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"How's it feel, doll?" Ben asks, making no effort to conceal the amusement in his voice.

"...full," you replied, your voice sounding like you were in pain. You could feel your muscles working overtime, and the way that he hoisted your feet up to plant them on the outside of his thighs only made your situation worse.

"Mmmm, 'course you do. Do you want some water before we get started?" He made every effort to make his question sound serious, getting through it with only one snort at the end.

You shook your head, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing your wrecked voice. Your bladder was feeling fuller by the minute, and his huge palm was creeping over your hip to rest, press, on your belly. Every time he shifted you could feel his pelvis grind up against the plug, the inside and outside pressure equally violating.

With each press of his hand you could feel yourself clench more, the wide metal plug painfully unyielding. You felt like you were going to bruise yourself your muscles were wound so tight, and you felt yourself fighting to decide if it is better to take a little bit more of ben's torment at the expense of your ass or if you could try to relax your core muscles a bit and pray that you didn't leak.

Suddenly, ben took his hand off your belly. You sighed in relief, the lack of relentless pressure feeling like a gift. Before you could relax, even finish your deep breath, a straw was prodding at your lips. Your eyes went wide, wildly looking back to try to catch a glimpse of ben.

"Just drink." His voice was low in your ear, and left no room for argument.

As slowly as you could get away with you wrapped your lips around the straw, taking a few small sips to try to appease him.

"No you gotta finish this, doll. Quicker the better, come on."

You sucked the water down as quickly as your body allowed. It felt like you had to manually flip the switches in your brain for suck and swallow, your body refusing to lead you further into this situation. When the straw slurped against the dregs of water in the glass he put it back on the table, tapping your inner thigh in a way that he probably meant to be comfortable, reassuring, but all it did was jostle your precarious situation. A whine escaped you, and you fought to hold on despite the split-second of interruption.

"Well fuck if you aren't about to burst," ben teased, his hand taking up it's post against your stomach, that familiar, terrible, pressure coming back. "Ass stuffed nice and full," he said, rolling his hips to drive his point home, "and a belly full of piss. What a lucky girl." The deeper the plug went the more you could feel it against your bladder, and you knew your situation was miserable when you wished it was his cock instead so he could just fuck it out of you. The holding, the waiting, was only making you miserable and anxious.

"Ben," you whined. "I don't know what to do." The admission made a few tears fall from your eyes, your voice getting thick in your throat.

"Aww, you don't know what to do? Too stupid to even figure out what that tight feeling in your tummy is telling you?" He pressed firmer against your stomach, and realization set in. He just wants you to piss on his lap, crying, with an ass full of metal.

"Just.. right here?" you sniffled, wanting to confirm now instead of getting spanked about it later.

"Right here, sweetheart."

The warmth in his voice would almost make you think this was a sweet moment, but the painful clench around the plug and cool air against your cunt kept you from slipping into that fantasy.

His hand sank deeper into your stomach, and after a little 'I can't' your body gave out. Your bladder was getting bullied from both sides, ben's hand getting greedy with pressure. You were utterly defiling the floor, and your face felt ready to catch fire. Now that he had you where he wanted you, he didn't have to play nice.

"Soakin' the floor like an untrained puppy. You know, I thought you were at least gonna beg to cum first, but I guess you don't even have enough self respect for that."

The humiliation turned your stomach, and every rebuttal that crossed your mind drifted away before you could get a handle on it. It was hard to focus when the relief felt so good, and his hips rocked against your ass to keep the plug from getting too comfortable.

"If I was a really mean dad I'd make you lick this all up."

The words shocked you enough for your pelvic floor to contract, and the momentary drop in liquid was more than enough material to work with.

"Bet you'd like that, huh? Think it's worth it to make me take it easy on you?"

"No thank you, daddy."

"Aww, my little piss girl is so polite. Won't make you do it tonight then."

Your teeth started chattering while you thanked him, your body feeling totally wrung out as it emptied itself.

Ben kept a firm pressure on your belly, trying to draw this out as long as possible and squeeze out every bit.

