up, you almost donât want to disturb him, but you know you should get out of bed.
Billy is sprawled out on his stomach, having separated from you at some point during the night. His tank top is rucked up from the tossing and turning of sleep, and you look away when you catch a glimpse of pink skin. It doesnât feel like your place to look.Â
You wander out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind you. You make it down the hall, and find that Robin seems to be the only other one awake. You shouldâve guessed. She told you once before that her body doesnât seem to let her sleep in.Â
Steve is still passed out on the pull-out couch, completely covered by the blankets. The only sign of him is a tuft of messy hair against the light colored pillow case his head rests on.Â
Robin waves at you from her perch at the kitchen counter, a bowl of cereal in front of her. âWant some?â she whispers, pushing the box in your direction.Â
You fill up your own bowl, having a feeling that Robin is about to ramble.Â
âSleep okay?â she asks.Â
âMhm. You?â
âFine. Though, yâknow, Steve is a horrific bed hog. Seriously, he was half on top of me the whole night. I might have to bunk with Max and El.âÂ
You laugh, and Robin takes that as her queue to ask what sheâs been pondering since she woke up.Â
âWas it okay? Sleeping with Billy? Well, not like that. Well, Iâm assuming not like that, not that thereâs anything wrong with that, but I just meant like actually sleeping? Please stop me.â
You grin at her. âPlease breathe, Rob.â She does, over exaggerating her inhales. âAnd it was fine.â
âOkay, good. I was kind of worried youâd be frustrated with my matchmaking tendencies. I just really want you two to be happy. And he seems so calm when heâs with you, and I realize Iâve just told you that Iâve been pushing you two together and Iââ
You wipe milk from your chin, having almost spit out your cereal. âRobin, sweetheart, itâs okay, I promise. I know about your matchmaking tendencies. But I think weâre just friends, right?â
âJust friends, my ass.â You hadnât even seen Steve get up, but heâs reaching for the fridge and pulling out a carton of chocolate milk. He really canât say anything about Dustinâs eating habits when he has the exact same diet.Â
âOh my god.â
âListen, Iâm just saying, thereâs been something going on between you two since before the world went to shit. I donât know why you two tiptoe around each other like itâs not obvious that youâre in love.â
âSteve!â you exclaim. âSeriously, what the hell? Iâve been up for like twenty minutes and you two are schooling me on my love life?â
âOr lack thereof,â Robin says.Â
âOkay, damn. You know what, Iâm going back to bed.âÂ
Steve pushes your bowl back towards you when you attempt to get up. âNo, youâre not. Iâm just saying, thereâs no sense in avoiding this. You both clearly feel a lot for each other, and I donât see any reason to avoid it when you could be together.âÂ
Heâs being vulnerable with you, his big brown eyes boring into yours and trying to convey how serious heâs being.Â
âJust think about it, okay? Thereâs no harm in talking about how you feel with him. And donât say that you donât feel anything, because thatâs a goddamn lie.â
ââââ
Billyâs had his swim trunks on all day, but he hasnât done more than sit in the shade by the pool while everyone else makes a mess and plays ridiculous games in the water.Â
Itâs killing him to watch you in there from time to time, swimming around or sitting in the shallow end. You told him once that swimming calms you down.Â
Itâs not until after dinner, when everyone has moved inside for the most part, though there seems to be the plotting of a water balloon fight out front, that heâs brave enough to head for the pool.Â
You follow him out there, see him contemplating the water.Â
âWhatcha doinâ?âÂ
Billy drops the cigarette heâd been smoking, snubbing it out. âThought about going for a swim,â he tells you.Â
âThat sounds nice.â
âMhm.â
âI can go back inside, if you want.â
Billy turns to face you. âNo. No, I want you to stay.â He wants you to see. He canât explain why, but he does.Â
âOkay.âÂ
He takes a shaky breath, hoping you donât catch it. You do. You always do.Â
âI justâŠwasnât ready for everyone to see.â
âI understand, Billy.âÂ
You know what heâs really saying. He wasnât ready for everyone to see. But heâs ready for you to see.Â
âI can get in first, if that helps. And I wonât look if you donât want me to,â you say.Â
âThat helps, yeah. And you can look. Itâs okay.â
He watches you wade in, watches the way your swimsuit changes color as you tread water.Â
Billy takes another deep breath, and heâs pulling his shirt off. Heâs quick though, diving straight into the deep end, knowing he needs to get it over with.Â
When he comes up, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and he flips it out of the way, giving you a glimpse of the broad pink scar on his chest.Â
He meets you halfway, and you think heâs in a serious mood until heâs splashing you like a child.Â
âYou motherfucker!âÂ
You get him back, and heâs laughing.Â
Billy is laughing and he looks so pretty in the last of the dayâs sunlight, beads of water sliding over his collarbones and down his arms, and you feel like you could die. Like seeing him this way is enough. You donât need anything else.
You try to return a particularly aggressive splash, but he catches your waist, pulling you up and over his shoulder.Â
âBilly!â
âWhat?â His voice is teasing. He tosses the rest of the way over, your laughter fading out into the water.Â
You come up, a brilliant smile on his face. Billyâs sure if you stood close enough youâd be able to hear his heart beating.Â
When youâve both gone quiet, your eyes drop to the scars on his sides, the way they stretch across his skin, mean and twisting. Some spots are darker than others, and while it hurts you to look at them, you know it must hurt him even more. But he looks just as beautiful as before, if not increasingly so.Â
âSee something you like?â Billy says it on instinct. To hide the fact that heâs worried you donât really like it. That maybe you think heâs gross looking. But he knows thatâs all in his head. He fucking knows it.Â
âYouâre fucking gorgeous, Billy Hargrove.â
You say it with such surety, such admiration, that he canât even begin to doubt that you mean it.Â
He smiles at you. Itâs boyish. Youâd do anything to see a million more of them.Â
He moves towards you, the sky having darkened enough that the outside lights have come on, the lights in the pool too. All that remains of the sun is a slash of deep orange, though the night quickly pushes it away.
Billyâs got you backed up against the wall of the pool now. His hands find your sides.
Itâs overwhelming, having him this close. You can feel his breath on your face, see the rise and fall of his chest, the freckles on his cheeks.Â
When he kisses you, you think your heart stops. His mouth is warm against yours, and he tastes a little like chlorine, but you donât care. Your hands find his face, and youâre smiling so hard that he pulls away because he wants to see. You donât let him for long though, pulling him back, wanting more. He laughs into your mouth, and your chest aches with this feeling.
Eventually you do let go, and when you hold his eye contact, he knows what youâre going to say. He needs to tell you first, though.
âIâm in love with you, you know.â
âI know,â you respond.
He tosses his head back in a laugh, and you press a sweet kiss to his throat.Â
âIâm in love with you too, Billy.â
âDamn right you are.â
You snort against his chest, lowering slightly to kiss his scar. His breath catches. He doesnât know what he did to deserve you.Â
âAbout fucking time!â Steveâs shouting and Robin is yelling, and Max would be making barf sounds if she wasnât so pleased with seeing her brother so happy.Â
âSo much for that,â Billy says.
But you wouldnât have it any other way.Â
ââââ
âIâm regretting this, Billy.â
âStop whining.â
Billy wraps his arms tighter around your back, pressing a kiss to your jaw in hopes that youâll let him keep doing this.Â
âGet off.â
âNo.â
âGet off, please.â
âMake me.âÂ
Thereâs the sound of a slap, your hand having met his ass.
He raises his head from where heâd buried it in your chest, looking at you drowsily. âYou just spanked me.â
And youâd do it again.Â
âDidnât work, did it?â
âNo. Shut up and take it.â
By that he means continue letting him lay on top of you, his entire body pressed to yours. It doesnât matter to him that thereâs an entire bed, one thatâs made for two people.
You settle for playing with his hair, something he seems to enjoy, and youâd mess with him about the fact that heâs essentially purring if it werenât for him looking so content.Â
He might be heavy, but having Billy Hargrove sleep on top of you isnât exactly something you just give up.Â
Heâs never had this before.
Hell, youâve never had this before.Â
And he thinks itâs healing him. More than the salve he puts on his scars, or the physical therapy, or fixing up the Camaro.Â
Youâre healing him. You.Â
ââââ
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There's just something about this,,,, has my whole freaking heart đ„°
summary: Bucky Barnes canât seem to keep away from your med tent no matter how many times you fix him up. // challenge prompt: bed sharing pairing: 1940s bucky x reader word count: 5k warnings: a very charming bucky đ a/n: This was written for @cake-writesâ 1940s challenge! Congrats on the 3.5 milestone!! The title of this fic comes from the song Heal Me by Snow PatrolÂ
There was blood on the white of your dress; slow and steady seeping into the fabric and staining the cotton blend fibers. Red and as deep and bold as the cross sewn into the chest of your uniform, the blood became part of the design because no matter how many times you scrubbed it clean, more would find its way back to the hip of your skirt, the sleeve of your shoulder, the hem of your apron by morningâs end. Sometimes you wondered why theyâd bothered dressing you in white at all. Might as well make it red with the number of wounded soldiers they dragged through your tent; most halfway towards the shiny bright light and others inches away from their last breath.
The chaos was constant, a given, and despite the noise and clutter, it was where you felt most at home. It was better than the lull, the calm before the inevitable storm, where youâd be swarmed with men on stretchers, bleeding out onto the dirt and tossed into overcrowded beds. The steady stream was easier than the rapids, easier than assigning ten men to a single nurse where injuries could be missed, vital tears overlooked.
You were at the end of your shift for the night, dirt on your forehead, sweat damping the carefully curled ringlets at your neck. A file in your hand of the man at the end of the room, thicker than most, and you kept your eyes down as you pushed your way through the crowd of nurses and visiting soldiers, heels sinking slightly into the grass with every step.
When you came upon him, you finally noticed the name etched into the top right corner of the folder; the cheesy grin as he propped himself up on his elbows, blood and dirt coating most of his face, though still as annoying handsome as ever.
âHiya, doll.â
âOh, not you again.â
Keep reading
Summary: After an ill-fated confrontation with Ominis' family, you come to learn that they want you for themselves. More specifically, they want your abilities for themselves. Ominis is less than pleased with the revelation and returns home with the intention of proving that the only person you belong to is him.
Alternatively summarized as Dominis turning into a possessive alpha male in the wake of his family's sudden interest in you.
Word Count: 9.3k
Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, minor depictions of violence, explicit sexual content, rough/possessive sex Ă la Dominis
Descriptions of Marvolo and Aleister Gaunt heavily credited to legacyshenanigans
Full fic can be found here on Ao3 (as always with more eclectic tags)
This was a bad idea. Truly one of the worst ones you had come up with in recent timesâ which was saying something when you stopped to consider all the stupid shit youâd gotten yourself into since starting at Hogwarts. But this was a decision born of desperation, and one that you adamantly refused to go back on.Â
Not that you could, realistically. You were already here.Â
The Gaunt Estate was massive. It was an imposing structure, shrouded in a perpetual darkness that seemed to kill off even the tiniest slivers of light, and youâd noted the distinctly foul scent of dark magic that encased the mansion from roughly a mile away. There were no Floo Flames to utilize for travel, so youâd been forced to apparate to Great Hangleton and walk the remaining six miles to reach your destination. This was your first time setting foot anywhere near Ominisâ childhood home, and the threat of splinching yourself by apparating to an unfamiliar location was a very legitimate concern.Â
You almost wished youâd taken the gamble, if only to spare yourself the harrowing journey on foot.Â
Ominis had to already be inside the manor, having left long before you decided you would follow him to essentially eavesdrop on his meeting with his family. You had never seen him so agitated in the hours leading up to his departure, and it was entirely due to the letter heâd received from his father. What it had said, you didnât know, but you knew Ominis well enough to figure out that it wasnât anything good. His entire demeanor had changed upon reading the apparent summons, but he wouldnât tell you a lick of what it was about. Heâd promised to return home as soon as he was able and left without so much as a goodbye kiss.Â
The memory only reinforced the fact that this was a really bad idea. What the hell were you thinking?Â
Now that you were actually here, you had no clue how to go about your poorly thought out plan. Going inside had always been the goal, but now that you were face to face with the blood-chilling building, you found yourself hesitating. Something told you that getting out would be a lot harder than getting in. You didnât even know where Ominis could be, especially if the interior was as gargantuan as the exterior. Getting lostâ or Merlin forbid, caught and torturedâ seemed like the most plausible outcome.Â
It was as the saying went; curiosity killed the cat. You seriously hoped you wouldnât end up dead as a result of your inquisitiveness.Â
Forcing one foot in front of the other, you started down the gravel path towards the arched double doors with your wand in hand. Your anxiety was like a physical entity hiding within your chest, but you smothered it beneath the overwhelming desire to ensure that Ominis was okay. While you knew he could handle himself, his familyâs reputation preceded them, and youâd feared the worst earlier when you had borne witness to his expression shifting into something far more sinister than you were accustomed to.Â
You cast a disillusionment charm for extra measure before giving the handle a testing twist, relieved to find that the door was unlocked. It wouldnât surprise you if there were other safeguards in place that you were unaware of, but pressing on despite that unknown possibility was a risk you were willing to take. You opened the door a crackâ just enough for you to squeeze through before quickly shutting it behind youâ and you were instantly encased in suffocating darkness.Â
The windows that lined the walls were evidently just for show.Â
It smelled distinctly old inside, as though there had never been a time when the mansion wasnât inhabited. The wooden columns that lined the entryway were cracked and worn, stretching all the way towards the vaulted ceilings before disappearing into the inky shadows high above. There was a striking amount of antique looking decor that lined the walls; from suits of armor, to ornate vases perched atop mahogany tables. Straight across from the front door was a giant portrait of what could only be the Gaunt family.
Ominis was nowhere to be found in it.Â
The sound of distant, unintelligible voices echoed throughout the vast foyer from somewhere deeper in the house, drawing your attention and making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Your eyes scanned the room once more before you were furtively moving further into the room in the direction of the noise.Â
Following the sound of the voices brought you to a giant oak doorwayâ a mere fraction of the size of the main entrance, but still obscenely large. From within you could hear a man you didnât recognize, his throaty timbre one that seemed to command attention, and you couldnât suppress the shiver that danced down your spine. Nothing about his tone sounded pleasant.Â
âItâs been put off long enough,â you heard the man say as you sidled up directly against the door, careful not to lean on it too much and risk shoving it open. âWe entertained your rebelliousness while you were at school, but Apollonia has anticipated this union for years now. It will happen. Whether youâre a willing participant, however, is up to you.â
âYou already know my stance on the matter.â Ominis. âIâd sooner dig my own grave before I let you marry me off to that deplorable woman. Sheâs psychoticââÂ
âA non-issue,â interjected the older voice.Â
âPerhaps itâs irrelevant to you, but not to me,â Ominis snapped. You hardly recognized the threatening lilt in his voice; he sounded thoroughly fed up with the discussion, and you briefly wondered how long heâd been going at it with the unknown man. âSheâs utterly wicked. Moreover sheâs family. Have you forgotten my opposition to these incestuous relations you continue to shove down my throat?âÂ
At this point, you were almost positive the deeper voice belonged to Ominisâ father. You knew next to nothing about the man, other than the fact that Ominis loathed him with his entire being. Before you could delve further into your thoughts, a distinctly feminine voice filtered through the thin slit in the doorway, sounding colder than ice.Â
âAleister, give it a rest. If he wants to be dragged to the altar instead of walking down it, then so be it.âÂ
Ominisâ laugh was crass and devoid of any genuine humor, and you could practically hear the sneer in his rebuttal. âBold of you to assume Iâll let myself be dragged anywhere. Try it and see what happens.âÂ
âI just donât understand why youâre so opposed to this,â the woman continued as though he hadnât even spoken. âYou never used to fight us to this extentâ youâve always known what was expected of you as a Gaunt. Does that girl from Hogwarts have anything to do with this?âÂ
Your entire body went rigid at the mention of yourself, and a tense silence descended over the room. It was suddenly so quiet that you were certain you could hear a pin dropâ but in this case the lack of sound allowed you to pick up on something shifting across the floorboards closer to you. You had barely glanced over your shoulder before you were jumping away from the door with your heart hammering in your chest.Â
The biggest snake youâd ever seen in your life was slithering across the floor, its iridescent scales somehow reflecting the nonexistent light within the hallway. Your eyes went wider than saucers as you stepped away as much as you could, silently backing yourself into the tiny alcove beside the doorway in a bid to remain undetectedâ because if there was one thing the wizarding world had taught you, it was that beasts of any kind were far more intelligent than they were given credit for. The snakeâs long, forked tongue flicked out incessantly as it made its way towards the doors, but it stopped short of the entryway to pivot its massive head in your direction.Â
It was looking right at you.Â
Fuck.
Your body tensed in anticipation of the worst; maybe it was venomous and youâd die quickly, or maybe it was more inclined to strangle the life out of you before depositing your corpse in front of Ominis and his parents. The thought made your stomach churn, and your eyes flicked down to confirm that yesâ the disillusionment charm was still workingâ but that didnât seem to matter where the reptile was concerned, and you mentally chided yourself for ever having let your curiosity get the better of you.Â
The conversation on the other side of the door continued as your staring contest with the snake pressed on. âThat girl is none of your concern. If you know whatâs good for you, youâll refrain from speaking to me about her.âÂ
âOminis,â Aleister admonished with a rough voice. âDonât you dare speak to your mother that way. Such hostility for some witch we know nothing aboutâ perhaps itâs time to rid you of her influence once and for all. Sheâs proving to be a greater distraction than I had anticipated.â
Your eyes stayed glued to the snakeâs, but your blood ran cold.Â
âOver my dead body. If you so much as look at herââ
âThat can be arranged. No son of mine will be consorting with some harlot of unknown blood purity. Youâd be better off in the graveââÂ
âAleister!â Ominisâ mother yelled, silencing the back and forth bickering instantaneously, and you found the willpower to shift your feet sideways so you could better make a break for the front door.
There was another flick of the creatureâs tongue as it blatantly scented your presence, but it made no move to inch closer to you. While you were grateful to still be breathing, you were also deeply, irrevocably afraid, and you came to the resolute decision that it was time to get the hell out of there.Â
You moved out of the alcove slowly while maintaining what you deemed to be a safe enough distance from the snake, and all the while its thin, slitted pupils followed your movements. The blasted thing had an awareness to it that sent shivers down your spine, overwhelming you with the urge to run and get away, but vigilance was key. It wasnât poised to strike, but that just made you even more nervous.Â
Why wasnât it attacking you?Â
You adamantly refused to turn your back on the reptile, so you kept your front to it as you skirted the edge of the wall in the direction of the entrance. The discussion between Ominis and his parents was muffled nowâ their voices distinctly lower after his mother had cut off their argument with her biting toneâ but you no longer cared to listen in. You craved safety, and nothing about the Gaunt household offered that.Â
As you came upon the final stretch of the hallway, the snake flicked out its tongue once more before it was turning around to begin slithering towards you, and the remnants of your bravery evaporated. Fear overtook you, and the disillusionment charm that had shrouded you in transparency fell away as you pivoted and bolted around the corner. A chill-inducing hiss echoed from down the corridorâ the first real sound youâd heard the animal makeâ and it only served to propel you towards the exit even faster.