When you finally feel empty, the relief is tempered by how much bigger the plug feels. Before you had a more pressing matter to distract yourself with, but the lone sensation only made it feel more dialed up.

"Up you go," ben instructed, patting your ass.

Like a newborn foal you shifted your weight onto your feet, your spirit too broken down to complain about the wetness beneath them.

"And bend over."

You clutched your arms around your chest as you levered your body. Your knees felt like they were about to collapse, and the bend of your hips jostled the plug in a way that really did not feel comfortable.

"Pull yourself apart for me, doll."

Ben's fingers hooked around the base in a snakebite motion, the flat between his index and middle finger nestling under either side. Ruthlessly, he pulled it out in one go, groaning at the aftermath. You were already stretched out enough for it to not be painful, but it was a deeply uncomfortable feeling. You felt stretched and sore and empty, and the feeling of the rapidly contracting muscles almost made you want him to put it back in.

"Poor little baby," ben mocked, ghosting his knuckle along your slit. "Ass gaped enough to fit a baseball and standing in a puddle of piss and she's still needy."

By the time the glowing sign of the motel came into view, you were barely conscious. Before the engine had even died, he was already lifting you as gently and quickly as he could. 

The mattress softened beneath you as he laid you down, his hands cradling your bruised and bloodstained face. The look in his eyes—that worry, that love—was enough to pull you back. He hesitated for only a second before rushing around the motel room, grabbing whatever he could. He yanked open the first-aid kit, gauze spilling onto the floor.

He crouched down and peeled your blood-soaked shirt up, exposing the wound on the side of your stomach. A tiny whimper left you when the cool air hit the wound. It was a deep slash that could barely be seen through all the blood. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. 

You opened your eyes to look at him. He was damp. Sweat and blood caked in his hair and smeared on his face. His gaze was tender, but so much worry sat behind it. His hand moved to your wound, gently pressing a towel against it. You held back the scream your throat wanted to let out. 

“Get ready,” he murmured, giving you a moment before pressing harder against your stomach. A broken cry left your lips, followed by a ragged breath. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he panted, eyes darting to your face immediately. Slow blinks. Tiny breaths. “Talk to me,” he pleaded through his teeth.

“I…like…your shirt.” 

A broken laugh left him. “Yeah?” He leaned over you, looking at your frail face. “You pick now to flirt with me?” 

“Yeah…” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut. 

“No.” 

His voice cracked as his hand left your side to cup your face. “Keep talking, baby. C’mon.” You hummed, forcing your heavy eyes open and gathering the strength to speak. 

“I don’t…” You drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t have insurance.” 

Another broken laugh escaped him. “On the house.” 

Your face twisted with pain, and every part of him was screaming to pull you into his arms and apologize until his throat gave out. But instead, his trembling hands returned to your wound, carefully pressing fresh gauze against it—doing everything he could to stop the blood and keep you alive. 

After the gauze was soaked in blood, he knelt to assess the wound, trying to see how deep it was. His breath caught. It was still deep, but not nearly as bad as he’d imagined. He let out a slow breath before hurrying to the sink, grabbing water to clean the area. He was back at your side almost instantly, carefully washing away the blood until the wound came into view. His big hands worked slowly, as tenderly as they could, so he wouldn’t cause you more pain.

He tore through the med-kit again until he found the wound closures. The slash definitely needed stitches, but these would have to do. He peeled a few from the package before looking back up at you. 

“Alright, baby.” He held one up between his fingers. “I gotta pull the cut together.” 

You nodded weakly as he pressed the adhesive strips into place. 

“This is gonna hurt.” His fingers settled on the first strip. “Breathe for me.”

A choked cry tore from your throat, back arching off the mattress before you could stop it. His eyes pinched shut, and his jaw tightened, like he felt it too. “I know,” he said immediately. “I know, baby.” 

He hesitated, fingers refusing to move to the next strip. When he looked at you, you were still trying to catch your breath. 

“Do it, Dean,” you whispered. 

He nodded once and tightened the second strip. You sucked in a sharp breath, knuckles turning white against the sheet. Before either of you could overthink it, he pulled the last one closed. Once the wound was finally together, he carefully laid a thick gauze pad over it. 

“You’re a cute…doctor, doctor.” 

He ripped a piece of medical tape with his teeth, raising his eyebrows at you. “Doctor, huh?” 

You hummed, looking at him through heavy eyes. “You’re bloody.” 

“Yeah, well…” a small, broken smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re one to talk.” 

You hummed again, letting your eyes drift over him one more time. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The motel room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft tear of medical tape between his fingers. You could feel his hand on your side, staying there long after the pad was secured.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?” 

“Am I okay?”

His eyes dropped to your stomach before slowly finding yours again. The hesitation was small, but you caught it. “I think so, sweetheart.” 

“Okay,” you whispered, letting your eyes flutter shut again. 

His expression changed immediately. “No.” His hand tightened against your side. “Flirt with me more.” 

“M’tired, D…” Your voice faded, barely more than a whisper. 

“I know, baby.” Every part of him wanted to let you rest, but the other part needed your eyes open and looking at him. Looking at him like you always do. Steady. Quiet. 

“I know. Just…give me a little longer, okay?” He leaned over you, hoping the sight of him would keep your eyes open. “Tell me something stupid,” he whispered. “Anything.” 

“You’re really pretty.” 

For a second, he forgot how to breathe. 

“Pretty?” he repeated softly, like the word didn’t belong to him. 

You nodded, clearing your dry throat. “Yeah.” 

You were exhausted. Frail. Bloody. And somehow, you were still smiling at him. You lifted your hand, fingers weakly reaching up to tussle his hair.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he chuckled. 

“Saying goodnight,” you mumbled, giving him one last smile before your eyes slipped shut. His entire face dropped. The panic came rushing back. He couldn’t do anything but watch as your breathing slowed, counting every rise and fall of your chest until he was sure you were still there. He waited a few minutes before carefully moving you into a more comfortable position on the bed and pulling a blanket over you. 

He tried to keep busy. He cleaned up the mess on the floor and threw away the bloodied supplies—anything to keep his hands busy. Eventually, he grabbed a chair and placed it beside the bed. He sat there for a while in silence until he couldn’t keep himself grounded.

“Bobby,” he said, voice tight, eyes still on you. “She got hurt. Bad hunt.” He swallowed, staring at your sleeping face with his phone pressed to his ear. He was sitting there hunched over, elbows digging into his thighs. “I patched her up, but—” His voice caught, and he looked away for a second. “Bobby, I hope I did enough.” 

His eyes dropped to the floor, foot tapping the carpet softly. “No, she’s sleeping.” He rushed the words out. “She’s sleeping. She was talking. She was joking with me. She—“ 

He stopped, letting out a breath. 

He listened for a minute, eyes fixed on you. Then his voice came out quieter. “I thought she was going to die before…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Before I could tell her.” 

“No, I know.” His jaw tightened. “But I was scared, Bobby.” 

He looked down at his hands, still stained with layers of blood. “I thought I was gonna lose her.” He went quiet, listening to Bobby on the other end for a couple of minutes. Then a small sound left you, and his head snapped up immediately. “Hang on.” 

Then you shifted beneath the blanket, slowly turning onto your back.

“Bobby, I gotta go.” His eyes stayed locked on you. “Think she needs me.”

For the next hour, he watched. He memorized your breathing patterns, he counted every time you twitched, and replayed the events of the night until they blurred together. He was tired, but he’d never admit it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed beside you. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He had to be here when you woke up. 

His head rested against the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

Then he heard you.

“Dean?” 

He moved so fast it almost hurt. He was on his knees beside the bed in seconds, right next to your face. “Hey,” he said softly. He watched you swallow, catching the dryness in your throat. Before you could even ask, he was already reaching for a glass of water. 

Your eyes drifted to the chair next to the bed. “How long was I out?” you choked out, watching him cross the room to you. 

“About an hour.” 