The gargantuan double-doors swam into view, and just as you were reaching out to curl your fingers around the handle, a strong arm was coiling around your waist and hauling you backwards with enough force to give you whiplash. A startled, pained yelp was expelled from your lungs as you were slammed into the wall beside the doors, and your hip connected painfully with a tiny side table that careened against the floor. The vase that had been perched atop it shattered loudly, the ceramic pieces scattering across the tile, but you barely got the chance to gauge the extent of the damage before an unfamiliar face was blocking your sight.Â
âWell well well, just look at what the cat dragged in. Get lost on your way home, doll?â Â
It took a second for the statement to register, but once it had, you were craning your head back to glare boldly at the arrogant sounding man. His tawny eyes were narrowed down at you in amusement, his thick forearm pinned horizontally across your chest to restrain you firmly in place between himself and the wall, and the predatory look in his gaze had your stomach sinking into your feet. Everything about him screamed dangerous; from the unruly hair that curled around his temples to the animalistic way he bared his teeth at youâ there wasnât a doubt in your mind that the man would kill you if he deemed it acceptable. You cursed yourself silently for having put yourself in such a predicament in the first place.Â
The imposing man cocked his head to the side coyly as he teased, âI hardly think I deserve such a cruel expression when youâre the one sleuthing around my house uninvited.â
Your mouth opened and shut a few times before you managed to stammer out, âI-I wasnâtââÂ
âDonât deny it,â he cut you off quickly. âWhat other reason would Ominisâ little plaything have for being here? I sincerely doubt the house-elves held the door open for you.âÂ
The term âplaythingâ made you scowl, distracting you from the fact that the man even knew who you were, and you brazenly planted your hands against his firm chest to shove him away. It was like pushing against an immovable boulder. âIâm not his plaything, you pratââ
His free hand shot up in a flash to grip the sides of your jaw painfully, the look on his face darkening tenfold as he growled, âCareful now, Iâd hate to lose my temper and take away my brotherâs pet.â The fingers splayed under your face tightened a fraction as the crazed man angled your head to the side, shamelessly pressing his nose against the sensitive skin of your throat before he inhaled deeply. You shuddered uncomfortably at the contact. âAlthough Iâm beginning to understand his infatuation a bit. You smell⊠different. What is that, exactly?âÂ
You had no fucking clue what he was referring to, nor did you care to find out. Each passing second brought the towering man closer into your personal space, and when one of his legs started to weasel its way in-between yours, you found yourself attempting to writhe out of his ironclad grip. âLet go of me,â you demanded in a low voice, doing your best to keep your words steady and hide the rampant unease in your tone.Â
âAnswer my question,â he countered easily. âOr Iâll snap your scrawny neck and be done with it. Makes no difference to me whether you live or dieââÂ
âIf you have any desire to keep those slimy hands of yours, youâll remove them this instant, Marvolo.âÂ
Your eyes widened at the sound of Ominisâ booming voice echoing throughout the foyer, which had the elder Gaunt smiling wickedly at you. He didnât bother turning around, opting to stay right where he was and drop his fingers lower so he could squeeze around your windpipe, and you knew your choked gasp reached Ominisâ ears when he swore viciously and began walking closer.Â
âDid I stutter? I said to unhand her, you cretin.â
Marvolo tutted disapprovingly, angling his head to the side so he could better keep track of Ominis coming up behind him, but he kept his eyes glued to yours all the while. âCome now, Ominis. You know how I feel about rats, and she was certainly scurrying around like one.â
You finally caught sight of the blond over Marvoloâs shoulder, and the look on his face was downright murderous. His dark, expressive brows were slammed down atop his milky-blue irises, and his pursed lips contorted into a scowl as he leveled his wand with the back of the taller manâs head. Ominis continued to side-step closer, moving with the prowess of a wolf stalking its prey, and to your immense satisfaction Marvolo broke eye contact with you to fix his gaze on his brother.Â
Maybe you were imagining it, but you could have sworn he looked wary.Â
âLast chance,â Ominis grit out through his clenched teeth. âLet her go. Or youâll be nothing more than a stain on the floor.âÂ
The sharp laugh Marvolo let slip past his lips was positively wicked, and Ominisâ threat only served to motivate his brother into tightening his hand around your throat. Stars danced in the corners of your eyes then, and your own hand shot up to grip at the manâs thick wrist in an attempt to pry his fingers away from your windpipe. Panic flooded your brain, your racing heart drowning out the sound of Ominisâ angry voice as your pulse thundered in your ears. Fight or flight was probably an appropriate way to describe what you were feeling, but Marvolo was making both options impossible to act on.Â
He wasnât listening to Ominis. He probably never would. You would have to get yourself out of this mess on your own.Â
Marvolo was barking out insults and threats over his shoulder, taunting Ominis into hurting him as he called his younger brotherâs bluff. You were able to school your nerves long enough to focus and dig deep inside of yourself in search of the magic you so rarely touched. Isidoraâs abilities were as much of an unknown now as they had been when youâd first absorbed them, but it was comparable to a living entity within you, and the phantom presence of her magic roared to life as you called upon it.Â
You felt the strange, darker magic crackle over your skin, and Marvoloâs head whipped back around to stare at you with his pupils blown wide. Whatever he saw reflected in your eyes was enough to spark alarm in his heart, and a sick, twisted part of you relished in the apprehension that washed over his features.Â
âWhat the fuck is that?â His hand around your throat loosened a fraction, but you werenât about to let him walk away from this unscathed. The arm that had been hanging limp at your side stretched out until your palm was directly against his chest, and you couldnât help but grimace when the red bolts of magic skirted across your forearm and blasted straight into his sternum.Â
Marvolo went flying with a barely there gruntâ his arms and legs flailing as he tried to find purchaseâ to no avail. He hit the stone floor and slid an additional ten feet or so until he came to rest just beside the corridor youâd run out of earlier, and your blood ran cold when an older, imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out from within the hallway. The look on his face was enough to spur you into action then, and you spared a quick, panicked glance at Ominis before you peeled off of the wall and threw the front door open.Â
The cool night air was like a slap to your face, sobering you up instantaneously and driving you to pump your legs harderâ fasterâ as you sprinted down the path that led to the dark forest surrounding the property. There was a bang from somewhere behind you and an animalistic sound you could only describe as a snarl, but you didnât dare look back. Not when it could potentially cost you dearly.Â
âMarvolo!â Ominis shouted, his voice angry and distant, but as the footsteps slapping against the gravel behind you got closer and closer, you realized it had to be him giving chase. Your heart hammered in your chest and in your earsâ drowning out the sound of the encroaching danger hot on your heelsâ but you knew there would be no outrunning Marvolo. That crazed look in his eyes youâd seen earlier told you everything you needed to know; he would pursue you to the end of the damn country on foot if need be, and you had no intention of getting caught to find out what he had planned for you.Â
Another growl sounded from over your shoulder, causing you to will your brain out of flight-mode and force your magic into action. It surged in your blood, coursing through your veins as you thought of homeâ of safety.Â
One second you were running, and in the next you had apparated. Marvoloâs hand came down on empty air, his heels digging into the ground as he skidded to a stop and realized what had happened. You were already long gone, but his rage-filled roar shook the foundation of the manor, somehow echoing in your ears as you collapsed to your knees in the center of your living room.Â
***
Your eyes stung as the steam from the bath wafted up into your face, your gaze never straying from the surface of the water. It had been nearly two hours since your narrow escape from Ominisâ childhood home and you had been in the tub for the majority of itâ calming your frayed nerves and racing heart with deep breaths that did little to quell the anxiety that still riddled you. The hot water had been charmed back to scalding temperatures twice now, having gone cold multiple times already as you sat with your knees curled against your chest and replayed every second of your fortuitous run-in with Marvolo Gaunt.Â
The ache in your hip throbbed to life every time you thought back to the primal glint that had flashed in Marvoloâs eyes as heâd thrown you into that table. What had started as a tender red spot on your side had transformed into a nasty, colossal bruise, stark and obvious against your bare skin. You hadnât been able to so much as glance at the finger shaped bruises that wrapped around your neck without feeling nauseous.Â
Youâd made a mistake in following Ominisâ that much was certain.Â
The man in question had yet to return home, and as a result, the seemingly bottomless pit of unease in your chest only worsened. Part of you was ashamed for having left him alone to face his familyâs scrutiny after literally breaking and entering, but you knew he wouldnât have had it any other way. There wasnât a doubt in your mind that he would have found a way to get you out as quickly as possible if you hadnât done so yourself.Â
Still, you worried.Â
Another fifteen minutes passed without a sound from within the house, and you dimly registered that the water had gone cold once more. You were half tempted to heat it up again and spend the remainder of the night turning yourself into a human-sized prune, but the ache in your back from staying curled up for so long diminished the idea quickly. Swiftly, you hoisted yourself out of the water, using the rim of the tub to steady yourself as you stood and began drying yourself off. Rivulets of water still cascaded down your body as you draped your robe over your shoulders, but you couldnât muster up the energy to care. Fatigue overtook you as you combed through your hair with your fingers and padded into your bedroom, and the second you laid down atop the sheets, your eyes were drifting shut.Â
You had no idea how long you slept before the distinct feeling of the mattress dipping roused you from your light slumber. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the pulsing, red glow that emanated from Ominisâ wand as he hovered it over you, and you slowly started to blink the fog from your eyes.Â
You had no clue how he realized you were awake, but his voice was unmistakably tight as he asked you, âWhere are you hurt?âÂ
It took your brain a second to fully register the question, and you propped yourself up on your elbow as your eyes adjusted to the dim light and muttered, âWhat?âÂ
âYou screamed,â he gritted through clenched teeth, and despite the low visibility in the room, you watched as his grip on his wand turned white knuckled. âI heard you earlier. You were in painâ I know itâs the truthâ so tell me now, where are you hurt?âÂ
On cue, the bruise on your hip throbbed to life, and you swiftly placed your hand on top of it while silently cursing yourself for not having brewed any Wiggenweld potions after returning home. Evidently your mind had been too jumbled to do the most logical thing following the altercation. âItâs not that badââ you started to say, but Ominis cut you off before you could downplay the injury any further.Â
âPlease,â he implored you, silencing you instantly with his pleading tone. âIâm trying to leave this up to you, but donât think for a second I wonât figure it out for myself if you donât tell me.â
Something about the desperate look on his face made you pause, and you took a moment to really take in the sight of him. He was paleâ far paler than normalâ and the way his brows furrowed told you that he was more anxious than you realized. His posture was still impeccable but less poisedâ closer to rigid. His shoulders barely moved, giving the illusion that he was hardly breathing, and you honestly werenât sure he was at this point.Â
In short, Ominis looked petrified.Â
Your lips formed a hard line as your gaze traversed his stiff form, swallowing thickly before you slid your hand away from your hip to reveal the dark purple blotch that decorated your side. âMy hip,â you murmured, afraid that if you spoke the truth too loudly, the tentative composure Ominis was keeping would vanish.Â
The muscle in his jaw ticked, and the hand he didnât have wrapped around the handle of his wand came to skim along your waist before hovering ever so slightly above the bruise. âWhere else?âÂ
âThis is the worst of the damageââ
âWhere else?â His voice was deeper and rougher than you were accustomed to hearing, and the notable difference had your stomach flipping over on itself. It left you feeling queasy, and you honestly couldnât tell if he was mad at you or at the situation as a whole.Â
ââŠMy neck,â you relented quietly, all too aware of the blatant anger that overtook Ominisâ face. âAt least I returned the favor,â you added quickly with a half-smile, trying to lessen the severity of the claim. It was a failed attempt, however, seeing as the man averted his unseeing gaze to the floor and shook his head minutely. Dimly, you watched as he waved his wand over his free hand, and a small vial of Wiggenweld appeared in the center of his palm before he wordlessly handed it to you. Given his tense demeanor, you opted not to say anything as you took it and removed the cork, then drank down the earthy contents graciously. The relief was instantaneous, and through the darkness of the room you managed to catch sight of the bruise on your hip fading away entirely.Â
Your tiny sigh of relief reached Ominisâ ears, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to dissipateâ albeit barely. âYou should never have gone there. Why would you set foot anywhere near that damnable house? Do you have any idea the kind of danger you put yourself inâ the kind of danger that youâre still in?â
At that, you finally pushed yourself up so you were sitting with your back against the pillows, setting aside the empty vial so you could clasp Ominisâ free hand in yours. His skin was cool to the touch, and you noted the miniscule tremors that emanated from him as you squeezed the appendage to will his attention back to you. âIâm sorry, Ominis. I was worried about youâ you were so upset before you left earlier and I was scared that your family would do something to you.âÂ
âOf course they want to do something to me. Theyâve tried puppeting me into a version of myself they can tolerate for my entire life, but itâs for that very reason that I can handle them. Iâve told you what theyâre likeâ how relentless they areâ and still you went there.â His head finally snapped back in your direction, and the expression on his face was one you were certain you would never forget; it was a mask of desperation, fear, and most notably, rage. âYou have no idea what youâve doneâ what it means now that theyâve seen you and what you can do.â
Youâd hadnât really done much of anything, aside from blasting Marvolo across the foyer before running for your life. Still, his words kindled a spark of fear in your chest, and your hold on his hand turned loose and clammy. âWhat are you talking about?âÂ
âBefore tonight, you were just an unknown witch Iâd been⊠âcavortingâ with, in my fatherâs eyes. Easy to get rid of should the need arise. Until earlier, they didnât believe you to be exceptionally powerful or particularly useful.â
The sudden dryness in your throat became painfully obvious. âUseful how?âÂ
âThe Gauntâs value power and authority over everything. Both things guarantee them the influence they need to further their own ends, and as unknown as your abilities are to them, they are undeniable. Theyâd be fools to ignore such a potent form of magic, and as much as I detest my family and their convoluted values, Iâll be the first to admit that they arenât stupid. They will find a way to make that power their ownâ blood purity be damnedâ and stealing you away and marrying you off to my brother would be their most likely course of action.â
Ominis practically spat the word, his teeth bared and eyes narrowed as murderous thoughts of his brother flew through his mind. Your own head was reeling at the revelation, nausea crashing over you as you thought back to Marvolo and the sadistic way heâd smiled as he tried choking the life out of you. Someone like that wouldnâtâ no, couldnât have a caring bone in their body. But you also knew that someone of his caliber was bound to be determined to get what he wanted, and if Ominis believed that his family now sought to obtain you for their own ends, Marvolo would do everything in his power to make it happen.Â
You had really, really fucked up.Â
Somewhere in-between thinking of Ominisâ brother and the sickening idea of being kidnapped, your breathing had kicked up dramatically. You didnât notice, but the blond man beside you certainly did. Ominis turned fully so his torso was angled towards you, feeling around the bed for your other hand before clasping your trembling limbs in his cooler ones, and your wide eyes flicked back up to meet his. âI wonât let them have you. Do you hear me? If they so much as glance at you, Iâll leave them wishing they had never set their sights on you.â
âYou canât know that,â you whispered, and your voice was unrecognizable to you. It was small and shaky, timid and so very, very afraid. âMarvolo isâ heâs a beast. Heâll kill you in a heartbeat, Ominis. Youâll die and it will be all my fault. I-Iâm sorry, Iâm so sorry, this is all my faultââÂ
In a flash, Ominis silenced you with a kiss. It took you by surprise, but it was far from an unwelcome oneâ especially when his wand bearing hand slid to the back of your neck to pull you impossibly closer towards him. You were pleased to discover that the skin there no longer throbbed with discomfort, the Wiggenweld potion heâd given you having done its job for all the bruises, not just the one on your hip. The revelation calmed you further, and before you knew it you were melting against the taller man, grabbing fistfulls of his shirt to cling to him desperately.
Ominis broke away momentarily to murmur against your parted lips, âNo one will ever take you from me, youâre mine.âÂ
Despite the circumstances that led the two of you to this moment, you found yourself enraptured by the possessive declaration, and you couldnât help but lean closer into the blondâs personal space until your hands were sandwiched between his chest and your breasts. Your mouth found his again, and you fervently bit at his bottom lip as you breathily whispered, âIâm yours, Ominis. Only yours.âÂ
Instantly, Ominis was pushing you back towards the headboard until your head knocked against the wooden frame, not once breaking the kiss as he positioned himself on top of you. His long legs came to cage your own against the mattress as he threw his wand to the edge of the bed, freeing both of his hands so he could plant them on either side of your face. Pulling away seemed physically difficult for him but he didnât stray far, opting to rest his forehead against yours and fix his hazy eyes directly on yours. How he knew where to aim his heady stare, you didnât know, but your toes curled at the ardent need for you that reflected in his blue irises.Â
âSay it again,â he implored you with a voice like pure sin.Â
âIâm yours,â you obliged him without missing a beat, and a sigh slipped past your lips as Ominis lowered his face to pepper featherlight kisses along your jaw and down the now unmarred column of your neck. Goosebumps broke out virtually all over your body when you felt one of his cool hands fall to the neckline of your robe, and as Ominis slowly tugged the material apart to expose your bare chest, he sank his teeth into the tender spot above your clavicle. The pain laced pleasure left you moaning his name in earnest, your voice steadily growing louder as his thumb came to graze over one of your nipples.Â
You felt the pressure from his teeth lessen as you arched into his touch, followed by his kiss-swollen lips latching over the bite to suck lightly. âAgain,â he breathed, continuing to work his searing brand into your flesh.Â
There were too many ways to describe his actions; primal, dominant, and greedy, to name a few. Yet there was a softness to his words that left your heart aching within your chestâ a tenderness that spoke volumes of the fear heâd felt upon realizing you had entered into that nest of vipers. He had nearly lost you tonight, and when the hand against your breast shifted down to curl around your waist, you realized he would never allow for it to happen again.Â
âIâm here, Ominis, Iâm right here,â you moaned, your reedy voice bouncing off the walls of the bedroom and causing the man above you to shudder. âIâm here and Iâm yours.âÂ
Before long, Ominis was moving back into your line of sight to capture your lips in another searing kiss. The hand on your waist traversed the bare expanse of your lower stomach before reaching your aching center, and you mindlessly wound your arms around his neck to tug him closer, bucking your hips into his hand as he slid a slender finger through your folds.Â
âMine,â he growled against your parted lips, and your next breath caught in your throat as he tentatively pushed the digit inside your wet heat. Your contented sigh filtered through Ominisâ hypersensitive ears as he pressed his finger in all the way to the knuckle, and the arm he supported himself with trembled minutely as he fought to control his baser urges.Â
After everything that had transpired tonight, he wanted nothing more than to bury himself deep in your cunt, desperate to feel you clamp down around his cock and suck him in further and further as he claimed you. He longed to mark you, brand you, consume you, in every possible wayâ his familyâs wishes be damned. He would make you his and his alone. Should any of his kin so much as attempt to interject, he vowed he would defend you until his last breathâ and then not even death would stop him. Ominis knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would defy the laws of nature if it meant keeping you safe from harm.Â
As you continued to rock your hips in time with Ominisâ hand, your legs spread apart of their own accord, silently beckoning him closer as you shivered under his dutiful ministrations. Ominis felt the movement and groaned in blatant appreciation, taking advantage of the newfound space to siddle down the bed and kneel comfortably between your legs, and all the while his finger continued to pump in and out of your wet heat languidly. He bestowed another toe-curling kiss upon your lips before breaking away to slide fully down the mattress, your heart stuttering in your chest as he moved low enough to settle between your quivering thighs. It was impossible to overlook the animalistic expression on Ominisâ face as he gazed in your directionâ following the sound of your barely there whimpersâ and your blood ignited in your veins at the sight.Â
All too eager, Ominis wasted little time in securing his grip around your waist with his free arm to better pull you harder onto his finger. The keening sound that slipped from your throat was replaced almost instantly by a guttural moan, drawn forth by the feeling of your loverâs lips latching around your clit to suck enthusiastically, and your head thunked against the headboard as wave after wave of sheer pleasure cascaded through you.Â
Your thighs absentmindedly clenched on either side of Ominisâ head as he shamelessly pulled your bundle of nerves into his mouth, the action accompanied by wet, perverted sounds that had damn near all the blood in your body rushing to your cheeks. âMerlin, Ominisâ fuckââÂ
Beyond a throaty growl, he said nothing. He simply tightened his hold on your waist, his other hand angling itself so he could better curl the finger inside of you, the combined sensations making your head positively spin. Entirely at his mercy, your hands flew to his soft, blond hair as you effectively surrendered to the pure bliss he granted you.Â
If you had been hot and wet already, Ominisâ mouth felt a thousand times more so as he torturously dragged his tongue up your cunt. He removed his finger from your clenching walls and replaced it with the wet muscle, wriggling it as much as he could as though he were desperate to lap up everything that escaped out of you. Your breathing hitched and your hips involuntarily bucked when his ministrations traveled higher towards your clit, and when he finally reached it, the tip of his tongue was slow and methodical as he pressed firm, torturous circles around the throbbing bundle.