You nodded, slowly pushing yourself up onto your elbow. 

“Careful, sweetheart.” 

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice dry as you reached for the glass. You drained it in one long drink before gathering yourself to sit on the edge of the bed. 

His brows pinched together as he stepped toward you, ready to catch you if you fell. “What are you doing?” 

“I am showering. Feel icky.”

“No.” 

“No?” you repeated with a small smile, slowly easing yourself off the bed. Your face pinched with pain for a second before relaxing again. 

“I’m coming in.” 

“I’ll be okay, Dean.” 

“Not asking.” 

He walked behind you as you made your way to the bathroom, his hand hovering behind your back. The bathroom was cramped. You held onto the sink, looking at him through the mirror as he turned on the shower. The back of his shirt was stained with blood, not like the front, but enough to show tonight’s events. He turned around, and you went right to him, pulling him into a hug. He held you gently, careful not to hurt you, but he couldn’t shake how tightly you were holding onto him.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled against him. All he could do was hum, not fully believing you after everything that happened. You started to pull back, but he didn’t let go right away. He couldn’t. He held you for just a little longer before finally forcing himself to release you. His eyes were heavy, and you kissed his cheek gently, letting it linger before moving away to undress yourself. 

He lowered the toilet lid and sat down, watching as you moved carefully. When you tried to bend down to take off your shoes, your wound pulled painfully, stopping you. He immediately patted his thigh, silently offering to do it for you. It was quiet aside from the sound of your shoes hitting the tile. Your fingers moved to the waistband of your bottoms, moving slowly so your wound didn’t get agitated. He watched, waiting for any sign you needed him. 

“Got a dollar?” 

“What?” 

“For the striptease.” 

He sighed, trying to hide the smile he wanted to give you. Your fingers moved to your shirt, already half off. The stretching instantly caused you to wince, and he immediately stood to help. He threw it in the sink, and without asking, undid your bra and laid it on the counter. Your eyes met his in the mirror. He looked wrecked. 

His hands settled gently at your hips, hooking beneath the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t say anything, just pulled them down and let them fall to the floor. 

“Go shower,” he mumbled. 

He moved back to the lid as you stepped inside the shower. The warmth cradled you as he sat there deep in thought. You tried to go about your normal shower routine, but the second a wince left you, he opened the curtain and stuck his head in. 

“You okay?” 

“Yes, pretty boy.” 

He nodded once, moving back to stare at the ceiling. His mind wandered right back to the hunt—the blood, your voice calling his name, and how he thought he lost you. His heart kept climbing into his throat every time he didn’t hear you move. You were only in there for a few minutes, but it felt like an hour. 

His head lifted to the curtain when you stepped out, dripping wet. The shower was still running behind you as you grabbed a towel, flipping your hair forward to twist the towel around it. He forced his eyes anywhere but your body, settling on the floor instead. You wrapped another towel around yourself before stepping closer. His breath caught when your hands cupped his face, lifting his gaze as you scanned the cuts on his face. 

“You’re hurt, D.” 

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

You gave him a look, sighing softly. “The water’s hot.” 

“I don’t need—” 

“No.” You cut him off, and for once, he didn’t argue. He stood, stretching slightly before pulling his shirt over his head. Your eyes scanned his chest, then his stomach. There were a few small cuts, but nothing that worried you—his face and hands needed the most attention. He bent down, undoing his shoes quickly before moving to his belt. His eyes lifted to yours as his fingers worked the buckle loose. 

You gave him one last look before stepping out of the bathroom. He watched you for a second before dropping his jeans and boxers. The steam filled the air as he stepped into the shower, and you went about your normal after-shower routine. You gathered a fresh shirt and boxers for him, placing them on the sink as he stood under the water. He still hadn’t let himself breathe; he was still tense even if his body was starting to calm from the warmth.

He took a fast shower, trying desperately to get back to you. You were sitting on the second bed, damp hair and the med kit next to you. For the first time tonight, you had a moment to actually process everything, but your mind just kept settling on Dean. All you wanted to do was hold him and make sure he was alright. 