Ordinarily, having Ominis appreciatively go down on you would have been the highlight of the night, but given his domineering persona at present, you knew you were just plain fucked now.Â
âOminis, please,â you managed to croak out. âIâm not going to last, Iâ ah!â You practically yelped when the tips of the manâs teeth raked along your inner thigh, nipping at the soft skin there hard enough for you to jolt.Â
âJust relax and let me work,â he muttered coolly, pressing a featherlight kiss to the spot heâd bitten as he dragged his hands down your abdomen to squeeze your tensing thighs.Â
Despite your best efforts, you were quickly losing your grip on anything other than the sensations Ominis was lavishing you with. You felt lightheaded as you attempted to release your tense muscles, struggling to do so as your lover devoured you with reckless abandon. His nose brushed against your clit as he slipped his tongue inside of you once more, the sound of his wet, suckling noises intermingling with your breathy whines as you felt your climax building higher and higher in your gut. You couldnât tell if your arousal was stemming from how Ominis enthusiastically used his tongue, lips, and teeth on you or if it came from the demanding way he directed you, but you decided that you didnât care; every feeling had burrowed deep inside of you and taken root in your mind.Â
You wanted moreâ no, needed more.Â
Head whacking back against the wooden bed frame, you needily tugged at the strands of his hair wrapped around your fingers as you pleaded, âPlease, Ominis, I need youâŠâÂ
Those five words did more to stroke his ego than you would ever know. Right now, Ominis needed you to need him. He wanted you to succumb to his ministrations and bend to his will, all to parry the baseless demands of his deranged family. There wasnât a chance in hell he would ever willingly hand you over to themâ much less to Marvoloâ and through your rapture-filled begging, he knew he had succeeded.Â
You were wholly and unequivocally his.Â
He pulled away for a moment to run his hands up your thighs, over your hips, then along the pebbled peaks of your breasts. The way you trembled at his touch told him everything he needed to know; you were hanging on by a thread, and he didnât need to see you in order to know you looked absolutely wrecked.Â
Unable to endure a second more of the teasing, Ominis raised himself up on his knees to remove his clothing. Swiftly and efficiently, he dexterously undid the catch of his trousers before shoving the constricting attire down his narrow hips. There was no stopping the sigh of relief that spilled through his clenched teeth as his cock finally sprung freeâ long, heavy, and leaking from the red, swollen tip. With his shirt disheveled, hair mussed, and pants haphazardly hanging below his hip bones, he was truly the picture of temptation. You stared up at him through hooded eyes as he stroked himself a few times, taking in the sight of your lover towering over you as you lay prone atop the sheets beneath him.Â
Once again, Ominisâ uncanny ability to feel your eyes on him surprised you, and a cheshire-like smirk blossomed across his face as he asked, âEnjoying the view?âÂ
âMore than you are, Iâd wager,â you retorted, and Ominis scoffed as his smug expression turned into one of amused disbelief. That mouth of yours was bound to land you in trouble one of these days.Â
âSmartass,â he murmured affectionately, keeping one hand on his shaft as the other reached down in search of your waist, squeezing the flesh there with a bruising strength that only served to intensify the ache between your legs. You aided him by wriggling down the sheets in order to press your ass against his bent knees, and Ominis lowered himself once more so the heavy weight of his cock rested against your spit-slick folds. It was hard for you to believe that the wild haired, smokey-eyed man kneeling between your legs was the same boy who had shyly walked with you to your classes all those years ago. Both of his hands pressed against your hips this time as he sat back on his heels, white teeth flashing as he aligned the head of his manhood against your entrance.Â
âAre you ready for me, darling?â Ominis asked, as though you hadnât been begging for this very outcome minutes before.Â
âYes,â you breathed out shakily, your hands twisting in the fabric of your long-abandoned bathrobe beneath you. âIâmââ
Despite his privileged upbringing, Ominis was a fan of the simple things in life. Good food, long walks during the warmer seasons, and the sound of your voice catching when he took you by surprise and slid inside you abruptly. In one fluid motion, he breached your walls, listening intently to your sharp intake of breath as he inched himself forward until his knees were under your rear and heâd bottomed out completely. The small whimper that slipped from your mouth had a deep, throaty chuckle escaping his, and his thumbs took to tracing encouraging circles against your hips as you clenched around him.Â
âIâm sure you are,â he purred in an infuriatingly sexy tone while you struggled to regain control over your breathing. Instantly, the dim embers of lust within you were rekindled, every inch of your body warm and borderline electric. Your hips writhed in Ominisâ hold in an attempt to wriggle closer, the unyielding grip he had on you coupled with the hungry expression on his face almost enough to make you come undone then and there.Â
âFuck, Ominisââ your words were cut short by a stifled moan as the blond slowly withdrew himself, arching back until only the tip of his cock was inside you before slamming his hips forward in one quick, sharp thrust. Your hands flew to his clothed knees as you dug your nails into the rumpled material of his trousers, desperate to touch every inch of him that you could but struggling to catch your breath in the midst of his slow, methodical thrusts.Â
Well, methodical at first.Â
You could feel Ominisâ acute desire for you with every pump of his hips, and a groan snaked its way out of his chest as he freed one of his hands to reach down and thumb over your clit. You hissed triumphantly through your teeth as you saw his expression slowly shift into something needier, his thrusts becoming less precise and more visceral. With how tight he was gripping you, you were positive the healed bruise from earlier would be replaced by long, finger shaped stripes, but you didnât care. If it was Ominis, it was fine. If it was him claiming you, branding you, consuming you, it was more than fine.Â
The blue-eyed incubus above you seemed to think similarly, if the low rumble in his chest was anything to go by. He was absolutely lost in the euphoria that came with being encased in your pulsing, tight heat, causing him to abandon his pretenses of control and give into his want for you with gusto. The hand he had on your sensitive bundle of nerves returned to grasp your waist, and even elevated as he was, he still had to thrust down into youâ shaking the headboard with every plunge as he effectively fucked you into the mattress.Â
The distinction was clear and evident in your mind as your legs came to wind around Ominisâ waist; the two of you had obviously been intimate before, and you had definitely made love before, but you had never been so carnally fucked like this a day in your life. It was hard to recall if Ominis had ever ravished you with such need in every stroke, enough so that you found yourself unable to control your shaking breaths or the volume of your voice. It was enrapturingâ getting caught up in the way he staked his claim on youâ so intent on fucking himself harder and deeper into you that his own husky murmurs of your name fell from his lips like a mantra.Â
Your inability to fight your moans and curses and feverish pleas for more was what Ominis lived for. The blond craved the sound of your voice like a drug, and he drew unparalleled strength from your vocal satisfaction. Maybe it had more to do with the events of the night than anything else, but hearing you cry his name and feeling you claw at the tops of his thighs made his chest swell with possessive affection, thrilled to hear you unwittingly proclaim that you were in fact his. No one else would ever have youâ no one else would ever find themselves lucky enough to have you reduced to such a state beneath them other than him.Â
âM-More,â you practically sobbed the request as Ominis gripped your hips tighter, dimly registering the thundering crack of the headboard banging against the wall. âMoreâ pleaseâ Iâm s-so closeââ
You asked for it with each breath expelled from your lungs, and Ominis would graciously give it to you. He couldnât have refused you any longer if he wanted to. âYou want to come, darling?â He panted, receiving only whimpering nods in return. âAsk.âÂ
âP-Please, please let me come, I canâtââ you gasped, squeezing your eyes shut as your teeth clenched together hard enough to make your jaw pop. You teetered on the brink of oblivion, waiting only on Ominisâ say-so to fall over the edge which seemed to loom so, so close.Â
âBeg,â Ominis rasped thickly, his fingers tightening and digging into the skin of your hips as he bucked harder against your ass. âBeg for itâ beg for me to let you come.âÂ
You couldnât even find the brainpower to realize he was demanding to hear you say it to fuel his unrepentant hold on you. The taunting, the pleasure laced brutalityâ it was all to assuage the bitter anger that had coursed through his veins upon hearing his family refer to you as tradeable cattle. Later on, he would be collected enough to reassure you that you were your own person, free to make your own decisions and go wherever your heart desired.Â
Right now though, his baser urges had won out, and he needed to hear you say it.Â
Your head slammed into the pillows as your back arched off the mattress, doing your best to shut out the mounting pleasure that threatened to break through your crumbling resolve. âPlease, Ominis! Please let meââ you hiccuped around another gasp, the ache in your gut bordering on unbearable. âL-Let me⊠let meâŠâ
One of his hands released your waist to feel up your torso and curl around the back of your neck, lifting your head off of the pillow so your eyes were on him as he uttered five words that struck something deep inside of you.Â
âThen come for me, love.âÂ
Your breaking point smacked into you hard and fast, leaving you equally breathless and brainless as your mouth fell open around a long, drawn out cry of Ominisâ name. Your climax ripped through you ferociously, your vision flashing white and your muscles tensing for a moment of near perfect silence as your lover continued to thrust in and out of you with unwavering focus. Even after youâd collapsed back against the sheets and gone limp in his arms, Ominis continued to chase his own finish, balancing precariously over you on his elbows and burying his face in the crook of your neck to muffle the shaky groans he failed to bite back.Â
Maybe you were imagining it, but you could have sworn he continued to murmur quiet declarations against your skin that sounded a lot like, âMine.âÂ
Before long, Ominis was following you over the edge with a throaty purr that slithered out of his throat. His arms trembled on either side of your head, his hands gathering fistfuls of the pillows as he buried himself completely inside of you with one final plunge of his hips. You heard the blond moan hoarsely in your ear as he spilled into you, grinding against your ass to milk every last drop of his seed from his twitching member, and when he mouthed wetly against the sweat-slick column of throat before biting down, all you could focus on was the warmth that filled you as you quivered under him.Â
After a few moments of the two of you panting softly, you lifted your hands to Ominisâ clothed back in a bid to usher him to the side. He tensed, however, and you paused as he wedged one of his arms under your back to hold you flush to him as he continued to re-center himself. âNot yet,â you heard him grumble into the hollow of your throat. âNot yet⊠give me a second.âÂ
ââŠAlright,â you relented quickly, only mildly concerned as you wrapped your arms around his slender shoulders. With your fingers tracing lazy shapes against his clothed back, you allowed yourself to enjoy the feeling of Ominisâ weight pressing down on you, his gentle exhales fanning against your clammy skin, and the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your sternum.Â
Given the severity of what had happened at his familyâs house, you werenât sure the two of you would ever get another moment like this again. So, you held on tightly to him in the hopes that the night would last just a little bit longer.Â
The two of you stayed like that for what seemed like hours but realistically could only have been a few minutes, and shortly after Ominis began peppering kisses up your throat and along your jaw, your eyes drifted shut as you dozed off once more. When you woke the following morning and found yourself tucked in beneath the sheets, you propped yourself up on your elbow to glance around the otherwise empty room, noting immediately that Ominis was nowhere to be found.Â
In a panicked flurry of movement, you threw off the blankets and were still tying your robe around your waist as you hurriedly shuffled down the hallway. Your dread was smothered in the next instant by overwhelming ease as you rounded the corner to find Ominis in the kitchen, gripping the countertop and working a muscle in his jaw while he hovered his wand over a letter that looked eerily similar to the one heâd received just a day ago.Â
Even though he could hear you approaching, he said nothing as you padded across the room to stand behind him, coiling your arms around his waist to press your front against his back. A shaky sigh escaped him, and you stared at the wall as you contemplated your words before deciding on, âWhat are you reading?âÂ
A pause, âA formal summons for you, inviting you to meet my family officially.âÂ
Your heart fell into your stomach, arms tightening around the taller man a fraction as you pursed your lips in blatant distaste. âWe wonât go,â you announced, and Ominis shifted in your embrace so he could wrap his arms around you to hug you back with a firmness that spoke volumes of his agreement.Â
âWe wonât,â he said. âBut we canât stay here, either. Not anymore.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
He buried his chin in the mess of hair atop your head, shamelessly inhaling your scent before he told you, âWe have to leaveâ go somewhere far awayâ and we canât tell anyone.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
The way his nimble fingers gripped the back of your robe told you of just how conflicted he was to ask this of youâ to uproot your shared lives here to flee the meddling of his family. His voice was laced with remorse as he asked, âAnd youâre okay with that? Truly?â
âI am,â and you really were. There wasnât a lick of hesitation in your voiceâ not a shred of apprehension hidden in your tone at the prospect of packing up and running as far from here as humanly possible. âSo long as weâre together, I am.âÂ
Ominis skimmed his hands up your back to cup your cheeks, angling your head up at him so he could kiss you fully, and you returned the gesture with equal fervor. As long as he was with you, you knew you could do anything. With Ominis by your side, you would fight tooth and nail against every hellish creature or person in existence to ensure your future together.Â
Wherever the two of you ended up, you already knew that your home wouldnât just be some place. It would always be him.
This fic is part of the In sickness and in health series! Where a lot of different favorite characters take turns to take care of you. đ§»đĄïžđ©č
masterlist faq
A/N; He's so fucking dramatic AAAAAAAAAA he's acting like you got the damn plague or something awful of the sort.
minors dni. i am not responsible for what you consume.
do not copy, translate or claim any of my stories as your own.
The rain starts suddenly, tapping gently on the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lounge. You glance up from your coffee. Thor notices the gleam in your eyes before Loki even lifts his head.
âNo,â Loki says immediately.
âYes,â you say, already standing.
Thor beams. âA storm! I shall join you!â
Loki groans, setting down his book. âYouâre not children.â
You spin toward him at the door, dripping anticipation and glee. âSays you, the literal God of Mischief.â
Thor lets out a booming laugh. âShe has you there, brother!â
Lokiâs eye twitches.
âI wreak controlled mischief,â he mutters, folding his arms tighter. âNot puddle-soaked madness.â
You donât even replyâyou just sprint into the rooftop garden barefoot, arms open, hoodie bouncing, socks already soggy, Thor thundering after you.
The sleek stone paths are quickly covered in puddles, the air smells like ozone, and your laughter echoes through the Tower.
Thor crashes out behind you, shouting war cries as you chase him in circles through the wet grass and stone. You slip onceâcatch yourself and cackle like an absolute menace.
From the doors, Loki watches.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. His silhouette sharp in the dim interior light.
âAbsolutely unhinged,â he mutters. âSomeone electrocuted her brain as a child.â
Eventually, soaked to the bone and breathless from laughter, you came stumbling back inside, trailing muddy footprints and giggling like youâd just outrun death.
Loki was waiting.
He didnât say anything. Just walked forward, placed a towel on your head like a parent too tired to scold, and started patting your arms dry with another one.
âHappy?â he asked flatly.
âEcstatic,â you beamed.
âMoron,â he replied gently.
Thor just let out a deep, satisfied sigh and said, âThat was magnificent.â
âI swear to the Nine, if you fall illââ
âI wonât,â you say, too fast.
He narrows his eyes. âYou will.â
Later...
The room is dark and quiet. The rain still whispers against the windows.
Youâre curled up in bed, shivering under layers of blankets, a tissue clutched in one hand and a cup of barely-sipped tea on the nightstand.
âI told you not to go out in the rain,â Loki says, arms folded, his voice sharpâdefensive. But underneath it: worry.
âI was out there for five minutes,â you rasp.
You try to laugh. It comes out as a cough. Lokiâs eyes flash with alarm.
Without another word, he kneels by the bed, his tone shifting from annoyed to concerned beyond comprehension.
âYou mortals are so⊠fragile.â He brushes a strand of damp hair from your forehead, frowning. âIs this⊠normal? To look like youâve been cursed by a frost giant and then claim youâre âfineâ?â
You manage a weak smirk. âItâs just the flu, Your Highness.â
He glares at you, then stands and swishes his handâsuddenly the tea is steaming hot again, the pillows fluffier, the blanket heavier.
âBetter,â he declares, smoothing the blanket over your chest. âYou will rest. You will drink. You will not die of this absurd condition, or I swear I will enchant your immune system myself.â
âIs that a thing?â
âFor you? Iâll make it a thing.â
Later, when you drift into a fitful sleep, Loki doesnât leave.
He sits beside you, conjuring small spells of cooling mist for your forehead, whispering in Old Norse to soothe your dreams. When you stir, eyes hazy, he leans down and murmurs, barely audible:
âYou must recover. I am not yet done loving you.â
The hallway is quiet.
Dimly lit by warm sconces and the faintest shimmer of magic, it feels like a dream as you step out, the blanket draped around your shoulders trailing behind you like a cape. Youâre barefoot. Sniffling. Half-asleep. But your body noticed his absence, and that was enough to rouse you.
âLoki?â your voice is hoarseâbarely above a whisper, soft like cracked porcelain. You sound like a Victorian ghost haunting the corridors of her loverâs estate.
You catch him off guard.
Heâs seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, knees drawn up, a hand over his mouth. But not fast enough.
You see it. The shine in his eyes. The way he quickly wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm, trying to make it look effortless. Like he wasnât crying in the hallway over you.
âWhat are you doing out of bed?â he asks, standing swiftly, voice low and tight. âYou shouldnât be up.â
You shuffle toward him, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. âWhat are you doing crying in the hallway?â
He falters.
âIâm justâŠâ he swallows, hands twitching at his sides. âWorried. Thatâs all, my love.â
You blink at him, voice raspy as you deadpan, âDude. Itâs the flu. Iâm not dying.â
He exhales a breathy, incredulous laughâbut thereâs no mockery in it. Just relief. Just you. Standing there like a sleepy little gremlin, dragging your blanket like a train.
âI know that,â he says softly. âBut itâs never... just the flu when itâs you.â
You step into him. He immediately wraps his arms around your shoulders, blanket and all. You melt into his chest like heâs gravity.
âIâve seen gods fall,â he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head. âBut nothing ever felt as terrifying as watching you burn up and not being able to stop it.â
You tilt your head up, brow bumping his chin.
âYou big softie.â
âDonât tell anyone,â he mumbles into your hair. âItâll ruin my brand.â
You smile.
âIâll take it to the grave,â you whisper, before pulling him back toward the room. âNow come on, I need you to warm my feet before I freeze to death.â
You shuffle back to bed wrapped in your blanket like a burrito, sniffling but victorious for having made it down the hall and emotionally checked on your God of Meltdowns.
Loki helps you ease under the covers without a word, conjures a mug of tea with a flick of his fingers, and gently places it in your hands.
âSmall sips,â he murmurs, crouching at the edge of the bed like a healer at your feet.
You raise a brow at him over the rim of your cup. âWhat, no lecture this time?â
His eyes flick to yours. âI think youâve suffered enough.â
He says it lightly, but thereâs something heavy in his voice.
You just drink your teaâwarm, minty, a little sweet. He vanishes beneath the blankets to press his fingers around your feet. With a quiet spell, heat radiates gently through them.
You hum in response.
He gives a quiet snort, and then heâs moving againâslipping into bed on the other side of you, pulling you back against his chest in one slow, protective motion. His arms curl around your middle, locking you in like youâre the last thing holding him together. You donât resist.
His forehead presses into the curve of your shoulder.
You breathe. He breathes with you.
His magic flickers againâfaint, warm, steady. A soft buzz at your sternum, like heâs trying to anchor himself to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
You wake up in the middle of the night, groggy and flushed. Youâre not burning up, but youâre hot enough to feel gross, and the congestion has hit full force.
You let out a few rough coughsânot violent, but deep enough that your chest aches a little.
Loki stirs immediately beside you. He sits up halfway, one hand braced on the bed, the other gently touching your back.
âYouâre alright?â he murmurs, sleep-rough and tense.
You nod weakly, coughing into the crook of your arm. âJust⊠stuffy. Gross.â
He watches you like heâs trying to read your pulse with his eyes alone. Then he exhales, brushing your hair from your forehead.
âPlease donât do that again,â he whispers. âDonât go out in the rain like that. Donâtâdonât scare me like this.â
You blink at him. âLoki, Iâm okay. Itâs just a cold.â
âI know,â he says. But he doesnât sound convinced. âI know.â
And then he lies back down and pulls you to him anyway, like he still needs proof that youâre alive and warm and real.
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, like heâs trying to draw breath from you. As if your existence is whatâs holding him together.
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his magic pulsing faintly against your back.
I hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! If you need more comfort fics, check out the series linked at the top!
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Eddie Munson x fem!reader[6.7k] just smut, really. soft, sweet eddie, who finally gets a chance to take you home. a friends with benefits situation.
Eddie Munson was a really good kisser. He was really good at eating you out too. He had nice hands, big, heavy, with guitar string scars that felt rough and lovely on your bare skin. He liked it when you tugged his curls, he liked it even better when you got a little loud.Â
He fucking loved it when you told him what to do.Â
You werenât sure how your situation with the boy started, but it had been a few months now.. He went from a pretty face you knew in school, to a friend of Steveâs, introduced to you at a party. Then there was a rolled joint offered to you in the woods behind school, shoulders bumping, eyes interested, laughter exchanged.Â
Knowing eyes gazing over the other by the lockers, the offer of a ride home one day when it rained and didnât stop. It went from there, more looks, heated and heavy, a hand on a knee, fingers that brushed back hair.Â
And then you were on his lap, dress gathered in one of Eddieâs hands as he held it out of his way so he could watch the way his cock slid in and out of you. He was noisy, encouraging you to do the same with low, rough moans and teeth that nipped at your jaw, your neck.Â
That was it, an addiction that needed to be fed, kisses that you couldnât really go without for more than a day or two and after the last bell rang, you found his van in the school parking lot. Eddie could never make it further than past the old sports fields, pulling over somewhere private so he could get his hands on you, needy and greedy and all consuming.Â
Itâs where you found yourself now, parked behind the old building that used to house the soccer teams changing rooms, hidden from view from the school, its students, the main roads. You were comfy in Eddieâs lap, a familiar weight on his thighs, your skirt already rucked up around your hips.Â
His lips were that maddening touch of soft, slow, fast, deep, lazy, needy, teeth, tongue, fuck, god.Â
It turned heated fast, the same way it always did and it was fine, it was good. It always was. It didnât matter if Eddie had you in his lap for five hours or five minutes, the boy always made you come. He had a way of making it creep up on you, hard and fast, eyes rolling, white flashes of heat rippling through your body and then there were stars. Stars everywhere.Â
The boy kissed constellations onto your lips, dripping gold dust over your skin.Â
He had his hands under your skirt, palms squeezing at the flesh of your ass, kneading each cheek in a way that made your skin prickle with heat âcause he was spreading you over his thighs and it that made you feel real fucking dirty.Â
You were breathless, hands in his curls, pulling him closer, eyes fluttering at the way he sucked another bruise you couldnât explain onto your neck.Â
You felt close enough to fall apart without him even touching you, underwear still on, lace slick and wet already, but Jesus Christ, he hadnât put his hands on you yet. Not really. You were a livewire, body electric, the air around you both buzzing.Â
It wouldnât last long when you were both like this, pent up from not seeing each other for five days, school and homework and jobs and hellfire meetings keeping you apart. And well, a five minute fuck wasnât going to do. No, not anymore.Â
So you pushed at his chest, firm enough that his head fell back onto the headrest and Eddieâs hair was a mess and his brown eyes were wide. He was staring, chest heaving, palms still squeezing at the curve of your ass, fingers grazing over the lace edges of your underwear.
"Slow down," you tell him, voice a whisper.
You were sure you heard him whine, a pretty noise that got stuck at the back of his throat. You plucked the chain that lay there, shiny against his collar bones, and you twisted it between your fingers. It was sinful the way you used it to pull him a little closer again, nose brushing against the bridge of his own, lips hovering just out of reach.Â
He couldâve moved him he wanted to, surged forward and took control, kissed the commands right off your lips. But he didnât.Â
âYou can have me all night, if you want."
He whined, whimpered. You heard it that time.
"Be a little soft about it, huh? Nice and slow, for me, please?"
And then Eddie was nodding, eyes turning to burnt caramel, hooded and staring at you. His jaw was slack, lips parted and glossy from your kisses and suddenly his hands were skimming over your thighs, climbing up to hold at your waist instead. He touched you a little softer, sweeter than before and it made your stomach twist.Â
Fingers tucked your hair behind your ear, his heavy gaze taking in every feature, like heâd suddenly been told he could have you forever, like he wanted to commit you to memory in case you changed your mind.Â
Then he was kissing you again, slower like you asked, like heâd never kissed you before. Sweet and soft, his mouth a gentle push against your own and you so desperately wanted to lick into him, to tug on his pretty hair and make him grunt into you but thatâs not what you asked for.Â
So you let Eddie set the pace, sighed into him, wriggled in his lap when he sucked the curve of your bottom lip between his own, and god were you going to regret this?
He tasted sweet, like the blue raspberry jolly rancher youâd seen Lucas hand him in the hallway, a little smoky underneath it, entirely like Eddie. He took his time with you, did as you asked him and the way he slowly curled his tongue around yours made your legs tingle, your heart skip a beat before racing a little faster than before.Â
His hand found your face, curving at your jaw, his thumb on your chin and he tap, tap, tapped at it until you let Eddie drag your mouth open a little more, whining when it resulted in him licking into you a little deeper.Â
He pulled away quicker than you wouldâve liked, smiling all pretty at you when you gazed at him wide eyed. But then Eddie was nodding at the passenger seat, giving your ass a cute little smack.Â
âCâmon, sweetheart, seat belt on.â
You let his chain fall from your fingers, unsure you understood. But Eddie was surprisingly strong, wide hands clutching at your waist to lift you back over the console, dropping you a little clumsily onto the seat next to him.Â
âEddie?â your voice was soft, a little worried, like maybe youâd crossed a line you werenât sure the boy had.Â
But he was starting the engine, the van rumbling underneath you and then he was gazing over at you, bottom lip sucked between his teeth and god, he looked sinful, he looked like he wanted to eat you up. Youâd let him, without hesitation.Â
âYou said I could have you all night, yeah?â Eddie prompted, big eyes shining earnestly, his voice so sincere, like he couldnât quite believe youâd told him such a thing. âDid you mean it?â
You nodded, suddenly shy and then Eddie was smiling, that wide, slow stretch of his lips that made you feel so many things. The van started moving, the boy tsked and nodded to your belt again, which you quickly pulled across your lap.Â
âOkay,â he nodded too, final in his decision. âLetâs go back to mine then, sweetheart.â
âââââ
You hadnât been to Eddieâs before, not really. You knew which trailer was his, had seen in across from Maxâs when you dropped her off with Steve, waved shyly and with warm cheeks when you saw the curly headed boy out of the front window.Â
You knew enough to realise his uncle Wayne was out, the older manâs car gone from the grassy makeshift drive. The park was quiet when Eddie parked up, making a noise of protest when you went to open the door for yourself. So you sat still, smiled hidden between pressed lips as you watched him bounce around the front of the van.Â
He opened your door with a shy grin, bright eyes and a hand that was ready to clasp your own. Eddie helped you down, wet grass brushing your ankles and it felt like a storm was coming with the way the air was buzzing.Â
Maybe it was just you and Eddie. Maybe it was just anticipation.Â
He opened the door to the trailer for you too, unusually quiet as his fingertips found the small of your back, guiding you inside the small house that was much cosier than you expected. It smelled a little smoky, like coffee and boyish cologne.Â
And then Eddie was rocking on the balls of his feet, fidgeting and pulling at a curl as he watched you take in his home.Â
âDâyou, uh, want a drink or-?â
You turned, smiling soft like you wanted to show him you werenât judging anything about the trailer. How could you? It was all Eddie.Â
âDo I not get to see your room, Munson?â
Eddie looked like he had all the air punched out of his lungs. The curl heâd pulled to brush against his mouth sprung back, his hands dropping to his sides as his eyes went wide.Â
He cleared his throat, nodding, giving a little bow and a wave of his arm, showing you down the narrow hallway. It was sweet, you thought, the way he was acting. Like he hadnât been balls deep inside you countless times, as if he didnât know the exact way you liked his fingers on your clit.Â
So you grinned at him, walked down the hall with your hands clasped coyly behind your back and you knew he was watching you, he always was. You could feel his eyes on you, a familiar burn that tickled your skin.
Eddieâs room was exactly like him, dark and warm, a little messy, littered with music posters, guitars on the walls, amps piled in the corner. His bed was unmade, pillows squint and sheets rumbled but they looked surprisingly fresh, the smell of laundry detergent, cologne and little smoke taking up space in the air.Â
You knew youâd asked for slow, for soft, for the boy to take his time with you. But suddenly you didnât know what to do now you had Eddie all alone, all to yourself. Maybe for the whole night. The thought made you swallow hard and you were overcome, overwhelmed with how the boy was surrounding you without even touching you.Â
You never usually get Eddie for more than half an hour, a full sixty minutes at most, if you decided you could afford to be a little late for work that day. You never got to pull more than his belt off of him, jeans shucked down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. Likewise, you were confined to shirts and pulled up skirts, underwear hanging off one ankle or pushed to the side, Eddieâs fingers quick and concise against you.Â
So you huffed out a little laugh, nervous, but Eddie was smiling down at you and you liked the way the pulse in his neck jumped when you grabbed his hands and pushed him backwards to his bed. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he let you nudge him down to sit, playing pretend with you, as if he couldnât easily overpower you if he wanted.Â
He leaned back, weight spread on the palms of his hands as he looked up at you, silver chain and big, brown eyes shining in the low light that came through the crack of his closed curtains.Â
âWhatâre you up to, trouble?â
You shrugged, playing coy, lips twisted into a pretty smile you tried to hide but then your hands were toying with the buttons on your shirt, your cardigan long lost to the floor of Eddieâs van. But the boy was enraptured, gaze trained on the way your fingers were popping each button, trailing downdowndown, until the soft material hung open and your lilac bra was on show.Â
It wasnât anything fancy, soft cotton triangles with ring straps and god, you knew for a fact that your light green underwear certainly didnât match. But looking at Eddie, you had the realisation that he probably would care, no, not at all. âCause his eyes were wide and his lips were parted, sitting the most still youâd ever seen him.Â
There wasnât any music, just the quiet sounds of the town outside, the hum of a generator, the chirp of some birds nearby in a tear, the wind rushing softly over the metal roof. Eddieâs soft breathing, a little choked noise he caught in the back of his throat when you let your shirt slip off your shoulders, let it pool at your feet.Â
You toed off your shoes, eyes on Eddieâs the whole time and you wondered if this is what he imagined, what he thought about because all of sudden you were only in your skirt and bra and it was the most bare skin heâd seen on you.Â
Was your tummy too soft? Were your boobs too small? Did he see the scar on your bicep from when you fell over when you were five?Â
âChrist, youâre perfect,â he breathed out, eyes trailing over every inch of you. âSo fuckinâ pretty.â
You flushed, cheeks and chest warm under his gaze but you didnât stop, didnât want to. Your fingers hooked into the band of your skirt, teased along the edges of it and you grinned when Eddie swore again, under his breath, hands fisting the comforter in a way that made your own breath hitch.Â
âYeah?â you asked, blinking prettily, looking at the boy from under your lashes, fingers still slipped underneath the waist of your skirt. âYâthink so?â
You were playing up, you knew that, Eddie knew that. Neither of you cared though, because Eddie was grinning, nodding as he let out a low whistle.Â
âPrettiest little thing Iâve ever seen.â
You lit up at his words, cheeks rosy, lip tucked between your teeth to hide your grin but Eddie was still smiling enough for both of you. You rewarded him by putting on a little show, body turned to the side so you could pop your ass out a little, arch your back real nice and slide your skirt down your hips all slow.Â
You didnât let go of the material until you smoothed it down your thighs, letting it fall to the floor once it reached your knees and you were bent over for him. Nice and slow, you eased back up, almost scared to look at the boy whoâd been hidden behind the mess of your hair as you eased your skirt off. But when you stood back up, pushed your hair back and pressed your thumb nervously to your lips, you saw how the boy looked a little wild.Â
A little wrecked.Â
âFuck, sweetheart,â Eddie breathed, sitting up to catch your hands in his, coaxing you to stand between his knees. He licked his lips, smoothed his palms over the dip in your waist and drew a line up your stomach with the tip of his nose. âLook at you.â
He certainly was, taking his time to gaze over every part of you, hands following suit, fingers trailing across the soft curve of your stomach, snapping the lace edge of your underwear against your hip. He pressed a kiss to your sternum, an open mouthed and lazy drag of his mouth over the swell of your breast.Â
âYâwanna tell me what you want? Hmm?â
Your eyes fluttered closed at the feel of the boy so close, all this new bare skin for him to explore. His hands were so big, wide and warm and rough, scratching lovely at your waist, over the tops of your thighs, his mouth trailing down until his tongue licked at the edge of your underwear, flicking a little dirty at the cute little bow there.Â
âEddie,â you didnât mean to whine, not already. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, disappointingly still covered by his shirt but you felt a little unsteady, dizzy. âTold you what I wanted.â
You felt rather than saw his smile, pressed to your tummy and you let out a sharp gasp when his hands spun you, catching you when you turned, facing the other way so his nose was pressed to the curve of your spine.Â
You suddenly felt a lot more naked than before.Â
He tutted, close enough to you that you felt his lips move against you, his curls tickling the curve of your ass, his hands keeping you between his knees.Â
âWanna hear it again, sweet thing,â a kiss, on the dimple of your lower back, another on the lace edge of your underwear. You squirmed. âThat alright?â
You let out the breath youâd been holding, hands making fists by your sides and uncurling your hands again and again, at a loss with what to do with them because youâd never not been facing Eddie, tucked into his lap, able to watch him gasp and curse for you, fingers tangled in his hair.Â
He seemed to notice this, caught your hands in his own and soothed this thumb over your palms.Â
âThis okay?â he asked you and the boy peered up to see your head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted, chest heaving. You nodded and he smiled. âYeah, baby? Lemme hear you?â
âYeah, Eddie,â you murmured. âSâgood.â
He rewarded you with a kiss to your hand, planted where his thumb was and then his mouth was trailing along your arm, lips pressed to the sensitive skin inside the crook of your elbow and he didnât stop until his teeth were catching on the clasp of your bra.Â
He fingered the band, ghosted a touch over the metal hooks and you were gasping, nodding again so he didnât have to ask permission and the flimsy fabric was soon joining the rest of your clothes on Eddie Munsonâs bedroom floor.Â
Fuck.Â
âPretty girl,â he cooed, âmy sweet little thing, huh?âÂ
Your heart stuttered over the possessive remark, your thighs rubbing together because you were still standing facing away from the boy and he wasnât touching you where you wanted him to.Â
You couldnât see what he was doing, couldnât guess his next move and when you groaned and tried to spin back around, Eddie ah ah ahâd and gave your hip a little tap.Â
âYouâve not answered my question,â he tried to sound scolding, but he was sweet enough to kiss the spot heâd given you a little smack. âGonna tell me what you want? Cominâ into my bedroom and givinâ me a little show? Then you canât even tell me what you want me to do with you?â
He traced a line down your spine, tucked his index finger into the edge of your underwear, rings cold against your skin and he pulled the elastic back until it snapped back against you. You jumped, whimpered, pushed your ass further into his wide hands.
âCâmon now trouble, what did you tell me in the van, huh? You were so bossy then, what happened to that girl? Got you all fucked out already?â Eddie laughed, not meanly, but unkind enough to make your toes curl. âHardly touched you, sweetheart, Christ.â
You loved and hated the way the boy could run his mouth, in and out of the bedroom. He could have you wet with just his mouth at your ear, spinning tales of exactly what he was going to do with you when he got you alone, sneaking away from your locker before anyone else had a chance to spot you both. Eddie was loud, brash, too confident, dramatic to boot. He was dirty, unashamed, hot with it, teasing.Â
You loved it.Â
But the boy couldnât fucking handle it when you gave it back to him.Â
âEddie.â
Another cooing noise, almost sympathetic, but you knew him better than that. âYeah, baby?â
âWant you to take care of me,â your voice was sticky soft, sweet like honey, just as easy to get stuck in. âCan you do that? Please?â
You heard his breath hitch, a hard swallow, a wrecked sigh he tried to hide.Â
âWant you to take your time with me,â your hands found his, small on top of large, but you were the one taking control. You smoothed them up your hips, along the ridges of your ribs until both rough hands were cupping at your tits and you were lowering yourself into his lap. âBe nice to me, slow and sweet, baby.â
He was already hard against you, the length of him sitting stiff between your ass cheeks and you knew for a fact heâd been that way since the van. Heâd admit it to you too, completely unashamedly letting you know the effect you had on him.Â
Eddie liked to take your hand in his, cup his hard dick through his jeans and whisper to you, asking you if you knew what you did to him.Â
So you stole his move, brought your joined hands to the heat of your lace covered cunt and leant back into his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder so he could watch. His eyes were dark, almost black, hooded and staring through the line of his lashes.Â
âFuck.â
You nodded as if you were agreeing with him, coaxing one of his fingers to draw a line up the length of your folds, gathering enough slick under the lace that it stuck to you, showing off every outline of you for Eddie to see.Â
âEddie,â you couldnât manage more than a whisper, but your lips found his ear under his messy curls easily, your head thrown back onto his shoulder. âFeel that? Youâve got me so wet.â
âFucking, Christ, sweetheart.â He moaned, loud and wanting, his other hand grabbing a little roughly at your thigh, hooking it over his knee so he could spread you wider for him. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
You pouted. âThatâs no good to me.â
He huffed out a laugh, fingers kneading into the soft of your thigh as he kept you open for him. You let go of his other hand, happy to lay slack against him, propped up by his solid chest, arms holding you in as he touched and touched and touched.Â
âLike this?â He whispered, his finger tracing up and down, up and down through your folds, bumping against your clit on every pass. He was impossibly slow with it, gentle and soft, a maddening tease that had you pushing the tips of your toes into his carpet so you could try and chase the friction of his touch. âSlow like this, sweetheart?â
You nodded, eyes clenched shut, mewling and then his middle and index finger were swiping over your bottom lip, tapping until you opened.Â
âSuck,â he told you. âGood girl, hmm?â
If your eyes rolled to the back of your head, he didnât see from the way he sat behind you. But you did as you were asked - no, told - laving your tongue under his fingers, enjoying the slight weight of them in your mouth, the cool silver of his rings at your lips, whining when he took them away from you, slicker than before.Â
But then his hand was down the front of your underwear and his fingers were sliding through you. You keened, squeaked at the sudden touch and tried to clamp your thighs around his wrist but Eddie was shushing you, soft noises in your ear as his other hand held your thigh, spreading you back open for him.Â
âShh, shh, sweetheart,â Eddie quietened you, âyâokay? Iâve got you, can I touch you, baby? Yeah? Gonna squeeze that pretty cunt around my fingers?â
You were nodding frantically, hips thrust out to him in offering, desperate to feel a little more full than you were.Â
âEddie, please.â
He was the same boy as always, running his mouth, talking to you dirty, hands knowing every inch of you. He was just slower with it, softer, like youâd asked. It turned him into something youâd never seen before, this quieter version of himself. Just as cocky, just as eager to please, but Jesus fucking Christ, his touch was making you dizzy and the way he was whispering to you all soft made you want to cry.Â
He was bordering on mean with it, a little condescending, hands petting at you to try and get you to settle.Â
âBaby, câmon, sit nice,â he tsked, grinning at the way you were wriggling on his lap. If the grind of your ass against his hard dick was doing anything to him, he did well not to show it. âI know, I know, just a greedy little thing, arenât you?â
And then his palm was running flat down the front of you, spreading your folds so the heel of his palm could grind against your clit as he slipped two fingers into you. It was all so easy with you wet you were, the slick sounds of your cunt almost as embarrassing as the ones falling from your mouth.Â
âIâve got you,â he murmured low, lips against your ear. Your head was thrown back, laying against his shoulders and at his words, you cried out and pressed your face into his curls. You couldnât do anything but let him fuck his fingers into you, a slow, wet drag in and out, in and out, in and out. âThatâs it, sweet little thing, look at you.â
But then it wasnât deep enough, it wasnât fast enough and Eddie was still wearing far too many clothes, and suddenly, you were starting to regret everything youâd asked of the boy.Â
Your hands reached up, finding his curls, fingers twisting in the soft strands as your nails scratched against his scalp and you rugged, moaning for more.Â
Eddie stopped. Let go of your thigh and slid his hand out from your underwear, dragging wet and warmth up your tummy as he did so. You whined and you heard him laugh, a soft huff into your neck before he kissed your shoulder and patted your hip to make you stand up.Â
You climbed from his lap, a little unsteady on your feet because the maddening push and pull of his fingers had made you dizzy, white spots floating in your vision and you turned to him with a pout.Â
âEddie, what the fu-â
But then he was pulling off his shirt, hands gripping the back of his collar to rip it over his head and it joined your clothes on his floor. He popped the button of his jeans but didnât do much else, groaning slightly at the small relief it brought him as he palmed his hard cock through his boxers.Â
âOn the bed, baby,â he nodded to the space beside him, a pile of pillows that probably smelled like him and when you let yourself crawl into them, you found out you were right. âGood girl.â
He laughed when your fingers curled into fists, an honest to god visceral reaction to his words.Â
Then he was moving over you, kneeling between your spread legs and crowding into you. It was a familiar sight, if not for the fact that you were horizontal this time. Nose to nose with the boy, lips within reach, big, brown eyes staring hotly back at you.Â
So you did what you always done, pushed your hands greedily into his hair and arched up to him, tugging a little when he didnât comply and suddenly it felt like a fucking month had passed since Eddie had kissed you.Â
You whined, and you couldnât deny you sounded like a brat. âEddie!â
His hands wrapped around your wrists, gently pulling your fingers from his curls. He tutted, tried to look disappointed but he was hiding his smile by biting at his lip and then, fuck, he gathered both of your hands in one of his and pinned them to the pillow above your head.Â
âSweetheart,â he cooed softly, âyou said you wanted me to take my time with you.â He leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek, so close to where you wanted him. âNice and slow, is that not what you said?â
You whimpered, turned your head to chase his lips with your own but he was pulling back just slightly. His hold on you was strong enough that you could pull away, couldnât get close enough and the realisation made you moan out.Â
âCâmon pretty girl, thatâs what you asked for, right? For me to take my time?â Another kiss, under the line of your jaw this time, his lips parted and wet and warm. âCanât do that if youâre gonna yank at my hair, hmm? Like a dirty little thing? Canât have that.â
A kiss again, anywhere but your lips, his mouth trailing over your throat, a sweet peck pressed to your chin. You wanted to cry, eyes glassy, overwhelmed at all the soft, lovely touches he was giving you, all whilst he had you pinned and pressed down underneath him.Â
âBaby,â Eddie tutted, eyes on yours, watching the way wetness brimmed at your lash line, threatening to spill over when you gave him a watery smile. âBaby, too much? Yâalright?â
You could feel the way his hand around your wrist let up, slackening just a little but you were crying out, a babble of noise that had him raising his brows and you were nodding furiously.Â
âMâgood, Eddie, so good,â you could hardly catch a breath. What the fuck had he done to you? âWant this, want you.â
That seemed to appease him, his hand pushing yours back down into the pillows and he smiled, all lovely just for you, dimple showing. âYeah? You do? Oh, good girl, what dâyou want, huh?â
Another fucking kiss, the cutest little peck, right by the corner of your lips. He knew what you wanted, he was just being a dick about it.Â
âA kiss,â you huffed, shivering when his chest dragged across yours, the hang of his chain coke against your tits, a moan bubbling in your throat when he deliberately let it graze and catch against a peaked nipple.Â
âThatâs all?â Eddie asked you, âbetter make it a good one for my girl then.â
His girl.Â
You didnât have time to process that before he was on you, free hand curving around your jaw, thumb on your chin to tug at your mouth, licking into you almost immediately. It was like heâd went too long without it too, like not kissing you was the worst thing imaginable because it had been at least half an hour since he had his mouth on yours and well, that just wouldnât fucking do.Â
He kissed you like he missed you, like someone was going to take you away from him, mouth and hands greedy on you, tongue curling around yours. His lips were always soft, so impossibly soft and every stroke of his tongue over yours made you whine, hands flexing in his hold because holy shit, you wanted to grab and scratch and pull at him for making you feel so damn good.Â
You were gasping against him when he pulled away, eyes still glassy, lips swollen and rosy and Eddieâs hand was getting greedy, trailing down your sides to hook into your underwear, pulling at them until they slid down your hips.Â
His nose nudged yours to grab your attention, unable to help himself when you pressed another, quick, sweet kiss to your still parted lips.Â
âYou listeningâ sweetheart?âÂ
You nodded, blinking up at him.Â
âThereâs my girl,â Eddie cooed, âgood, âcause I need you to keep your hands up here for me, âkay?â
You whined, ready to argue back but then Eddie was pulling off lace from around your ankles and kissing his way down your naked body, hands bracketing your hips, curls tickling your stomach.Â
You clenched down on nothing.Â
He was eye level with your cunt, eyes shining, lips smirking as he pushed at your thighs, spreading you out in front of him, grinning when you wiggled against his palms.Â
âNuhuh,â he told you, âlet me see you, yeah?â
Heâd never done this before, was never able to, with the logistics of a quickie in the front of his van. Sure, youâd gone down on him before, a much easier task over the console, his dick heavy on the flat of your tongue and Eddie always promised you that next time, heâd return the favour, get you spread out in back but, well.Â
Next time would come and youâd be too pent up and heâd be too impatient and before you both knew it youâd be sinking down on his cock in the driver's seat of the van, bouncing up and down whilst Eddie could only watch, fucked out in minutes at the sight of you.Â
So this? Eddie blowing warm air over your already hot cunt? This was new.Â
âSo pretty,â he told you, voice awed. âCan I taste you baby? Would you like that?â
You couldnât do anything but whimper, moans catching in your throat until they came out like needy little gasps and it took everything you had to follow Eddieâs orders and keep your hands to yourself. You fisted them in his pillow, gripped on tight because his lips were ghosting over your folds, butterfly kisses pressed to the outside of you, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips like he couldnât help himself.Â
âDonât know how long Iâve wanted to do this,â he groaned, hips rutting into the bed as he palmed at your ass, tugging you down the bed so he could settle himself closer to you. âCould just eat you up, pretty girl.â
His tongue was swiping through you before you could answer, before you could beg. And despite the way he was grinding himself down into the bed, Eddie took his time with you, licked through your folds real slow with the flat of his tongue, pushing the soft of it over your clit at the end.Â
He kept you spread wide, hands on the inside of your thighs, fingers splayed over you, thumbs pulling gently at your folds so he could push you open for him. His nose hit your clit when his tongue dipped inside of you, and fucking hell, Eddie was moaning almost as loud as you were, his lips wet with you, getting himself messy as he sucked and kissed his way across your cunt.Â
âCanât get enough of you,â the boy groaned into your thigh, kissing the soft skin there too, a reminder of how fucking sweet he was. âChrist, sweetheart, look at you, so pretty, all fucked out, huh? Look at those eyes, fucking hell.â
He was babbling, talking sweet in between licks, dirty flicks of his tongue that had your stomach clenching, your chest heaving. You were pushed onto your elbows to watch, a move that Eddie had given you in trouble for because your hands were still twisted in his sheets, kept to yourself.Â
Your eyes were glassy, tears pooling at the corners, kissing your lashes that couldnât stop fluttering at every kiss he gave you clit, every soft suck. You were sure you looked a mess, wrecked, ruined. Hair a riot, cheeks blooming with heat, lips still swollen and slick from his kisses and when Eddie slid one finger, two fingers back inside of you, you fell back with a wail.Â
You were close, so close already, the thickness of his digits dragging in and out of your cunt was enough to throw you onto the edge but then the boy smiled against your stomach and dipped his head back down. His lips wrapped around your clit and suckled, soft and gentle, enough to keep you hanging.Â
âCan feel you,â Eddie whispered, placing soft, quick kisses around your folds, across your tummy, one on your hip bone, followed by a scrape of his teeth. âCan feel you gettinâ tight around me, sweetheart. Sâfucking hot, so fuckinâ hot.â
The boy sounded as wrecked as you felt, his voice shot, lips slick with you as you looked back down the length of your stretched out frame, eyes rolling at the sight of him between your thighs. He was watching you, brown eyes dark and hooded as he held your gaze and licked back over your clit.Â
âOh, fucking hell,â you moaned, âEddie, Eddie, Eddie-â
âThatâs it baby,â he encouraged, wrist twisting, fingers moving in and out of you a little faster. His rings werenât cold anymore, but you could feel the hard nudge of them against your cunt, the feeling making you clench down. âChrist, thatâs it, yeah, you gonna come for me?â
You couldnât help it, not anymore.Â
You grabbed at Eddieâs hair as your back arched, pushing your hips further into him, his fingers reaching places inside of you that had you seeing fucking stars. You tugged at his curls, unable to stop yourself but Eddie groaned at your toughness, letting you pull him into you, his hips rutting against the bed as he hooked his digits up and rubbed, tongue circling around your clit relentlessly at the same time.Â
You broke, shattered, fell apart, cried out. Your eyes clenched shut, your body curling in on itself as you clamped your thighs around Eddieâs poor head, his mouth still sucking and kissing over you as you came.Â
And then you were whimpering, patting at the mess of curls youâd created on his head, trying to shimmy away from the overstimulation and Eddie took pity, dragging himself up your bottom, laying kisses on your damp skin as he went.Â
He was grinning when he reached your face, kissing your neck to let you catch your breath, looking entirely proud of himself. You shined at the drag of his denim jeans over the inside of your thighs, laughed weakly when Eddie snorted at your shivers.Â
Then he was pushing himself up on his elbows to hover over you, a palm smoothing back the hair that was clinging to your forehead. He looked down at you with eyes that were shining, so full of affection and fondness and something that it made your heart ache, made fresh tears spring to the corners of your eyes again and you huffed out a watery sigh.Â
âThat good, huh?â Eddie asked smugly, smiling when you nodded, still a little dazed. He thumbed at your mouth, squished at the soft of your cheeks with his fingers and rubbed his nose against yours. âGimme a kiss, sweetheart.â