He stepped out of the shower, and his eyes darted to the pile of fresh clothes on the sink. A tiny sigh left him; he didn’t know why it meant so much. He ran the towel through his hair as he walked into the room, looking for you immediately. He tossed the towel and sat next to you on the bed. 

The motel room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint sounds of people outside. You looked at him, taking in every piece of him that was still there. And he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. He never enjoyed the smell of your lotion more than he does right now. Your eyes dropped to his hands. His knuckles were swollen, scraped raw, and already bruising. 

“Should ice your hands.” 

“Too late,” he sighed, looking down at them. “Kept going after he was gone.” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “Didn’t even realize I’d gone through him and was hitting the pavement.” 

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. Not because of what he’d done. But because you knew why. You didn’t even remember that happening, even if you were lying on the ground next to it all. You brushed your thumb over his bruised knuckles. For a second, he looked like he wanted to lean into you, like he was trying to fight the urge to rest his head on your shoulder. 

“Don’t think my face is that bad,” he muttered.

“Let me play doctor for a minute,” you sighed. “You got to.” 

A tiny smile came across his face, and you went to open the med kit. He only had a few cuts, nothing serious, but you still wanted to patch them up. You shifted closer, tending to the wound you could reach on his temple. But then you stretched a little farther, trying to tend to the other side of his face. Your brows pinched as you pulled on your wound a little, and he noticed. 

Of course he noticed. 

A small sigh left him, and before you could protest, his hands settled at your waist, softly, since he could feel the gauze pad underneath your shirt. 

“C’mere, baby,” he mumbled, lifting you onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world—like it didn’t make his heart race to feel your weight on his lap. His voice was deep with exhaustion, and it nearly made you crumble. You gazed down at him, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. He looked back at you, tired and bruised. “Can you reach now?” 

You nodded, already moving to address the two cuts on that side of his face. He didn’t look away. He just watched you. Watched the concentration on your face, the careful way your fingers moved, and the way you treated every little injury like it mattered. When you finished, you gently pushed his damp hair back from his forehead so it wouldn’t ruin the bandage. And without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you. Not tight. Not the way he wanted to. He could feel where you were still hurt, and the last thing he wanted was to make you ache more. 

So he just held you, his head pressed against your chest. You dropped your cheek against his hair as your hand moved to the back of his head. He breathed you in, closing his eyes softly for the first time all night. He froze when he felt you lift your head, thinking you wanted to pull away. But instead, your lips pressed against his forehead. Once, over a bandage. And then, back to his forehead. A quiet hum left him, his arms tightening just slightly around you before he remembered and eased up.

“You should sleep, D.” 

“Don’t want to,” he mumbled against you. 

A soft smile sat on your face. “Yes, you do.” 

“Can’t let you go,” he whispered, and your hand slowed against his hair. 

“Baby,” you said softly, and he hummed again. “Come lay with me. You don’t have to sleep, but just please…lay down.” 

He lifted his head slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. One hand left your back and moved to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

“Come on,” you said softly, carefully moving off of him. You held your hand out even if the walk to lie down was practically non-existent, but he grabbed it anyway. He rolled into the bed so he was on the right side, knowing you couldn’t lie on yours. He settled against the pillow as you crawled in next to him, resting on him. The room went quiet, and very quickly his breathing started to change. Slower. Deeper. You looked up at him to find his eyes already closed. For the first time all night, he finally gave in and let himself be. You stretched ever so slightly toward the nightstand, flicking off the light before settling deeper next to him to sleep. 

Shortly after sunrise, you woke up on your back with him flopped over on you. He was snoring softly in your neck, lips vibrating gently against your skin. His weight was heavy and warm, and for a moment you sat in it. You didn’t want to wake him, so inch by inch you slithered out to the bathroom. But by the time your toothbrush was in your mouth, he was standing in the doorway. Hair messy. Eyes barely open. 

“You okay?” he asked through a yawn.

“Yeah, D, go back to bed,” you mumbled under the toothbrush. 