You obliged happily, humming a pretty sound against his lips when Eddie kissed you soft and sweet, his mouth a gentle slide over your own.Â
âLove your little noises,â he whispered, kissing you between words. âSound so fucking cute when youâre coming for me.â
Your body burned at his words, another ache creeping across your cunt and despite the way heâd made you fall apart, you wanted nothing more than Eddie to be buried to the hilt inside of you.Â
âEds,â you whispered, hand palming at the front of his jeans, groaning when you felt him straining against the denim, the hardest heâd ever been. âLet me help you.â
But he took your hand in his, kissed your palm before you could feel the sting of rejection and he was crowding you back into his pillows, curls falling in a curtain on either sideed of you, lips back on your neck.Â
âGive yourself a second, sweetheart,â he mumbled. âYou said it yourself, Iâve got you all night.â
PART TWO
this is literally one of my favorite fics ever i have heart eyes whenever i think about it
summary: after Christmas Eve at Remus' flat, thick snowfall prevents you from going home. He's more than happy to host you
cw: mentions of alcohol, smut mdni, p in v, oral (fem receiving), praise, inexperienced reader, shy little idiots in love
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ⥠11k words
Remus isnât sure entirely how heâd gotten strongarmed into hosting Christmas Eve at his flat. James and Lily usually host, but James claimed that this year their house was in too much a state of âbaby mayhemâ to have any hope of being tidied enough for a gathering. Heâs said it in such a lovesick voice Remus couldnât push back for long, his friendâs happiness so potent it was like looking into the sun. Sirius had begged off quickly, saying that his âbachelor padâ was too small to have a group over. As usual, when Remus spoke last, the matter was settled before heâd gotten the chance to have much of a say.Â
Heâs made an effort to live up to the hosting legacy passed onto him by the Potters, but itâs a flimsy attempt at best. Thankfully, the snowfall outside is doing a fair amount of the work for him. Remusâ street is coated in fresh, gleaming powder, enough that the trees look weighted down with it and his neighbor had put her little dog in a knit sweater to go into the yard and do its business. Itâs still coming down, the snowflakes visible in crisp contrast against the darkening sky as they drift lazily to the earth.Â
Inside Remusâ home, the Christmas tree is nearly covered in tinsel to make up for his scant supply of ornaments, heâs run out of stockings to put up above the fireplace and has had to use one large sock (that one will have to be for Sirius), and heâs still stringing up popcorn when a knock sounds on the door.Â
Remus is surprised (heâd told everyone to come at six, but that was only because he didnât think anyone would actually show up until a couple hours after), but that dies away when he unbolts the door and opens it to find you on the other side.Â
âHi,â you say, teeth nearly chattering as Remus ushers you inside. âSorry Iâm late, traffic was worse than I expected.âÂ
âItâs hardly fifteen after six.â Remus takes your coat, tsking. âPeople do seem to become worse drivers around the holidays, donât they?âÂ
âWell, I suppose not everyone on the road tonight might be used to driving in the snow,â you allow, ever forgiving.Â
Remus smiles. âMerry Christmas, love.âÂ
Your face is already flushed from the chill outside, but he could swear it goes pinker as you unwrap your scarf, smiling back at him. âMerry Christmas.â Youâre merry as can be, cheeks dimpling and eyes sparkling under the twinkling lights Remus is suddenly very glad he decided to purchase for the occasion. âWhere is everyone?âÂ
âWell,â Remus says, heading back for the couch, âSirius is hitching a ride with James and Lily, so if I had to guess Iâd wager that James is just putting the finishing touches whatever food heâs decided to bring while Lily tries to rush him out the door. And then theyâll go to Siriusâ place and have to wait for him to finish wrapping the presents he undoubtedly just remembered today.âÂ
You sit beside him with a half-exasperated laugh. âI was thinking Iâd be the last one here,â you admit, âbut Iâd forgotten how they can be when it comes to events.âÂ
Remus shrugs. âEasy to forget.â Lily is usually able to marshal James and Sirius most places on time these days, but the frenzy when they actually have things to prepare is inevitable; Remus has learnt to account for it. He reclaims his half-finished string of popcorn, clumsily stabbing the needle into another kernel and wincing when it goes through easier than expected, pricking his finger.Â
âOh no, did you hurt yourself?â you lean over, trying to see his hand.Â
âNo, just a scratch.â Remus has about a billion of them by now. Heâs far from coordinated on a good day, but the unwise decision to have coffee earlier has resulted in shaky hands that make working with a needle somewhat hazardous.Â
You watch him try again, and itâs really the distraction of your cute frown more than anything else that messes him up. His needle goes through the fluffy edge of the popcorn, stabbing him and giving the string hardly anything to hold onto in the process. The flake falls to his lap for his efforts.Â
âRemus, your handâs not a pincushion,â you say, and you werenât yourself heâd almost think you were chiding him. You reach over, taking the needle and thread from him. âHere, let me do that.âÂ
âI didnât mean for you to come here early so I could put you to work,â Remus protests, watching as you string up the next piece of popcorn with nimble fingers. Jealousy wars with admiration, but his esteem for you wins out. âYouâll never come back for New Yearâs if this is what you have to look forward to.âÂ
You smile down at your hands. âSure I will. Youâll still be there, wonât you? And I really donât mind helping, it gives me something to do.âÂ
Remus smiles back even though youâre not looking. âAlright, well I guess that means I can start rolling out the gingerbread dough. Thanks, love.â He touches his hand lightly to the crown of your head as he stands, letting the urge to press a kiss there pass as quickly as it arises. He goes into the kitchen and a second later you decide to follow. Popcorn swishes against the floor behind you as you make your way over to the bar counter, sitting on a stool with the string trailing all the way back to the couch.Â
âYouâre making gingerbread cookies?â you ask, watching with eager eyes as he plops the dough onto the floured counter, rolling it flat.Â
âMhm. You like them?âÂ
âNever had one.âÂ
Remus feels his eyebrows inch upwards. âSeriously?âÂ
You look almost sheepish, as though this is a crime which you expect to be held against you. Honestly, youâre not far off; had James been here, you would have been questioned and scolded to hell and back, and then he wouldâve made Remus give you some dough to try, salmonella be damned.Â
âNo,â you answer him. âWe made ornaments of them in school, once, but we werenât allowed to eat them. I always thought they were so cute, though, with the little people cutouts.âÂ
âTheyâre the best,â Remus agrees, pressing out the shapes and laying them on the baking sheet. âIf you finish that quickly enough, I might even let you help me cut out a few.âÂ
âYes!â you cheer, and he laughs as you start working quicker with the needle.Â
âDonât hurt yourself. The privilege of cookie cutting is not actually contingent on your labor.âÂ
âI know,â you say, but your hands donât slow. Remus has barely finished filling his second baking sheet before youâre done, having made more progress in the last twenty minutes than he had over nearly an hour.Â
Remusâ hip touches yours as he shows you how to give the cookie cutters a little shake in the dough, freeing the shape before lifting it and placing it on the sheet. Itâs not a painfully difficult task, and still heâs impressed by how quickly you catch on. Youâre a machine of efficiency. You seem to enjoy rolling out the dough almost as much as pressing out the shapes, falling into a quick, happy rhythm. Before long youâve pushed Remus out of the way (Lily would be proud, he thinks), urging him to go and hang up the popcorn garland before everyone else arrives.Â
You havenât seen each other in over a month, both of you caught up in the hustle and bustle of the season, and you catch up as you work on your separate tasks. Remus talks to you about his job, the students who plague him and the ones he wishes he could take home after work each day, and how none of them had liked the film heâd put on the day before break. (âMister Magooâs is a classic!â you protest as Remus shakes his head. âTheyâre too young to get it,â he says. âOur classics are just old to them.â) You tell him about your new cat, and the sweater youâd crocheted her for the holiday which she despises above all else, and he promises to come over sometime soon to meet her.Â
Youâve poured yourselves spiked eggnog and sampled a few ginger cookies (âTheyâre twice as good when theyâre fresh,â Remus says. âDonât let the othersâ tardiness rob you of the experience.â) by the time the door bursts open again, Sirius of course not bothering to knock.Â
âHello!â he calls from somewhere behind a tower of presents. âMerry holiday to you, Moony!âÂ
You get up to help, and so Remus is compelled to do so as well, taking a couple sloppily-wrapped boxes from Siriusâ arms.Â
âMerlin, it smells good in here,â James declares as he comes through the door, Lily carrying a beaming baby Harry on her hip behind him. Jamesâ eyes fall on you. âAw, you beat us here?â
Remus scoffs, setting down the gifts by the tree and leaving you to arrange them as you see fit. âNot a very difficult task, when youâre over an hour late,â he says. âYouâre lucky Y/Nâs good company, or Iâd be more cross with you.âÂ
âSorry,â Lily says as Sirius makes a dismissive sound, flopping onto the couch. âWe had some trouble fitting everything in the car with Harryâs seat, and then Siriusââ she shoots him a glare, and he grins like sheâs sweetly cooed his name ââwouldnât leave without his hat, even though heâd lost it.âÂ
âOne only gets to wear oneâs elf hat every so often,â Sirius justifies, unperturbed. âI wasnât going to miss the occasion even if it took me all night to find it.âÂ
âIt nearly did,â Lily shoots back, but then James is at her side, having discarded his load of food and presents and now vying to hold Harry.Â
âCome here, my handsome little guy.âÂ
âUsed to call me that,â Sirius quips with his mouth full of gingerbread cookies, a heaping plate seeming to have found its way into his lap.Â
Remus isnât going to smile at that poor attempt at a joke, but once you laugh he canât help it.Â
âOnly on special occasions,â James replies, taking Harry under the arms and hoisting him into the air. Harry laughs, and itâs probably the most contagious thing Remus has ever heard. Everyone smiles; James most of all, grinning ear to ear as he does it again.Â
âHe never lets me hold him,â Lily complains fondly.Â
âBecause I know how much you like seeing me with him,â James says breezily, making a face at Harry above him. âYouâre mad with lust right now, Evans, donât try to deny it.âÂ
âSleaze,â Sirius says to him, the bell on his hat jingling when he tilts his head.
âI know you are, but what am I?âÂ
âI,â Remus says, âam hungry. And Iâll bet Y/N is too, since sheâs very politely refrained from snacking much while we waited for you lot.âÂ
James' attention actually leaves his son for half a second to look at you and see if what Remus says is true, and you go instantly bashful. It doesnât seem to matter how long youâre friends with them; having attention drawn to you will always bring some color to your cheeks. Lily comes to your rescue, ushering you into the kitchen like she needs somewhere to channel her mother hen urges while James is monopolizing Harry.Â
âI hope you really are hungry,â she says, âbecause James has made enough bhaji to feed us all for a month.â
Soon even James is stuffed and youâre all a bit tipsy on eggnog. Some of your natural anxiety fades as everything starts to feel slower and more fluid, your insides warm and soft as wax.Â
âNo, because it was so obvious,â Sirius says. Heâs telling a story of a girl heâd seen at a coffee shop that heâs sure was enamored with him. James, naturally, agrees completely, but Lily and Remus arenât so sure. âShe did theâthe thing. Y/N, back me up. When a girl makes eye contact with you and then looks off to the side, it means sheâs not interested, but when she looks down, itâs because sheâs nervous, right?â
You raise your eyebrows. âI think you made that up,â you tell him, tiny bits of laughter running in between your words. âAnyway, is her being nervous necessarily a good thing?âÂ
âShe was nervous because sheâs obsessed with me,â Sirius insists.Â
âOr,â Remus says, âshe was nervous because you were staring at her, and she thought you were going to follow her outside.âÂ
âAnd probably kill her,â Lily agrees.Â
Jamesâ eyebrows shoot up. âMerlin, you two are dark. Our Padfootâs not putting out murderous vibes. Heâs got too much boyish charm.âÂ
Sirius nods appreciatively, but Lily only shrugs, careful not to jostle Harry where heâs sleeping on her lap. âGirls have to think of those things.âÂ
âGross,â James says, looking slightly troubled as he kisses the side of his wifeâs head. âWell, I think she was in love with you, Pads.â
âYeah,â Remus rolls his eyes, âhe should show up at her house and find out. Itâd be romantic.â
âAnd on that note,â James goes on, ignoring him, âshall we do presents?â
You all agree, and Sirius looks at James with an older brotherâs entitlement. âGo ahead and distribute them, Prongsie.âÂ
James, well used to this, doesnât even question it, scampering back and forth between the tree (which you canât help but notice is somewhat lacking in the ornament department but quite sparkly) to deliver your presents at your feet. After a few rounds of this, you canât stand it anymore and get up to help, laughing through the protests of your remaining three friends. (âHeâs got it, love,â Remus says, and Sirius adds, âHeâs got energy he needs to run off anyway.â) Between the two of you, the bottom of the Christmas tree is bare within a couple of minutes, small piles of presents next to each of your friends. You go to sit back by the pile meant for you, touched at the fact that you have a box from every person there.Â
âSânot fair that James and Lily get to do coupleâs presents now,â Sirius complains. âIâm going to start buying gifts for you like youâre one person, see how you like it.âÂ
The biggest pile is obviously for Harry, and you all start there, no small amount of eagerness in Jamesâ expression as he tears open the first box. âThe Velveteen Rabbit,â he reads aloud. âWow, this is kinda hefty for a childrenâs book.âÂ
âWhoâs it from?â Lily prompts, as if you donât all already know.Â
âShit, I forgot to check.âÂ
âAnd thatâs why we read the box,â Lily says slowly, and you get the sense this is a conversation thatâs happened more than once, âbefore we start ripping, honey.âÂ
âIt was me,â Remus volunteers, lips pulling into a half-smile.Â
âCourse it was,â James says, taking a break from sticking his tongue out at his wife to smile at Remus. âThanks, Moony.âÂ
âYou had the opportunity to get him Goodnight Moon,â Sirius tsks, âand you just let it pass you by.âÂ
Remus rolls his eyes, but then Lily says, âHe already has that one,â and you watch as he tries and fails to suppress the shy smile that takes him. It shifts the scars on his cheek and lights his eyes with a warm tenderness.Â
He looks especially pretty under the Christmas lights, you think. The warm glow suits him, bringing out the amber in his eyes and richening the various brown shades of his hair. It makes his skin look softer too, smooth even where you know he has stubble around his jawline. You want suddenly to reach out and touch it, and youâre glad youâre sitting too far from him to act on the urge.Â
Youâve noticed Remus over the years, of course. Itâd be impossible not to. Youâve always harbored a tiny crush on him, but you keep it shoved deep down in your gut where it canât hurt anyone. You think the world of him, but you love your little group of friends more than anything else. Youâre not unaware of the fact that Remus is a more crucial fixture in it than you are; if anything happened between you and it made things awkward for everyone, youâd be the one to go.Â
âAw, is this a hat?â Lily pulls something tawny brown from a box, and you realize theyâve gotten to your gift. âOh my god, it has little antlers!â
You try not to smile too hard as she shows it to James and he coos, taking it from her hands. âNo way, heâll be like our little Prongsie! Iâm going to put it on him.âÂ
âDonât wake him,â Lily warns, but James waves her off.
âHe can sleep through anything,â he says, settling the baby beanie on Harryâs head. Sure enough, he doesnât stir.Â
âOh, thatâs so darling.â Lily presses a hand to her chest. âY/N, whereâd you get this?â
You feel your face heat and hope the lighting is covering your blush. âI made it,â you admit. âI know weâre already well into winter, but I hope he can still use it a little.âÂ
âUm, heâs never taking it off. Like, ever.â James leans around Lily to press a smacking kiss to your cheek. You laugh, trying not to shrink in on yourself from all the attention. âThanks, love.âÂ
Once all the cooing over Harryâs presents is done, the rest of the gift opening proceeds with decidedly less fanfare, though no shortage of gratitude. You get a bunch of purple eyeliners from Sirius (youâd complained to him a few weeks ago that theyâd stopped selling your old one, and heâd been thoughtful enough to find you options to help decide upon new one), a cookbook from James and Lily (âNow you can stop eating all those frozen meals,â James tells you with a meaningful look), and a set of mittens from Remus (âTheyâre alpaca,â he explains. âSupposed to be extra warm, and your hands are always freezing.â). The rest of your gifts are received happily too, and then Remusâ living room is covered with the wrapping paper Lily had tried but eventually given up on getting everyone to put in piles as they went and youâre all starting to yawn.Â
âAlright,â Lily says after a while, âitâs well past Harryâs bedtime, and ours, and Iâm sure Remus would like his flat back.âÂ
âBooo.â Sirius lays back on the couch, letting his head loll over the edge of the armrest. âDomestic life has made you lame, Evans-Potter.âÂ
âYeah, yeah,â James drawls, gathering Harry against his chest, âI saw you yawning, Pads. Letâs go.âÂ
You stand with the rest of them, going to find your shoes by the door. âThanks for everything, Remus,â you say. âIt was great.âÂ
âFor a first time hosting,â James allows, jokingly prideful, âI suppose you did a pretty decent job. Big shoes to fill, and all that.âÂ
Remus smiles as he rolls his eyes, but it falters when his gaze settles on something behind you. âAre you all going to be alright getting home? It looks like itâs really picked up.âÂ
You follow his stare out the window. Heâs not wrong. The unusually thick snowfall youâd arrived in has morphed into something that looks more like a blizzard, the wind whipping white across the black backdrop of sky outside Remusâ flat.Â
James looks between the scene outside and his family once before seeming to make a decision. âYeah, weâll be alright,â he says, watching Lily as he talks. She nods her approval, and Jamesâ voice becomes more solid. âWe donât have far to drive.â
Remus nods, still looking worried. His brows furrow as he turns to you. âWhat about you? Are you gonna be okay?â
âYeah.â Itâs the only answer in these situations, though youâre sure Remus would be alright with the alternative if you felt very strongly. âIt doesnât look too bad out there.âÂ
Remus casts another dubious glance out the window, and a particularly loud gust of wind whooshes past as if to spite you. âAre you sure? It looks pretty bad to me.âÂ
âYeah,â James says, âdonât you live a bit far?â
âItâs not that far,â you fib, at the same time as Remus says, âShe does.âÂ
You laugh awkwardly, pulling on your coat âItâs not. Anyway, Iâve driven in a lot worse than this.â
Lily gives you a small smile. âThatâs hardly reassuring, babe.â
âYou can stay here,â Remus offers, but youâre shaking your head before heâs even gotten the words out.Â
âThatâs sweet of you, but I can make it home.â You give him your most competent smile. âIf I end up driving off the road and have to camp in my car, at least Iâll have fantastic mittens to keep the frostbite from my hands.âÂ
He gives you a deadpan look. âWhile Iâm glad youâre excited to use my gift, Iâd prefer to keep it from coming to that.â
âYou canât get in a crash and die on Christmas,â Sirius says. âItâd be, like, a super huge downer for us every year.âÂ
âIâll be fine,â you insist.Â
âShortcake, I donât care if we have to lock you in here,â James says, frowning in a way that doesnât look particularly tough when heâs swaying back and forth to rock Harry on his chest. âThereâs no way you can drive all the way to your place in this.âÂ
You roll your eyes good-naturedly, wrapping your scarf.
âOkay, you know I would never usually say this,â Lily says, gnawing on her lip as she watches the snow blow past outside, âbut I think you should listen to the boys. It looks too scary out there to drive that far.âÂ
âItâsâŠâ You look between them, your argument dying of futility on your tongue. James seems prepared to blockade you in Remusâ flat, and even Lilyâs giving you a stern look. Your gaze lands on Remus, and the last of your resistance melts away.
âYou really should stay here,â he says kindly. âActually, Iâd feel a lot better if you did. Okay?â
You sigh, slipping your scarf back over your head. âOkay.âÂ
âPhew!â Sirius says, pulling you into a one-armed hug. âGlad thatâs settled. See you all soon, thanks for Christmas Moony!âÂ
âHeâs so tired,â Lily says after Sirius is out the door.Â
âWiped,â James agrees, adjusting his grip on Harry so that he can wrap one arm around Remusâ neck. Remus leans down into the awkward hug, begrudgingly fond as he pats his friend on the back, then kisses Lily on the cheek when James moves to you.Â
âThanks for the gifts,â James says, grinning down at Harryâs knit antlers after he releases you. âHeâs never taking this off.âÂ
âHe means it.â Lily sends her husband a look as fond as it is weary as she hugs you. âIâll probably have to bathe Harry when James is asleep so he doesnât catch him without it.âÂ
Your face is feeling hot again. âIâm glad you like it,â you say with a little shrug, but your friends are used to your shyness and only smile and wave on their way out.Â
And then the door shuts, and you and Remus are left alone in the quiet.Â
âAre you tired?â he asks you, moving back into the living room. Lily had sneakily taken care of a good deal of the cleanup, but thereâs still a few half-empty glasses of eggnog strewn about which Remus begins gathering.Â
âNot really,â you answer honestly, beating him to the sink and forcing him to hand you the glasses to wash. âAre you?â
âNo,â he agrees, and the look he shoots you has to be the gentlest form malice has ever taken as he takes up the dish towel and stations himself beside you. âFancy a film?â
âMmm, a Christmas film?â
âObviously.âÂ
The dishes are finished quickly thanks to Lilyâs interference, and Remus makes you some hot cocoa while you scroll through movies, calling out possibilities. The only conflict between you is your equal complaisance to whatever the other prefers, and you eventually settle on the first one youâd seen just to put an end to it. You take your cocoa gladly when Remus passes it to you, blowing gently while he settles a blanket over the both of you, your knees curled towards him and his one leg crossed over the other angling him towards you.Â
The first few minutes of the film are spent in that contented quietude that the two of you so often fall into when youâre alone together, but then Remus asks you, âWhat is it?â
You look over at him. âHm?â
âYouâre frowning.â
âOh.â You laugh. âIâm just thinking about snow.âÂ
His lips quirk. âIt is kind of the bane of your existence tonight, isnât it?â
âNo.â You smile down at your hands, hoping it's not obvious how not unpleasant you find your circumstances at the moment. âThatâs not it. I was thinking, I kind of hate how it always has to snow in these movies. It makes any Christmas where it doesnât snow feel like itâs not up to par. Or not quintessential enough, or something.â
âMmm, I see.â Remus looks back to the screen, considering. âDoes that make this your quintessential Christmas, then? Are we living up to the movie standard?â
You watch him while he watches the TV, blue light cast over his handsome features. âI guess so,â you say.
The longer you sit there, the closer you get. You blame it on the late hour, your bodies relaxing towards each other on the couch. Remusâ arm brushes yours when he lifts his mug for a sip, and your knees dig into his thigh under the blanket. Soon youâve drooped enough that youâre leaning nearly entirely against him. You donât notice until Remus puts an arm around you to encourage your head to his shoulder. You tense but donât sit up, and eventually his head comes to rest atop yours.Â
âAre you crying?â he murmurs during one scene near the end.Â
Your reply is equally soft, not wanting to jostle either Remusâ head or his shoulder with your speech movements. âI really like this part.âÂ
âYou know how it ends. Itâs going to be okay.âÂ
âI know.â You sniffle, bringing a hand up to wipe your face now that youâve been caught. âI know it is. Itâs just really profound.âÂ
âSure it is.â
âItâs the spirit of Christmas, Remus. Goodwill to man.âÂ
âOkay.â He rubs your shoulder, and you pretend not to feel his shaking with quiet laughter. âOkay, I agree with you.âÂ
And awhile later: âYouâre tired,â he accuses.
You hum a denial.
âSweetheartâ âyour stomach flutters, and thereâs a jolt somewhere behind your ribcage; you ignore itâ âyouâre practically falling asleep right here.â
âAre you tired?âÂ
He shifts slightly, stubble tickling your forehead. âNo. But you are.âÂ
âI want to finish the movie.âÂ
He seems to debate this for a moment, then his shoulder relaxes beneath you. âAlright.âÂ
The credits start, and neither of you move.Â
You let your head slump more heavily onto his shoulder. âYour place really does look lovely. Thanks for having me.â
âOf course, love.â You can feel his smile squish up against the top of your head. âWould you go so far as to say my hosting measures up to Jamesâ?â
You chuckle, gesturing to yourself. âIâd say youâve gone above and beyond, for sure.âÂ
Remus laughs too. âPerfect. Tell him so, would you?â
Youâre going to agree when a great yawn takes you. You keep it quiet, but thereâs no avoiding the way your chin digs into Remusâ shoulder, your shoulders rising with the prolonged inhale. He moves away from you.Â
âReady for bed?â He smiles down at you as you run a knuckle under your eyes, collecting tears from your lashes.Â
You shrug an admittance. âSort of. But I donât want to kick you out of your own living room if youâre not tired yet.â
âNo, Iâm pretty wiped too,â he says. âAnyway, Iâm the one kicking you out. Youâre staying in my room.âÂ
You had a feeling he would say something like that. You grab a throw pillow, getting situated with your head near the armrest. âNo, Iâm not.âÂ
His laugh is disbelieving. âYeah, you are. Come on, youâre my guest. Iâm not letting you sleep on the couch.âÂ
You tug the blanket off his lap, curling up with your pillow stubbornly. âIâm not going to steal your bed. Youâve already done so much. Youâve helped me try gingerbread cookies and given me nice mittens and hosted an amazing Christmas. Let me sleep on your couch, please.âÂ
âWhile I appreciate all that,â he says, âno.âÂ
âRemus.â Youâre near pleading at this point. âYour back will hurt.â
âYour back will hurt.âÂ
âNot as badly as yours.â You give him a hard look. âIâm not taking your bed.âÂ
Thereâs a brief silence, terser than your usual ones but no more awkward for it. You stare each other down.Â
âRight,â Remus says, reclaiming the remote from where heâd set it on the coffee table. âI suppose weâd better start another movie, then.â
âRemus, come on.â You sit up, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge. âYouâve just said youâre tired. Go to bed, please.â
The TV flickers back on. âIâm not leaving this couch.âÂ
âWell, neither am I,â you laugh, completely serious.Â
He rolls his eyes, then snuggles up to you under the blanket. You take this as a sign that heâs not really very cross with you. âYouâre much more argumentative than usual tonight, you know that?â
You huff, laying your head back on his shoulder. âI could say the same about you.âÂ
âTrue, but I know Iâll win out in the end.âÂ
âYou can think that if you like.âÂ
âWant to watch this one next?â
âSure.â
Remus watches as your eyes drift closed, then twitch back open, over and over again. He thinks his bony shoulder is the only thing keeping you from falling over the precipice of sleep. If he were James Potter, heâd simply pick you up with ease and carry you to his bed, but Remus canât say heâs entirely sorry for this extra time with you, even if neither of you are awake enough to make much conversation.
Silly as it sounds, he enjoys just sitting here with you nearly as much as talking. Your cheek squished into his shoulder, your legs curled up atop his, youâre warm and weighty against him.Â
He should have known it would be a hopeless endeavor trying to get you to agree to take the bed. Youâre a gentle thing by nature, but stubborn in your selflessness. Even if you had gone, Remus knows he wouldnât have slept all night anyway, too preoccupied with thoughts of you all wrapped up in his sheets, your face pressed to his pillow, getting your shampoo-smell on the pillowcase. He doesnât know if it smells like him (does he have a smell?), but he would have wondered all night if it does, if you were noticing.Â
Your head nearly rolls off his shoulder, and a pitying sound escapes Remus when you jerk awake to set it right. He lets his head rest on yours so it doesnât happen again. Your eyelids droop closed almost immediately, and Remus begins dragging his thumb over your shoulder blade, a nice, slow back-and-forth. Youâre quiet for a long while.Â
âAre you trying to put me to sleep?â you murmur, words all sloshed together.Â
Itâs a conscious effort not to let his thumb slow. âNo,â he says.Â
You hum.Â
âUnless you mean itâs working.âÂ
Another long silence. âItâs not,â you reply, head growing heavier on his shoulder. Â
He chuckles. âCome on, sweetheart. Letâs get you to bed, hm?âÂ
âYou go to bed,â you mumble, and if he thought you were capable of it heâd say there was some bitterness lining your words.Â
He sighs. âYouâre too nice for your own good,â he tells you.Â
âNo,â you reply, softly, plainly, like itâs a fact, âthatâs you.âÂ
He picks his head up off of yours to see your face. âYeah?âÂ
âMhm.â Your eyes are closed. You donât know heâs looking. Your face is wholly relaxed, no hint of pretense about you. âYouâre the best I know.âÂ
Something warm and wheedling works its way through Remusâ ribs to the soft gooey core of him. âWell,â he tells you honestly, âyouâre the best I know.â
You seem unconcerned. âAnother impasse for us.âÂ
He actually laughs at that, instantly guilty when it jostles you on his shoulder and your eyelids peel apart. He canât regret it, though, when you look at him the way you do. Youâre glowing in the light coming off the tree, soft and warm and lovely, and yet youâre looking at him like heâs the only place your eyes want to go. Like itâs the most natural thing in the world.Â
You come gradually more awake, eyebrows twitching towards each other just slightly. âRemus,â you murmur, and he finally does what heâs been wanting to since youâd shown up at his door hours ago. He kisses you.Â
Your lips are pliable, parting for his almost instantly, like youâd been waiting. His hand coasts from your shoulder to cup the back of your head, keeping you close as your nose slides against his. You both all but fall back onto the bed youâd made yourself on the couch. Heâs careful not to put too much of his weight on you, but when his tongue brushes across the inside of your lip and you inhale, he draws back.Â
âI...â He pants into the space between you. âSorry. Iâm sorry. I didnâtââ
You make a sound thatâs half hum, half whine, and bump your chin up into his.Â
Remus loses himself again with frightening quickness. Itâs even better now that you seem more sure, your mouth asking, coaxing against his. You taste like gingerbread. An low, embarrassing sound pries free from the back of his throat when you wind your fingers into the hair at his nape, and he slips his free hand beneath your back, getting as close to you as he can. Your legs make room for him automatically, knees tipping open so he can slot between them.
âDo youââ you breathe when his attentions move downward, tilting your head to the side to offer access as he mouths at the skin just under your jaw. âDo you want this?âÂ
The word leaves him in a soft exhale, muffled against your skin. âYes.â
You swallow. He feels the movement in your throat. âAre you sure?â
His eyelashes brush your jaw as his kisses slow, become more tender, more intentional. âLovely girl,â he murmurs. âYouâre silly, you know that?â His mouth meanders itâs way over to your pulse, getting stuck there and sucking at your skin lazily. âI mean, youâre smart.â The words are all mushed up against you. Noticeably amused. Remus quit the eggnog hours ago, yet he feels half drunk. âYouâre really smart, honey, but you can be so oblivious sometimes.âÂ
You donât respond, and as much as he loves the sound of your voice, heâs hoping your silence is in his favor right now. He wants you wrapped up in him, wants to engross you so completely you forget how to form your lips around speech.Â
âDo you want to move to my room?âÂ
You take a breath. Fuck, even the sound of you breathing is nearly enough to undo him. He moves back to your mouth as if to intercept it, nipping at your lower lip.Â
âIs this a ploy to get me off the couch?âÂ
âYouâre relentless.â
Your lips curve against his, and he mirrors them without thinking. You stay quiet.
âFine. I promise itâs not, okay?âÂ
Your laugh is fizzy like champagne, and it warms Remusâ chest like it too. âOkay,â you say in that lovely voice. âOkay, letâs go.âÂ
Youâd always thought Remus was all softness. Heâs made up of soft looks, soft colors, and hair that you can now confirm is soft as dandelion fluff. But this night has defied your expectations in a thousand ways. And your Remus, soft, gentle, kindhearted Remus, is scraping at your throat with his teeth.Â
You have to suck your lip between your teeth to keep from making a humiliatingly desperate sound when he passes his tongue over his work, another crescent moon thatâs sure to be purple by morning. Your hands are beseeching in his dandelion fluff hair, keeping him close while his hands are busy lower, one gripping the fat of your hip while the other drags tantalizingly slow up and down your side. Heâs kissing you like you have all the time in the world, sometimes rough but no more urgent for it, and youâre breathy and molten and useless beneath him.Â
Youâre brimming with adoration and something else too. Something that you think you could almost identifyâyouâve felt it before, but never like this.Â
âWhat do you want to do?â Thereâs a raspy quality to his voice that would send you to your knees if he hadnât already taken them out from under you. He dots leisurely, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, soothing over spots heâs already nipped and sucked into oblivion. Your head feels fuzzy. âSweetheart?âÂ
Christ, is he trying to send you into cardiac arrest? Remus doesnât stop kissing you even at your silence, finding your lip still held between your teeth and encouraging it free with his own. You try to remember what heâd ask you. What do you want to do? You have no idea. Where would you even start? You want him to keep talking to you in that raspy voice, thatâs for sure. You wantâŠyou want to keep kissing him, to know what his hands would do if you let them beneath your clothes. You want to keep investigating that warm feeling in your gut. See where it takes you.Â
Remusâ kisses slow, then stop. He pulls back to look at you. In the dim street light coming in through the window, you wonder what he sees. âYou alright?â His voice is soft, gentle, saying itâs okay if youâre not without saying it.Â
You take a breath. It shakes a little on the way out, but you donât think he can tell. âYeah, Iâm good. Just nervous. But not in a bad way.â Nervous-happy.Â
âDonât be,â he implores, lips brushing your cheek. âItâs only me.â
Exactly, you think. Itâs you.Â
âWhat do you want to do?â You turn his own question back on him.Â
His smile is tinged with bashfulness. âI mean, whatever youâre alright with.â Thereâs a tentative quietness to his voice. âHave youâŠâ
If it were possible for you to get any warmer, embarrassment would do it. âNo,â you say, shrinking away from him though thereâs nowhere to go. Whatever the end to that question might be, the answer is no.Â
âThatâs okay,â he says quickly, dropping another kiss on the corner of your mouth like a cure-all remedy. âThatâs okay, you just tell me if you want to stop, yeah? If you donât like something, or you want to slow downâanything at all, you let me know.â He kisses you again, further up on your burning cheek. âOkay?âÂ
You swallow. âOkay.âÂ
âDonât be nervous.â He says it like a promise, hand stroking your side again as if to soothe you. His lips find your shoulder, nosing the fabric of your sleeve. âCan I take this off, lovely?âÂ
You nod, words all stoppered up in your throat, then realize he canât see you and do it yourself. He has to pause as it comes off, taking the opportunity to do away with his own sweater, tossing it on the floor beside the bed. You do the same, and your bra quickly follows. Youâd always thought (largely influenced, admittedly, by trashy novels) that this was the part where the guy stops what heâs doing and openly oggles the shirtless woman in front of him, but Remus has seen tits before and wastes no time in getting his mouth back on yours, pressing you into the mattress. His skin is as heated as yours, the areas where you touch deliciously warm despite the cold still whipping past his bedroom window. You allow yourself one sweeping, appreciative pass over the muscles on Remusâ back before your hands go down to your bottoms, shimmying them down your legs. A long-fingered hand finds the exposed skin of your thigh and kneads reverently. You swallow Remusâ groan, and he kisses you more deeply, long, savoring passes of his tongue along the inside of your mouth until his lips move downward.Â
One hand stays at your hip while the other strokes up and down your thigh, spit cooling in a path down your stomach. You try to relax as he passes your navel, but the anticipation is hard to shake. Youâre nearly trembling when he kneels between your legs, kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.Â
âIs this okay?â he murmurs.Â
Itâs all you can do to nod, gasping when his teeth drag over one of the stretch marks there. You clutch at the sheets above your head like a lifeline.Â
âWe can stop anytime you want.âÂ
You inhale raggedly. âNo,â you manage. Your breathlessness is obvious in the quiet room. âI wantâI want to keep going.â You pause. âDo you?â
You can hear the smile in his voice. âYeah, love, that sounds good to me.âÂ
Good, youâre about to say, but Remusâ next kiss lands on your slit, and your voice withers and dies in your throat. He uses a hand to push one of your legs open further while bringing the other over his shoulder, spreading you open. His breath fans hot over your cunt.
Youâre writhing at the first broad stroke of his tongue, and he wraps his fingers around the outside of your thigh, keeping you still while placating you at the same time.Â
Remus takes his time, lapping experimentally at your entrance before making his way upwards. You gasp as his tongue skims over your clit, burrowing your hand in his hair before hesitating.Â
âIs this okay?â you ask.Â
His hummed assent has you tightening your grasp. He brushes over your clit one more time, and when this gets a similar reaction from you, begins sucking on it gently. Youâre panting, and Remus has to move his grip to your hip to hold you in place, squeezing indulgently at the fat there while he narrows in on what you like. Before long youâre trembling all over, grasping feebly at his hair as you squeeze your eyes shut against the odd sort of bliss thatâs taking you under.Â
âRemus,â you breathe, and itâs a miracle that he hears you but he does, raising his head with a lewd suctioning sound.Â
He looks at you questioningly with eyes almost all pupil.Â
âCome here,â you plead.Â
He obeys, crawling back up you to peck at your bitten lips. âDoing alright?â he asks you.
âYeah,â you promise, cupping his head in one hand and wrapping your leg over the back of his as if to prevent him from leaving. âJust wanted to kiss you.âÂ
You feel him smile against your lips. He slots his mouth over yours, and you dedicate yourself to his top lip. He tastes like sex, braver now as he explores your mouth. He drags your bottom lip between his teeth, and you make a high, breathy sound. His grip on you tightens.Â
âDo you thinkâcan weââ
He hesitates, kissing softly at the corner of your lips. âAre you sure?âÂ
âI want to. Do you?âÂ
Remus actually laughs, muffling the sound against your cheek. âYeah, I fucking want to. Iâve wanted to forever.âÂ
You canât think about that. Think about that and youâll fall to pieces.Â
He noses affectionately at the underside of your jaw, slipping down you once again to stand at the end of the bed. He steps out of his pants and grabs a condom from the drawer of his nightstand. âYouâll tell me if I do anything you donât like, yeah?âÂ
âMhm,â you promise, anticipation coiling up snugly with that other thing in your stomach. They donât feel all that distinct from one another.Â
âAlright,â he says, palm slipping under your thigh. âCan I lift this up, love?âÂ
You nod, and he grasps the soft underside of your knee, bringing your leg up to your stomach as he lines up. You gasp as he pushes in slowly, watching your face to make sure youâre doing okay. Youâre already slick and worked open from his ministrations, and itâs still a bit shocking. His thumb strokes beside your knee as your walls adjust to the size of him. âHowâs that feel?âÂ
âGood,â you say honestly. Thereâs a note of desperation to your voice. âI canâmore, please.âÂ
Heâs quick to accommodate you, pushing deeper as he folds himself over you to recapture your lips. Your breaths shallow. His free hand moves to your breast, kneading gently at the soft flesh. He gives it a firm squeeze at the same time as he moves inside you, and you nearly bite Remusâ lip off, a half-suppressed keening sound escaping you.Â
âSo good,â he mumbles. âYouâre doing so good, sweetheart. Taking it so well.â He lifts his head, kissing your temple. âThink you can handle a bit more?âÂ
Your response is barely more than breath, but he catches the affirmation, pressing another firm kiss to your forehead before he bottoms out inside you. Your head lolls back, fuzzy with the strange pain and even stranger pleasure. Remus tightens his grip on your leg to keep it up, dotting kisses down the side of your face.Â
âGood girl,â he says hoarsely. âStill doing okay, lovely?âÂ
âYeah,â you say, somewhat dizzy. âRemus, it feels so good.âÂ
âGood,â he croons. âIt should feel good, love. Ready for me to move?â
âMhm.â
He pulls out slowly, dragging against your sensitive walls. He starts mouthing at your neck again before he pushes back inside you, filling you up all over again. A slew of expletives roll out of your mouth, unbidden and entirely unlike you, as Remus begins pumping your breast again, the rhythm matching that of his thrusts. He sucks the flesh of your neck between his teeth, and you bite down hard on your lower lip to repress what promises to be a high-pitched and deeply mortifying sound.Â
Remus praises you amply, soft kisses and reverent touches and a raspy âFuck, sweetheart, just like that.â Your head floats or swims or both, your body tensed all over and yet completely plaint beneath Remusâ hands. He moves back to your mouth, discovering your bottom lip held captive between your teeth.Â
âCome on, donât do that,â he chides, easing it free with gentle kisses. âLet me hear you, bet you sound so pretty.âÂ
The Welsh accent thatâs grown faint after years of living away from home is emerging now, as is the crude vocabulary it's tied to in memory, a host of barely comprehensible profanities spewing from Remusâ lips when you clench on him again. His grip tightens on your tit, and a moan tears from the back of your throat.Â
âThatâs it,â he praises, head dipping to kiss the soft spot heâs found under your ear. âThere you are, lovely girl.âÂ
The coil in your core grows impossibly tighter, your thighs quivering as you approach a peak youâve never known before. Remus feels it, cooing softly even as he drives into you harder.
âYou gonna cum, sweetheart?â You nod dazedly. âGood, good, just let it happen, Iâve got you.âÂ
âCome here,â you demand again, and he wastes no time in obliging you. He kisses your lips sore as you dig your nails into his shoulders, pulling his body flush against yours, the feeling inside you growing so great you donât know where to put it, donât know if you can contain it. You canât remember ever feeling this close to someone, Remusâ touch the only thing keeping you from hurtling off some unknown precipice.
âLet go,â he urges, and you do. You trust him to catch you.Â
Itâs bliss like youâve never known. You cry out, and Remusâ hand slides down from your breast to spread wide and flat against your ribs. Steadying. He kisses soothingly at your jaw as you gasp and pant your way back to him, grip slackening on his shoulders.Â
âGood girl,â he murmurs, though you really havenât done much at all.Â
âAre youââ You swallow, choking on the emotion thatâs risen unbidden in your throat. âAre you close?âÂ
Remus smiles, coming back to your lips like he canât help himself. He pecks you once, twice. âSweetheart, Iâm more than close. Iâve barely been holding myself together since you kissed me.âÂ
Well, heâd actually kissed you, but youâll take the compliment anyway.Â
âDo you think youâll be alright if I move again?â he asks. âItâs okay if not.âÂ
âYou can,â you say certainly, leaning up on your elbows to see him better. âIs thereâŠanything I can do to help?â
The smile fades from his face, leaving something far more tender in its wake. âJust, keep looking at me like that?â He says it almost like heâs embarrassed, voice quiet with supplication.Â
You want to tell him youâd never needed asking to look at him, but you donât, keeping your eyes on his obediently as he pumps into you. He really must have been close, because heâs cursing again not long after, accent twisting his syllables with a gruff pleasure. Your walls contract at the movement, still sensitive, and thatâs all it takes. Remus digs his fingers into your waist and makes sounds youâre sure youâll dream about, panting, breathy moans you sit up to smother against your lips. He follows you back down onto the mattress, mouth slotted against your own. You hold him to you until his breaths even and his grip on you loosens.Â
âWas that alright?â he asks, some of the rasp still lingering in his voice.Â
You canât help the laugh that escapes you, dizzy with affection. âYeah, it was good,â you promise him. Understatement of the year. âReally good, Rem.âÂ
âGood,â he echoes, lips brushing the skin under your eye. You donât know how you know, but you can feel the amusement building in him just before he asks, âTired yet?â
You guffaw. The force of it jostles him on top of you, and his lips curve against your cheek. âA little bit, yeah.â Actually, you hadnât realized how exhausting sex would be. If it didnât mean having to take your eyes off Remus, youâd have closed them and passed out by now.Â
âGood,â he says again, hands sliding down your waist as he moves to stand again. You make a small sound as he shifts, and Remus shushes you, slipping out from inside you. You watch fascinatedly as he removes the condom, sticky with cum. He tosses it in the wastebasket under his desk and walks away from you.