“No.” You tilted your head at him. There was something vulnerable about the way he stood there. “Come back,” he said softly, almost like he couldn’t admit it. 

You rushed through brushing your teeth, and he waited the entire time, watching you with sleepy eyes. The second you finished, he took your hand and led you back to the bed. He rolled back into the sheets, still holding you as you settled beside him. Then, without fail, his arm wrapped around you again, and his face was tucked in your neck. Your hand moved slowly along his back, trying to ease him back to sleep. But he didn’t. He just shifted closer. 

His nose brushed along your jaw before his lips pressed softly against your skin. You tried to steady your breath, not because you didn’t want it, but because he was awake enough to know exactly what he was doing. 

His kisses grew slower, lingering as they moved over your face and along your neck. But then he found your sweet spot, kissing you long enough that a tiny moan left your lips. You felt him smile against your skin, kissing you there again. Then, his tongue slipped out, making you gasp. 

“Dean.” 

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured, amusement in his voice. His hand came up to hold your face, and you melted into it, giving him more room. Another moan. 

Then he shifted, moving up to look at you. You both held each other’s tired gaze, but through it, he could see everything—the girl he thought he was going to lose, the girl he’d loved for a while, and the girl he couldn’t imagine letting go of. He didn’t even have time to think before your hands grabbed his face and pulled him to your lips. 

The kiss was long and slow. Neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away. And for a moment, there was nothing but that kiss. That devilishly deep kiss that neither of you could take credit for because it was so evenly done. Everything about last night seemed to have made sense, like it was what you both needed to realize. 

You both rolled onto your sides, closer now, frantic now. His hand lifted your thigh onto him as yours tugged at his hair. Sunlight was beginning to fill the room, and when you felt how hard he was, a moan slipped into his mouth. He pulled you even closer so you could feel all of it—he wanted you to feel it twitch in his boxers. 

His hand left your thigh and moved slowly against your underwear. He could feel your wetness growing as he ran his knuckle up and down, which gained a whimper from you. His lips moved into a smirk, breaking the kiss before you pulled him right back. You were hungry. And he loved that. He kept teasing you, running his knuckle up and down and pressing softly into you. He could feel you shifting your hips toward him, pleading for more of his touch. 

And because he loves you, because he loves every second of this, he pushed himself up on his elbow to pull down your underwear. His fingers curled around the band before he leaned down to give your hip a big wet kiss. He could feel you pulling up his sleeve so you could kiss his bicep, which made him smile against you. He let you kiss him until he couldn’t take it anymore, moving back fast. He looked at you with furrowed brows before kissing you again, fingers moving to your wetness to play with you. 

He was devouring your whimpers, playing with you so slowly that your hips wouldn’t ease off of him. But then he slipped two fingers inside you, making you gasp in his mouth. 

“Fuck baby,” he breathed, feeling you soak his fingers. “You’re soaked.” 

You whined at his words, and he started moving slowly inside you—like it would be a disservice to not learn what you feel like inside. Your mouth was parted against his jawline, moans pouring out as he kept going. He watched your face, how you were crumbling beneath his fingers. He started picking up the pace, and you got louder. 

“Yeah,” he grinned, and you hated him for that. 

“Dean.” 

“What sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Don’t stop,” you choked out. “Please.” 

He thought about making you beg. God, he wanted to hear that, but at the same time, he wanted to give you everything and more. He went faster, deeper. But then your hand trailed down his stomach and slipped into his boxers. He let out a low groan when he felt you grab his cock, the one that had been throbbing painfully. He’d never been this wrecked from whimpers, whines, and moans before. 

You held him for a second before coming out and tugging at his boxers to let his cock out. His eyes stayed on you as you spat in the palm of your hand. His fingers weakened inside of you when you started twisting and pumping his head. He threw his head back against the pillow at the feeling, moaning your name through a broken breath. Spit was pooling at the base as you moved your hand up and down. He was moaning deeply, and almost forgot to breathe once your lips met his neck. He let this go on for a few minutes before he rolled you over because he couldn’t bear not being inside you anymore. 

“Need to fuck you so bad,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you one more time. He looked down at your stomach, hoping this wouldn’t hurt you. You caught it instantly, fingertips running up and down his forearms. 

“I don’t care, D.” The tiniest bit of concern spilled onto his face. “I need your cock.” You paused, shifting so you were flat against the mattress. “Need you to fuck me. Please, baby, please.” 

“Fuck,” he muttered, throbbing at your pleas and the pout that sat on your face. “Just tell me.” 

“I know.” 

The sun had fully taken over the room as he held his thick cock in front of your dripping pussy. He shifted toward you, dragging his head up and down your opening. His eyes were down, watching it the entire time, like he was waiting for the right second to push into you. You kept your focus on the sensation of him sliding up and down, the ache in your pussy deepening with every slow pass until he had you withering beneath him. 

“You want it, baby?” he smiled, sliding even slower. 

“Want it so bad, Dean.” Your voice was quiet, breathy, almost. “Stop teasing and fuck me.” You pouted, reaching out to touch his stomach. 

A hum left his throat, and he pushed slightly inside you. “You’re so cute…need my cock that much, huh?” Before you could even reply, he slipped inside you, getting a loud moan from you. The feeling of you wrapped around him in all your dripping glory completely ruined his original idea of fucking you slowly. He didn’t want to waste any time. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to give you every inch of him and hear every sound that fell off your tongue. 

And he got it. 

Messy moans and cries filled the air as he drove his cock in and out. His own moans began mixing with yours, low, rugged, and sexy. And he was caught on the way your pussy sounded, how sopping wet you were with him buried deep inside you. 

“Ah, fuck, sweetheart,” he said through a pant, grabbing your thighs and pounding even more. 

“I’m yours,” you moaned, the words strong in your throat. “You know I’m yours.” 

He slowed down almost to a stop and looked at you, his cock twitching softly inside. The words hung in the air, and he swallowed them down, letting them settle deep in his chest. 

“Baby, I’m yours,” you repeated, wrapping your fingers around his forearm. 

He leaned down, grabbed your face in his hands, and met your mouth. His hips picked back up, but this time, there was a different rhythm to it. A slower, more deliberate pace. Your foreheads were pressed together, eyes fully stuck on each other. 

“Mine. Fuck—“ He breathed against your mouth. “You’re mine.”

“Not going anywhere, Dean,” you choked out, moans melting with your words. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling you even closer like he could press your words into his chest. 

His pace stayed slow and deliberate, but he was deep. So deep you knew you’d feel him for days after. He couldn’t focus on anything but your sounds and your growing wetness around him. The sounds of your wetness and moans were sending him to the edge. He moved his fingers down to your sweet spot, rubbing softly because he couldn’t bear the idea of you not having an orgasm—he was determined for you to come on his cock. 

And a few more thrusts and rubs, he got you close. He didn’t want to ruin it for you. God, he’d hate himself if he did. You could tell he was near, so you lowered your sounds until your orgasm hit. He kept his pace with both his fingers and his cock, not letting you miss any ounce of pleasure. Your moans filled the motel room, his name slipping through your cries. 

He knew he was done after that.

“Come for me, baby,” you whined, wrapping your arms around him so he stayed close. He let out a low groan and kept pounding, feeling every bit of warmth and plushness you had to offer him. “Dean, gimme it.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moaned loudly, your words opening a floodgate of pleasure. 

Another deep moan left him when you squeezed around him, adding a little extra pleasure for him when he hit the peak. His sounds were heavenly, rumbling through you like they were meant to live inside of you. He took longer to come down than normal, his orgasm hitting harder than it had in a while—like he was saving it just for you. 

He rolled off next to you, not wanting to squish your wound that came out of this unscathed. Pants filled the morning air, the smell of sex mixing with the scent of coffee outside. Without hesitation, he pulled you close, looking at you for a moment before kissing you slowly. 

After a couple of minutes, he mumbled against you. 

“Breakfast, baby?” 

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