âHey,â you protest. âYouâd better not be sneaking off to sleep on the couch.âÂ
His chuckle echoes in the bathroom, followed by the sound of a cabinet opening. âSo mistrustful,â he says when he comes back in with a damp towel. âWhatâve I done to arouse such suspicion?âÂ
Your fuzzy brain gets stuck on the word arouse in his teasing tone, and it takes you a second to answer. âWell, Iâm here and a blink away from falling asleep, so you tell me.âÂ
âFair enough.â He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, taking your thigh in his grasp to move it aside. âAlright if I clean you up, love?âÂ
You startle, coming up on your elbows to see where Remus is holding the towel between your legs. âI didnât realize itâd be so messy,â you admit. âYou donât have to, though, I can do it myself.âÂ
âI donât mind,â he says, thumb soothing over your knee. âSâmy mess anyway.â He seems to have not quite agreed with himself to say that last part aloud, a blush spreading over his cheeks.Â
âSure,â you say, mostly to alleviate his embarrassment. You let your weight lean more heavily on your elbows, trying your best to look relaxed. âSure, if youâre alright with it.âÂ
âMight be a bit sensitive,â he warns. Youâd guessed as much, but it's worth it for all the praises he rains down upon you as he works, finishing with a kiss to the side of your knee.Â
You miss him humiliatingly when he goes to the bathroom again to discard the towel. Itâs all you can do not to reach for him when he comes back, but luckily Remus reads your mind anyway, slipping under the covers and tugging you to him until his lips rest against your forehead.Â
âThat was really great,â you tell him.Â
âI thought so too.âÂ
âYouâll stay here, right?âÂ
A low laugh. âYeah, sweetheart. Iâm staying here.âÂ
Remus hasnât known anyone to sleep in longer than Sirius, but you seem to be vying for his title. The sun has long since passed above his windows when Remus wakes, and still he has time to spend idle hours marveling at the closeness of you. His nose is cold above the covers, but everywhere your bodies are pressed together is warm, your palm flat against his chest and one of your legs wormed between his own. Your fingers twitch as you dream.Â
It has to be early afternoon by the time he rises, slipping his hand carefully from beneath you and plodding into the kitchen. The blanket is still on the couch where you left it, throw pillow creased with your indentation. Your mugs are discarded on the coffee table with globs of once-hot cocoa stuck to the bottom. Bright light refracts off the snow outside and into his kitchen, making everything look shiny new.Â
Remus starts the kettle first, letting that warm up while he rifles through the cabinets for his big mixing bowl and starts whisking together ingredients. A bird chirps outside as the kettle gurgles, and somehow the peace of Remusâ kitchen feels more complete knowing that youâre sleeping just down the hall.Â
Until, apparently, youâre not. Your footsteps are so silent he startles when you appear, still blinking yourself awake as you cross your arms over the sweater youâve thrown on with your bottoms from the night before. Remusâ sweater. And Remus had thought heâd come to terms with the idea of you here, in his apartment like the best Christmas gift of all time, but apparently not, because his heart stutters and stops at the sight of you.Â
Heâd thought youâd looked adorable in the soft glow of the Christmas lights the night before, and again tucked into his sheets this morning, but youâre almost ethereal now. Sunlight bathes the planes of your face and gleams off your hair, making you appear almost like youâre emanating the bright light rather than standing in it. You smile at him, seraphim.Â
âMorning. Sorry I didnât ask,â you say, fingering the hem of Remusâ sweater. âI was cold and you were gone, I hope you donât mind.âÂ
Mind? Remus canât even think.Â
âCourse not,â he manages, but just barely. Itâs more an exhale than a statement. âDid you sleep alright?âÂ
âReally well,â you say. His sleeves cover your fingers as you rest your elbows on the counter, and your gaze has gone a bit shy again, but Remus can hardly blame you. You both seemed to have experienced unusual nerve the night before. He only hopes you arenât regretting your part in it. And now that heâs had some time to think, he hopes even more that youâd truly wanted it in the first place. âDid you?âÂ
âYeah, thanks.â
You lean a bit closer in a way that he doubts either of you are even slightly unaware of, peering into the mixing bowl. âWhatâre you making?âÂ
âIâm experimenting,â he says, though he wishes now he werenât. He wanted to make you something good, but his confidence in his adaptation is waning now that youâre in the room. He should have gone with something basic, tried-and-true. âOr, Iâm attempting. Gingerbread pancakes?âÂ
His voice crawls up into a question, as if he really has no idea what it is heâs trying to make (maybe thatâs closer to the truth), but Remusâ regrets vanish instantly at the genuine elation that lights your expression.Â
âReally?âÂ
A laugh startles out of him, giddy. âYeah, does that sound alright?âÂ
âMore than alright,â you declare with full seriousness, seating yourself at the bar counter. âThat sounds amazing, Rem, thank you. Merlin, I owe you so big for all of this.âÂ
âI think youâve more than made it up to me.â It slips out without permission, Remus too high on the flow of your conversation to filter the words through his brain before they reach his mouth. His loathsome, traitorous mouth. âI mean, Iâm sorryâfuck, that sounds awfulâI only meant that Iâve had a really good time with you here. Iâm glad you stayed.âÂ
You flush horribly, and Remus doesnât expect heâs faring much better.Â
âNot that Iâm only glad because ofâor, Iâm always glad to have you. As a friend, too.âÂ
Thereâs a tiny pinch in your features, gone before he can diagnose it. Somehow, you seem even more uncomfortable. âRight.â You give him a thin smile. Itâs a hearty attempt, but youâre too genuine a soul to fake it. Remus hates himself for it. âAs a friend.âÂ
Theyâre his own words, put hearing them from your mouth and with that piss-poor smile feels like having a fire poker jammed between his ribs.Â
With his track record this morning, he really should be taking a vow of silence, but he canât seem to stop himself. âJust friends, then?â Hesitance makes his voice sound quiet even in the silent kitchen. He looks down, stirring the batter to avoid watching the answer take form on your face.Â
âI mean,â your tone is a match to his, âis that what you want?âÂ
A short, soft laugh escapes him. âI think I made what I want fairly clear last night.âÂ
Thereâs a short silence. âI thought I did too.âÂ
Itâs a conscious effort to keep stirring. Had you? Remus had kissed you, heâd brought you to his room, heâd been the one to ask if you wanted to do more. And youâd been game for it all, sure, but he canât help but wonder if you were just going along with it. If maybe youâd thought it was just a fuck, something heâd come up with to pass the time while you were both snowed in, no strings attached. Remus could understand that. He could disentangle the strings from last night if itâs what you want. But heâs liked you for years. He could love you oh so easily. Heâs practically teetering on the edge of it already, though youâve only been friends all this time.Â
Remus spoons some batter into a waiting pan on the stove. Heâs debating asking what exactly it is that you thought youâd made clear when you speak again.Â
âI understand if itâs too much for you.â Your voice is shy. He looks up, and your shoulders are hunched as if youâre trying to hide yourself. You shrink further under his gaze. âWe can stay just friends if itâsâŠif thatâs what you want. I want whateverâs easier for you.â Your next words are so impossibly soft, Remus has to strain to hear them over the low sizzling of the pancake batter. âI really want you to stay in my life.âÂ
âWhat?â Itâs a staccato, loud enough that it surprises you both, Remus stepping toward you while you nearly flinch back. âSorry.â His hand goes up, reaching into the space between you as if he can soothe you from feet away. He lowers his volume. âSorry, sweetheart, I justâI didnât realize that was even on the table. I would never want to not be in your life.âÂ
âI just mean that I donât want to make things weird for you, or for everyone elseââ
âHey.â He manages to cross the distance this time, his hand landing on your wrist atop the counter. Remus isnât sure why he needs it there so desperately, but he suddenly feels much better. âThere is nothing that could make any of us not want to be friends with you. I can speak for everyone in that regard. Okay?âÂ
You look at him consideringly for a moment. Remus holds your stare, letting you see his certainty. âOkay,â you echo, sounding unsure. Heâll deal with that later, he decides.
âOkay,â he says once more, and itâd almost be firm if it werenât so gentled by the tenderness he can never seem to get rid of around you. Even so, what he says next doesnât sound particularly tender. Itâs not very kind to you, he knows, but Remus is selfish, and he feels (selfishly) like heâs done his part already. He tries to phrase it as nicely as he can. âCan you tell me what it is that you want, please?âÂ
You try to shrink again, and Remusâ grip tightens on your wrist instinctually as if to keep you from running off. He swipes his thumb over your skin apologetically. âRemus, come on.â You sound almost upset, but itâs hard to tell with your voice so quiet. âI know Iâm not that good atâat covering myself up. I must have hearts in my eyes half the time I look at you.âÂ
Remus would give a monthâs rent to know what you can see in his eyes right now. Even if heâd been hoping for an answer something like that, he hadnât expected it. And for you to act like itâs been obviousâŠhe does his best to think back.Â
Youâve always been a shy thing. It had taken James months to get you to be remotely yourself around them, and though youâd seemed to warm to Remus first, youâd always retained some of your bashfulness when you were alone together. Heâd chalked it up to the result of two people, quiet by nature, with no wildly extroverted James or Sirius or Lily to run interference.Â
Youâve always been kind to him, but youâre kind to everyone. How is anyone supposed to suspect favoritism from a soul as indiscriminately sweet as yours?Â
He recalls your voice last night, thin and reedy and fragile as the cattails that had bordered the river behind his house as a kid. Wary of getting swept along by the current, but willing to go if Remus would take you. Do you want this?
Heâd called you oblivious for asking. How could you wonder, when heâd been the one to kiss you and has probably been looking like he wanted to for years? Heâs certainly been thinking about it for as long. But perhaps your obliviousness is another congruity between the two of you.Â
So much for opposites attract.Â
âI think Iâm an idiot,â he says, and mercifully, a smile far more real than the last sneaks onto your face.Â
âYou are not,â you reply, ever forgiving.Â
âDonât tell Sirius,â he warns, âbut I really think I am.â His voice drops into a more earnest register. âI had no idea, love, Iâm sorry. Maybe youâre a better actress than you thought. But if you donât want to be friends, I donât want to either.â Remus hesitates. âOr, I always want to be your friend, justââ
âRemus?âÂ
Finally. Someone needs to stop him. âYeah?âÂ
âYour pancakeâŠâ
He turns to find a thin spire of smoke rising from the pan. âOh, fuck.â He grabs a spatula and quickly flips the pancake, but thereâs no saving it. The bottom side is completely blackened. Itâs inedible. âSorry, IâŠIâm not sure I have enough batter for much more.âÂ
âItâs fine.â Thereâs laughter in your tone, and thatâs more than enough to make up for it. âIt was a really sweet thought, thatâs what matters anyway.âÂ
Remus turns to find youâve slipped out of your seat and are standing uncertainly on the threshold of the kitchen. His heart warms with incandescent, aching fondness.Â
âWould you come here?â he asks.Â
You comply with an eagerness he wonders heâs never noticed before, stepping forward to let him fold you into his arms. Your wrists cross over his mid back and the tip of his nose mushes into your hair as he touches his lips to the top of your head. He canât believe he could have been holding you like this all along if only he hadnât been so thick. He supposes heâll have to make the most of it now.Â
âLetâs do away with asking about want, does that sound alright?â He rubs lightly between your shoulder blades, wonders if you like the feel of his breath on your scalp. âHow about you tell me if anything comes up that you donât want, and Iâll do the same.â
âYeah.â Remus knows he likes the feel of your voice on his skin, chin moving against his chest. âYeah, that sounds good.âÂ
âGood.â He smiles, pressing another kiss to your head. âOkay, should we venture out to find something for breakfast? Or lunch, I suppose it is by now.âÂ
You ease out of his arms. âI really should go home.â Thereâs an apology already embedded in your tone, but you add one anyway. âSorry, but my catâs been there all night by herself, soâŠâ
âRight.â Remus ignores the dull throb behind his sternum, which is really a bit dramatic. Heâll see you soon, surely. âYeah, that makes sense. Think youâll be able to drive?âÂ
âI mean, I looked outside.â You shrug, backing towards where youâd hung your coat the night before. âThe roads here are cleared, which I hope means theyâve gotten to most of them already.âÂ
âThatâs good,â he says, though he feels the opposite. Your poor cat, heâs pitted completely against her now. Sheâs done nothing to deserve the resentment heâs directing at her, almost petulant in his malcontent. âGood, good.âÂ
Youâre both silent as you put on your shoes, your scarf. Itâs not unusual for the two of you, but it lacks its usual easy contentedness. Your eyes flit up as you pull on your new gloves, a silent thanks in them that you know Remus wonât let you voice aloud again. Despite the upset in his chest, he smiles.Â
âIâŠlisten, I have to go home,â you tell him, looking down as you wriggle your fingers more snugly into the gloves. âI have to feed my cat. But that doesnât necessarily mean I want toâŠleave.âÂ
Remus canât see how that changes anything, but he recognizes it for the olive branch it is. Youâre both so uncertain, and youâre trying to alleviate his worries about what you leaving right now means. He can return the favor.Â
âI donât want you to leave either,â he says, âbut I get it. She seems important to you, best to keep her well.âÂ
âExactly.â You smile, relieved. âBut I mean, if youâre not doing anything, you could come meet her? We could pick up breakfast on the way. Or I could make you something there.âÂ
Remus canât believe his luck. And, once again, his stupidity in not getting there himself. Why is it that all of a sudden, everything that has to do with you seems so absurdly difficult? At least one of you is thinking clearly.Â
âYeah, that would be fantastic.â Heâs grinning hugely, totally unlike him but liking it very much. âLet me grab my coat.âÂ
âWait.â Thereâs a newly familiar breathless quality to your voice, and when Remus turns youâre already coming forward to meet him. Your palm slides against the stubble along his jaw as you stretch your neck, kissing him sweetly on the lips. âThere,â you say, timidity shrouded beneath a good layer of happiness, ânow weâre even.âÂ
Remus laughs, loud and startled. He wants to be generous with you, he really does, but he still thinks youâre far from even. âIâm not sure about that, sweetheart,â he says warmly, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of your eyebrow, âbut we'll get there.âÂ
Through Sea Mist and Shadows â Bucky Barnes x Reader â Masterlist
after many years away, you return back to the small family farm that was once considered your home. nestled above the cliff-sides of a remote Maine island, sea mist cresting at its edges, you find that things are far different now. your family bears you sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and you yourself have changed beyond your own recognition over the years.
a story about returning to your roots and finding yourself where you least expected it; in the arms of an old friend.
started: 5/2/23 rewrite: 5/22/25
status: ONGOING! IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN!
warnings: mature readers only! 18+, discussions of mental illness and emotional trauma, death of a loved-one, suggestive, no use of (Y/N), cursing but come on now, we're all adults, I do include vague descriptions and interactions with readers' parents for plot points
prologue
one
two
I NEEDED THISâ
Feigning Indifference
"â And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."
 (I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. đąđąđą Anyhoo...)
Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. đ
Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.
Word count: 1.8k
[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]
Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked â victorious.
Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks â they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them â not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindorâs in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.
Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teamsâ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)
Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on â a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. â And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference.Â
He wants to kiss the frown right off your face.Â
âThere you are.â He grins down at you. You glare up at him.
âSeven different girls touched your shoulders just now,â you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. âTwo more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.â
Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. âDid they?â He affects a look of innocence. âI didn't notice.â
âLiar.â You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. âMaybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.â
His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing â after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination.Â
With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his.Â
âI wouldn't let you play Quidditch,â he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.
Authority which you completely ignore, like always.
Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (âUgh, put me down, you brute! â You can't tell me what to do! â If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!â) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement.Â
âYou're not the boss of me!â you wail. Youâre tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but youâre agile enough to break free if he doesnât handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak.Â
âYes,â he growls in your face, âI am.â
Despite all the height and the strength heâs gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. â Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face.Â
A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable.Â
You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs.Â
You're his now. You both know it.Â
âHow can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?â He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. âI should fuck you standing. Right here,â â he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, â âright now.â
Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.
He wants to fuck the shock right off your face.Â
âR-right here?â The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in.Â
Because you always give in.Â
âWhy not?â He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth⊠But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks â hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper.Â
âWhat if they see?â You palm his shoulders â but you're pulling, not pushing.Â
âLet them.â His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. âLet them watch me fucking ruin you.â
Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder.Â
âYou think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?â He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth.Â
Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. âYou think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?â
Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. â He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy.Â
He wants everyone to know you're his.Â
The thought makes him fucking â lose â it.Â
Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.
Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees.Â
It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear â the way you make him lose control.Â
âLook at you,â he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. âS'fucking good, sâall fucking mine.â
Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it â oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder.Â
Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time.Â
He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.
âIf only ââ he groans, ââ they could â see you ââ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. âYou're the â ngh â only one â oh, fuck ââ
Surely you know â surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words.Â
It's more than sex: he fucking loves you.Â
Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows.Â
read it on ao3. masterlist.
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.
Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.
Words: 20k.
Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!
Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!
All your life, youâd never been keen on cliques. But thereâs a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.
Itâs a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet itâs true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Deanâs jacket swinging with his saunter, Samâs hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt youâd just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldnât be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending itâs not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.
Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar youâd picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartenderâs attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. Itâs kind of cute.
âIâll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,â you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.
âDamn,â he says, âyou really are in a good mood.â
You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. âWeâre celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?â
Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up heâd just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you canât fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know itâs on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.
âHow do you know?â He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since heâs spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.
You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. ââKid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.â
Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, itâs ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. âTwo? Break out the balloons,â he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, âYou sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkersâŠâ
You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a littleâheâs in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because heâs being even more of a tight-ass than usual.
âCut that âkidâ shit out and maybe Iâll throw in some jĂ€ger,â Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but heâs still smiling to himself.
Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Samâs head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jĂ€ger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like thatâs the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.
Last time, youâd been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Deanâs walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.
âHold onâthat tableâs opening up. Iâm gonna steal it for us,â Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, âOrder for me.â Realizing the troublemaker heâd just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. âActually, _____, can youâ?â
You raise a hand before he can finish. âThe cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before weâre forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.â
Sam gives you this trusting nod thatâs just golden, because the second heâs gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. â...So. You think heâll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?â
The smile that hasnât left Deanâs face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. âGod,â he sighs, wistful, âyouâre my brand of evil genius, you know that?â
You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bendâŠ
Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, âCan you go see how many songs are in the jukeboxâs play queue for me? I wanna dance toââ
âI know what song you want to dance to,â Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. âYou know what dâ?â
ââyeah, I know what drink you want,â you finish for him, just like he had for you.
Deanâs face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch heâd given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.
You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the airâsomethingâs different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until heâs safely hidden behind his laptopâs screen.
âThat was a lot of touching up there,â he says, as if heâs talking about the weather.
You take the same tone, shrugging like heâs pointed out itâs gonna rain later. âSâ been a good week, Sammy.â
Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. Youâre an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Deanâs pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.
âYour hands are shaking.â His brows bounce once at you over the article heâs reading.
You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesnât drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. Itâs squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyesâplease stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. Iâll pay you.
Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Deanâs had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.
Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Deanâs kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that heâs the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means youâre going to hit a big drop. Youâre a hopeful person, though, so you canât help but read Deanâs eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. Heâs not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.
Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.
âI get the feeling tonightâs different,â you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Samâs laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. âAll these months ofâŠâ you gesture broadly, âI think⊠something could happen.â
Sam pulls a face. âEw.â
You kick him under the table. âShut up,â you laugh, âIâm being serious, dude. Deanââ
âŠappears right beside you. In your mindâs eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. âYou rang?â he says. âGot your song going for you. Should be the next one.â
Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. Itâs practicalâhe would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.
Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but thereâs a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so youâre led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then youâre off for the open space between the tables. Youâre laughing so hard your cheeks ache.
Youâre chased by Samâs playful shout. âDonât have too much fun out there!â
The race to the lyrics is literal. You know thereâs only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but godâthe supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the barâs dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now itâs just him, as youâve always remembered him.
âOne of these nightsâŠâ you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. Youâre laughing too hard to sing with him, âOne of these crazy old nightsâŠâ
Through giggles, you dryly comment, âExcellent starting move.â
âWhy thank you,â Dean replies.
You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Deanâs. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you canât help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:
Youâre wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Deanâs other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. âWeâre gonna find out, pretty mama,â he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, âwhat turns onnn your lightsâŠâ
He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just canât shake.
Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names youâve forgotten, itâs the one piece of him that youâve pried loose from Johnâs influence. Sam isnât looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (youâre pretty sure thatâs what itâs called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Deanâs cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.
Every other day of hunting season, Dean⊠compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but thereâs only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.
â...been searchinâ for the daughter of the devil himself,â he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism youâre both tired of living. âIâve been searchinâ for an angel in whiteâŠâ
You drop a wrist over Deanâs shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.
Itâs unfair that he feels the way he doesâand you know Dean does, heâs told you and youâve told him and itâs all been laid out beforeâand still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But itâs Dean, and having a piece of him you donât see is better than having none of him at all.
â...One of these nightssssâŠâ
The Eagles eventually seep into another bandâs song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since youâre a bunch of old people, youâll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. Thatâs how this always goes.
You pull your cheek from where youâd laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so youâre slow to assume, âWanna get back to our drinks?â
When you meet eyes, Deanâs are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burninâ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your armsâsort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.
Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs⊠neither of you wants to give it up.
âYeah. Why donât we, uh,â he clears his throat, âgrab a few sips and then head back here, huh?â
Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. âDancing is way more fun when youâre tipsy.â
Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you canât get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you mightâve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, youâd been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then youâre back out on the dance floor.
The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. Youâre at the center of his stage, and he doesnât even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.
You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but thereâs a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Policeâs Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time itâd come on the radio, heâd chased you all over Bobbyâs house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.
You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, âYou donât even know what this song is about, do you?â
Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. âCourseâ I do. Sâ about a guy whoâs so into his girl that he doesnât want to share her with anybody else.â
Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied heâs shut you up, noses your ear and sings, â...Wouldnât talk down to ya⊠I have tâ tell ya just how I feel, I wonât share you with another boyâŠâ
The mushy impression heâs doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, youâve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you donât sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer youâre allowed to be.
And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock nâ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.
âYou hate mushy music,â you tell him, even if you both know thatâs not exactly true.
Deanâs warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. Youâd seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Deanâs just here, and he wants you here too. For now, youâre his first choice for who heâs spending his time with tonight.
He doesnât take the out you gave him.
âSâ not all bad,â Dean shrugs under your hands. â...I like this song.â
Itâs Elvisâs Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. Youâre pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and thatâs exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like heâs in love with you, like itâs a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what theyâd think.
The best part of this was that Dean doesnât end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Deanâs mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, youâre halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Deanâs mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since youâre both past tipsy now, itâs unanimously decided that thereâs more work to be done.
âSâ a good night,â Dean tells you, beaming, âwe can do another round, right?â
âHell yeah,â you shrug, and raise your empty glass, âHereâs to alcohol poisoning, baby.â
âYeah,â Dean echoes, almost slurring. âBaby.â
You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. Itâs like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but youâd always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-handâthe big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinkerâs red. In the flesh. Wow.
Youâre so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where youâre going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While youâre waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.
âAlright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you betterââ
Itâs just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.
You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Samâs, then awkwardly release Deanâs beer from where itâd been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expandedâthere are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.
You stand. âDamn. Who ordered these?â
Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. âUm⊠a table in the corner sent emâ over. As a gift.â
âFree drinks? Really? That rocks,â you brighten.
Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine youâre floating on drop out from under you.
â...Deanâs over there thanking them,â he clarified.
Itâs a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you werenât a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Samâs puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Deanâs dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You shouldâve been stoked.
If you were completely sober youâd probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a âmodeling agentâ passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Deanâs sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.
âIâm sorry,â Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must lookâand wow, isnât that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. Theyâre just girls. Itâs just talking. Still, Sam tells you, âI tried to stop him.â
âSo have I,â you answer, bitterly.
The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesnât help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that youâre overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Deanâs too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because youâre not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.
Sam raises both brows. âMaybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you homeâ?â
You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Samâs question for him.
âRight,â he realizes, âI can go andââ
Youâre already shaking your head. âDonât. Letâs see how long it takes âim.â
As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes heâs engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Samâs glances. Fifteen and youâre glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isnât back, a handful of songs you know heâd kill to dance to coming and going. Past that youâre spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity thatâd been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, youâre furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know youâre drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isnât alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.
Since youâre already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Deanâs table. In the half an hour heâs been gone, heâs taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his handsârecounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesnât tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.
Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole youâd bored into the table and stare at Deanâs profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.
âŠIt looks like youâve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.
Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jimâyour fatherâhad passed that summer, speared by the same thing youâd been hunting. Sam was at school. Itâd just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you thatâd survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He shouldâve left you in Tulsa, but heâd kept you standing and fed tilâ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Deanâs warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing thatâd taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.
Youâre strong, heâd told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. Youâll get through this, easy.
Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.
Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.
Thatâs about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But youâve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knotsâuntil this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Deanâs neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.
Dean kisses back.
You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesnât take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what heâll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shutâand itâs nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you donât need it from Sam. You donât need it from anybody.
âDonât,â you warn him. âDonât. âOnly make it worse.â
âI know what heâs doing,â Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. Heâs disappointed in his brother. âDeanâsâtesting you. Seeing if youâll stick around. But youâve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I donât see why youâve gottaââ
âHeâs drunk and stupid,â you cut him off. âWe both are. Iâm gonna let it go, nâ so are you.â
Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. â...If I just talk to himââ
âFucking donât,â you tell him, and wow, youâre a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. âSorry. Sorry. Mâ not upset with you. Mâ not upset with anybody.â Pathetically, you beg, âCân we just go home?â
Sam gives you an uneasy nod. âSure thing. Iâll grab Dean and pay our tab.â
Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesnât go broke feeling bad for you.
Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, âBathroom,â and go hide there to dust off your pride.
God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the womenâs restroom still conscious. Itâs mostly empty too, so youâre free to meet your reflection without courage.
When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, youâd imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, youâd complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. Heâd joke and hum all the way homeâand what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. Youâd kiss him goodnight and Deanâs gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. Youâd sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when youâd slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Deanâs stomach would slot against your back and heâd spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldnât take my eyes off you tonight, heâd say. I never could, sweetheart. Didnât want to.
But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned heâs found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror youâd chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time youâd hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. Iâm not good for you, heâd say. Heâd remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straightâbut that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasnât the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, thereâd always been a vague idea of something âafter,â something over the horizon too far away to see.
Youâd held fast to that âafterâ for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Deanâs eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that âafter.â After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.
But this was the hundredth time youâd saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and youâd waited so, so fucking long.
Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldnât care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. MaybeâŠ
Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.
The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the womenâs restroom. Fucking hell.
âDean! What the hell are youâ?â
âMâ savinâ our party,â Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and daresâfucking daresâto power on his doe-eyes. âWhyâdâya wanna go?â He pouts. Sam mustâve told him. âSâ not even midnight yet.â
âJesus, youâre lucky sâ just me in here. Couldâve scared the pants off some poor girl,â you curse.
Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesnât fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.
âWhy on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!â
âMaybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,â Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. Heâs not steady enough to stand in place for too long.
Any other night youâd happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second heâs propped against one wall of the little hall, youâre on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so youâre not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once heâs draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. Youâre cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. Heâs only ever like this when heâs drunk.
âIf you even get scared,â he hums into your ear, amused. âYouâre sâ tough I dunno if you even can. And yâknow what? I thinkâŠâ he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, âI think youâre tough enough to get back out there with me nâ show emâ how itâs done.â
You should resist. You honestly should. But youâre drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You donât touch him or lean into it. Yet you donât squirm away, either.
At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. âCâmonnn,â he urges, âdance with me more. Party! Weâre celebratinâ. Nâ youâre such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there nâ brag âbout you. Everybody was lookinâ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?â
âI did,â you swallow. âBut I think mâ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Samâs out there waiting for usâŠâ
Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really heâs just nuzzling. âBoring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?â Dean teases. âIâll tell the kid tâ walk back without us, heâll be fine. Câmon. Iâll even say please.â
You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. âJust a lilâ while longer, _____. Yâknow I can only flirt with you when mâ like this.â
The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath youâre holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.
You squirm out of Deanâs bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know itâs not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. Câmon! Donât be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing youâd done with Dean.
You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter youâre supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Deanâs shouts.
âSweetheart, câmon,â he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Deanâs voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. âDidnât want this tâ go this way. We werâ havinâ fun, werenât we? Mâ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I didââ
You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.
Then youâre whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.
âCome on come on come onâyou know what you did! You know! You have to know!â
Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, heâs still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo youâve brushed up againstâand why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when youâre drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. Youâre so tired of carrying it. You want an out.
He drags a calloused hand down his face. â...I was just messing around, talking to them⊠dancing with her. Needlinâ you.â
âWell,â your breath rattles unprettily between words. âIâm needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does itâdoes itââ you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, ââdo you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?â
You donât get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since itâs then that Sam comes between you. âItâs okay,â he soothes, âyouâre okayâjustââ and lays your jacket over your back.
Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But youâre coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt youâve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.
âThat didnât involve you, Sam,â Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like heâs been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, â_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about thisâ!â
âŠAnd youâre thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Samâs already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, youâre sick of waiting for something thatâs never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.
Youâd been right. Something was going to change tonight.
âYou have no fucking idea how much Iâve thought about it,â you snarl. âEvery day I think about it! Every night! So, no, Iâm done thinking andâanâ watching andââ
The tank of crazed energy youâre running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so youâre forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isnât the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Samâs mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.
You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.
With no one between you, itâs clear in Deanâs eyes that thereâs another element to this for him. Heâd known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, heâd told you himself.
Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, youâll leave too. And I wonât even blame you.
Back then, youâd laid your cheek against Deanâs sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. Youâd wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Deanâs instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things heâd sacrificed and not give the same in return?
Well, youâd smiled at him, Iâm not moving an inch, cowboy. Youâre stuck with me.
Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Deanâs prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that heâd already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise youâd made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one thatâd been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.
You had to leave.
âI love you so much, Dean,â you hiccuped. âBut I canât wait for you anymore.â
You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you werenât going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Deanâs silhouette brand your memory.
Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.
He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldnât be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.
Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.
_
By the time youâve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, youâve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.
Sam, whoâs two blocks back helping Dean get home.
The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didnât work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.
Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night couldâve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, youâd stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the bedsâ gap. Goodnight, Sam. Gânight. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. Heâd smush a kiss into your temple. Night, heâd hum. Together youâd snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe youâd been overthinking this.
Youâd had so much to drink. It was you whoâd created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him⊠If he⊠wanted to kiss someone elseâŠ
Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. Itâs too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesnât say a word. He doesnât tell you heâs sorry, he doesnât pick you up off the pavement, and he doesnât tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.
These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so muchâyour parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.
You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. Youâd told him back then, youâre stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because heâd rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. Thereâd been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, heâd cupped your faceâin the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. Itâd felt so special, like a promise to hold out. Youâd savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Deanâs grin hidden in your pillow.
You could be living every night like youâd lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. Iâm not good for you, heâd say, even if youâd never had enough of him to tell.
After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didnât have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, youâd known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.
Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that itâd officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, itâd kill you. It had been killing you.
What else could you do but leave?
The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted outâaway from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldnât you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedomâfrom years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight youâd once lovedâwas only a bus ride and one boosted car away. Itâd be easy.
The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasnât who you wanted to see.
âCome on inside. Donât like you being out here by yourself,â Sam called.
The breath you let go of didnât make you any more relieved. It hadnât felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.
The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Samâs face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you werenât the only one whoâd cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.
After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue heâd swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.
â...I need to punch something,â you confessed, just to have something to say.
Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. âIâm open,â he offered, only half-joking.
You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldnât follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.
âI know you already know this, but itâs worth saying,â Sam murmured. âEverybody leaves him. Itâs all heâs used to.â (...I know, you breathed between sobs). âDean doesnât⊠hang these other girls in front of you because heâs, yâknow. Trying to play with your feelings. Heâs scared. Itâs wrong, but itâs his messed-up way of testing if youâll stick around.â
You want to listen. Samâs tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course itâs his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he canât pick up his own mess.
âIt sucks. Trust me, Iâve taken a good chunk of it myself,â Sam chuckled, but his heart wasnât really in it. âI dunno what it is that makes emâ think he deserves it, but⊠heâs so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push emâ away first.â
Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, âWell. I think it worked.â
That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.
âI-I think I,â you managed. âI think I gotta go, Sammy.â
As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isnât a light move to make. Leaving wouldnât just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, tooâit would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, youâd seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. Youâd been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought thereâd be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.
You thought of the girl youâd been when youâd first met them. Sheâd still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, thatâs what Dean was: your next grand adventure.
Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; youâd seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. Heâd find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. Heâd hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and youâd roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. Youâd mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriendâDean lives out of town, but he swears heâs gonna visit next monthâbecause even you werenât sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy youâd somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.
You would miss that. You would always miss him.
Sam tamped down his panic. âAreâare you sure?â He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. âYou donât wanna talk to Dean about thisâŠ?â
You were already shaking your head. âFor the hundredth time?â
Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like youâd earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When heâd told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, youâd respected his answer. Iâm not good for you had translated to Iâm not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassieâyou started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly âitâ that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument youâd ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.
And even if heâd had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurerâs spirit.
Sam goes still, conflicted. âThis is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But⊠but just⊠please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.â
âYou think Iâm overreacting,â you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.
âNo, no, I think youâre drunk,â Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. âAnd tired. But youâre not overreacting, ______. Deanâs done this and worse a dozen times before,â he sighed. Realizing that wasnât exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. â...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.â
Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.
You feel the need to explain, â...Me leavinâ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?â
âI know,â Sam said, thickly. âBut Iâm pretty sure itâd break my heart if you did, so I canât imagine what itâd do to him.â
At that, you couldnât resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he mightâve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, heâd probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, thereâd be times when heâd accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes heâd miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?
Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You werenât sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. Heâd always said you put yourself last too often.
You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. âIâm sorry,â you tell Sam.
Sam laid a hand on your back. âLook at me a minute.â
Somehow, you did. Seeing Samâs devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that youâll be leaving him behind. âCâmon,â he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. âLetâs walk to the gas station or somethinâ.â
You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: âI really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.â
Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. âOkay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with meâletâs take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, youâll tell me ifâi-if this is still what you want. Kay?â
âSam,â you grimaced.
âPlease,â he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. âMy treat. Câmon.â
Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but heâd also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely workâso you steeled yourself. Sam couldnât win. You had to leave.
It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Deanâs reminder: Iâm not good for you.
You hate that heâd been right.
_
Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didnât physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:
He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in⊠Springfield? Right? Yeahâtheyâd had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. Itâd taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. Sheâs been so patient with us lately, deserves somethinâ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?
Dean groaned at himselfânot only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.
He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she mustâve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.
Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever heâd been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt⊠gone out for drinks to celebrate⊠and past that things start to fuzz. There mightâa been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Deanâs fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the doorâhe shouldâve been the one to fix things.
He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. Howâd he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient youâd been with him when heâd snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasnât the first time heâd hurt your feelings being coarse, but⊠câmon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. Youâd talk it out. Youâd forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.
You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.
The second heâs up and looking at everything, heâs pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffleâs where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but itâs like everythingâs been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.
Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, thatâs where your shit would be if heâs not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second heâs moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isnât exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice⊠Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. Thereâs a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasnât seen since high schoolâsome ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.
These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years youâd borrowed so many clothes from them that youâd probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.
By junior year, the half youâd pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Deanâs half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and youâd comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them whoâd still be there when they were gone. True to form, theyâd always left and youâd always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.
A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that youâd returned everything youâd borrowed? Or was this something worse?
His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldnât find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Samâs is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isnât plugged into the wall. Your shoes arenât by the door. Even the pistol youâd duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still canât find your bag. Maybe itâs out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.
His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this earlyâSam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Deanâs full-body meltdown.
He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.
Instead, he assumes: â______âs been taken.â
Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But thatâs not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.
â...Dean,â Sam manages.
Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that youâre still here.
âShe was fucking taken, Sam,â his throat feels tight. âI woke up and all of her shit was packed up and goneâsomebody good had to do this, sâmbody who knows what the hell theyâre doing, causeâ they knew to make it look like sheâd left on her own. Mayâmaybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? Nâ thatâs how they took erâ?â
His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresserâs track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean canât see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isnât already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.
After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, âShe left a coupleâa hours ago, Dean. On her own.â
âShe wouldnât do that,â Dean snorted.
Something patted Deanâs shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didnât immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.
He shrugged, swallowing thickly. âShe said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just⊠time. Wrote you this.â
Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, youâd written Deanâs name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didnât have the strength for, right now.
It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.
After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Deanâs duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what heâs doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, âWhat else? Weâre gonna go find her.â
Sam avoids his eyes. âMaybe we shouldnât.â
Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. Heâd felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.
âYou fucking didnât,â Dean snarls. âTell me you didnât.â
Thereâs a flicker of rebellion on Samâs face, but he subdues it for Deanâs sake. He shrugs, â...She wanted to leave.â
The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Deanâs close to tears, heâs so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.
âHow could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? Sheâshe canât survive on her ownâ!â he lies to himself, ââshe needs usâand-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?â
âWhat was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!â Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, âItâs her life!â
âWith us!â Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.
âWith whoever the hell she wants! You shouldâveââ Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Deanâs face. â...I canât speak for her. Read the damn letter.â
âNo,â Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. âGet your shit and get in the fucking car. Weâre finding her. Whereâd you drop her off?â
Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Deanâs not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit heâs messed up between last night and today.
He snarls. âWhere, Sam?â
Sam still doesnât answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that heâll regret later, but, whatâs one more thing for the pile, right?
âWhat?â Dean whips on his brother. âYou give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckinâ rot?â Baring his teeth, he spits, âSheâs not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.â
The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then heâs had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:
âTrain station,â Samâs lip curls. âBut she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. Sheâs just like you nâ me, so sheâs probably two states over by nowââ
Dean slams the front door before he can finish.
-
It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus youâd taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83â Mercury Capri youâd bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured youâd head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, youâd turned West, to Tulsa.
At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. Itâs a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldnât help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters wouldâve never caught up with you.
The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Samâs moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Deanâs mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesnât want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.
But the thing was that youâd never needed time before. The only time youâd needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, youâve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. Heâd clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, Iâll never forgive myself fer hurtinâ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, youâd stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough nâ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing youâd both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing heâd feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.
Youâd never needed time before. Youâd never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.
Itâs been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.
Heâd tried. More than once, heâd steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. Iâm sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.
There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isnât really a plan at allâheâll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give âmaking things rightâ his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.
By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.
The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.
-
The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.
His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Babyâs front seat or dodge hunters whoâd ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Samâs out of resolve and Deanâs alone, he presses his face into the shirts youâd borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that donât do nothinâ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasnât cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.
Itâs like heâs lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man whoâs lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Deanâs flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.
The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean mustâve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Deanâs gun started jamming inexplicably; theyâre caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything theyâve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brotherâs caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that itâs more than luck heâs lost.
When you were stressed or feeling stuck, youâd lay out all their weapons on the bedspreadâreminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking firstâand clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. Youâd count under your breath, so versed in the steps youâd created that you didnât even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Deanâs pistol landed in the pile, youâd forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Deanâs gun never jammed if youâd been the one to clean it.
You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana wouldâve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdyâwith you at Deanâs six, he and Sam wouldâve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if thereâd been trouble⊠well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.
When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythinâ. Everythinâ goes to shit without âer.
Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that heâd betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you heâd broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldnât even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.
It was the one detail his heart couldnât stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.
Heâd heard you sob it into Samâs shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, youâd resisted, clutching Deanâs jacket in both hands and weeping instead, âIâll see you.â
Youâd never said goodbye to him.
This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like heâd done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.
He could get that goodbye from you. Itâd kill him, but Dean wasnât sure he could go on without it.
-
Five minutes into his drive to DeLanceyâs Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that heâs not even sure if youâre working tonight.
The drive was longâlong enough to swerve Deanâs confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness heâd gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago heâd been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore heâd seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home heâd never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you couldâve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.
Waking up, heâd sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.
Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. Iâm gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckinâ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckinâ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothinâ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since thatâs as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.
Along the way, Iâm gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, Iâm bringing her the fuck home.
Deanâs propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impalaâs still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but itâs nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impalaâs sitting and where you must be. DeLanceyâs is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But heâd seen you under neon beer lights so often that youâd sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Deanâs ears warm.
He thinks of that image and canât help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and thatâs what gets him across the gravel and through the door.
Either this is a hunterâs bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. Whatâs that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows thereâs only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.
Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. Thereâs a resonating shock that sizzles through Deanâs system, seeing you. Itâs the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that youâre real, that youâre someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, youâre⊠Dean swallows. Youâre still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Deanâs body, and standing there, heâs winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. Heâs getting you home.
At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.
The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesnât shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew heâd find you, youâre just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckinâ tank.
âDean,â you murmured, a greeting.
He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways heâd only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but thatâs not exactly his default.
Dean swings in, snapping, âGet outside. Iâm telling you something whether you like it or not, nâ donât think I wonât drag you if I have to.â
Your brows fly up your forehead. âWow.â
Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Deanâs making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldnât have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.
âThatâs my friend youâre talkinâ to, chisel chest. If you know whatâs good for you, Iâd get the fuck outtaâ here,â says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasnât even landed before youâre neatly cutting through him, ââmind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.â
At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy heâd rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didnât hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Deanâs sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you roundâ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.
Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Deanâs nerves crawl. He hadnât realized how loud itâd been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs heâs forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.
Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. Youâd say yes. He knew you wouldâve said yes, then.
âYou worried me sick,â is the first thing Dean manages to say. âWakinâ up, finding you goneâI thought someone had fuckinâ took you, yâknow that?â
This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.
âI know what I did. I know I donât deserve shit for it,â he chokes out, âbut you couldâve at least said goodbye tâ me! I deserved to know youâd be safe! If you couldnât⊠If I was hurtinâ you too much, and if I wasnât listeninâ, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But afterâafter beinâ with me for so, so damn long, so long I donât even remember how we met, you couldnât even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I donât even âmember the last time we fuckinâ talked to each other? Donât even get to see my best fuckinâ friend one last time?â
âNo,â you scowled. âNo, you fuckinâ donât. Because weâve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?â
Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because heâd never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. â...I guess I donât. But, um⊠I know this doesnât mean much anymore, butâŠâ He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. âYouâre right. Weâve never really been⊠just plain friends, andââ
âWeâve said I love you,â you scoffed, âWeâve kissed! Weâve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still canât even admit it to my face! Canât even say it!â
Deanâs hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, âYeah? And you wanna know why? Causeâ the second I do, the second itâs out of my mouth, youâre dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast itâll make your head spin.â
Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunterâs laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. âIâm already dead!â You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, âWeâre both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldnât you rather we use the fucking time weâve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!â
âOf course I do!â He roars. Youâre close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, âThatâs all Iâve wanted!â He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, âYouâre all Iâve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minuteâthe second they know that, Hell orâo-or whoeverâs after us now, theyâre gonna take advantage of that.â
The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like heâd done years ago.
âDonât think for one second that I donât want you,â Dean rasped. âBut Iâd rather have you livinâ than be with you dead, you get me?â
You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, âIâm sick of having this argument, Dean.â
Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldnât help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. âI know, baby girl.â
Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. âIf I go back with you,â you rattled out. âIf I go back wâ you, sittinâ with this is gonna kill me. Canât wait anymore. Canât sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have tâ go. I love you, but I gotta go.â
Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasnât a thing he wouldnât do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.
He overspills.
âI love you too,â Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. âLove you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason Iâve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worseâthe roadâs too quiet and the backseatâs always cold, like everything elseâs sick too. Sâ made me realize that IâI-I canât do this without you. Everythinâ. Livinâ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.â
âDeanââ
âLet me finish!â Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. âI know why you left. Shit, Iâd leave too if the one person I⊠if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatinâ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? Iâd kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. Iâd kill him. And Iâdââ
Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral heâs throwing himself down. âYouâre everything tâ me,â he gasped. âSo get in the damn car and just come home.â
In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLanceyâs, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Deanâs chest. Thereâs only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Deanâs eyes are only on you.
âCâmon, _____,â he pleads, one last time. Again, heâs compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. âOooh,â Dean croons, âloneliness will blind you, in between thâ wrong and thâ rightâŠâ
Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.
Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. â... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.â
Heâs not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and thereâs still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. âYeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but⊠Iâm willing to put you before anything. I shouldâve put you before anything, before.â
You nod. â...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.â
Thatâs good. Thatâs good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. Youâre coming back with him. Thatâs what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Deanâs eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or angerâand some of itâs there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. Youâre coming home.
âJust like that?â Dean asks, and he really shouldnât be grinning, not until heâs sure and youâve said it, but he canât help it.
The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you donât stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasnât screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. Youâre a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Deanâs heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket tilâ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. Youâre here and youâre alive and you donât fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.
âThis is all I wanted, D,â you hiccup. âYou never say it, nâ I-I just need to hear it, okay? Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry I did this to us.â
âYou ainât got nothinâ to apologize for,â Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.
âI was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,â you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. âToo scared,â you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. âI didnât want it to be over for real. Didnât wanna close that door forever.â
Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. âMâ glad you didnât. Iâm sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlinâ. Iâm sorry too.â
You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. âOh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makinâ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?â
Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, âPucker up, cowboy, because youâve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.â
âYeah,â Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. âSo come here, ass.â
Itâs not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Deanâs smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. Itâs a lucky thing youâre so distracted. Maybe if you werenât youâd notice how Deanâs hands are trembling, how his mouthâs watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and heâs pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.
One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Deanâs faceâhis mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. Youâve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like itâs his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. Youâre softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.
By some twist of fate, Bad Companyâs Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon youâre swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.
âI love you,â he thinks he hears you say.
Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, âCanât hear you!â
âI said,â you took in a big breath, âI LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.â
Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. Youâre almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. Itâs your home as much as itâs his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.
âHm,â you say, âMaybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why Iâm gone, yeah?â
âTheyâll survive without you,â Dean shrugs. âYou got other people who need you.â
âNeed me,â you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he couldâve sworn heâd told you that more, couldâve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.
âYeah, need you,â Dean mutters, and he doesnât mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, youâre hooked. A beat later heâs being pushed up against the driverâs door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.
In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.
âSweet pea,â he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. â...You sure you donât wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove tâ you, first.â
You draw him into a deep, lingering sirenâs kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.
âCanât wait any longer,â your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, âProve to me Iâm your favorite. That mâ the only girl youâre looking at.â
Thereâs the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.
This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and heâs grateful that heâd lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. Thereâs no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment youâre out of it heâll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths thereâs no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him itâs like nothing heâs ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what heâs about to give youâyou want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.
Knowing your famous attitude, Dean wouldâve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and heâs going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.
Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin heâs allowed. Youâre making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands heâs intent on seeing what youâll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throatâs slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long youâve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesnât even care about being fully nakedâbut you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesnât even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.
All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condomâs on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and thatâs all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.
Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. Youâve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He couldâve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But itâs all worth itâyouâve always been worth it.
He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words heâd been chanting the entire time.
-
Itâs a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Deanâs motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but itâd taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. Youâd commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas stationâs worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.
By then itâd gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impalaâs heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasnât an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Deanâs affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passengerâs seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train aâ cominâ, itâs rollinâ round the bendâŠ
Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. Heâd gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.
Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Deanâs duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bedâs gap.
âGoodnight, Sam,â you told him, wiggling your fingers.
His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.
When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.
âGânight,â Dean whispered.
Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, âGoodnight, cowboy.â
Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.
-
tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss
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(photos not mine, storyboard very much mine)
Series Summary: Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but youâre determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all heâs asking for is just one kiss? (40âČs happy ending AU)
Series Warnings: Language, excessive amount of fluff, slow burn, mutual pining
Part One - The Beginning
Part Two - A Walk Home
Part Three - Moving Day
Part Four - A Dance
Part Five - Girlsâ Night
Part Six - The Fight
Part Seven - Christmas
Part Eight - The Question
Part Nine - First Date
Part Ten - Afternoon in the Park
Part Eleven - Last Date
Part Twelve - The Goodbye
Part Thirteen - The First Letters
Part Fourteen - Broken Silence
Part Fifteen - Finale
Epilogue Pieces
Bonus Material Masterlist