❝ 𝐨𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠... ❞

The next morning you overslept by ten minutes. Not enough to be a disaster, but enough that everything felt slightly off-kilter. Your coffee was a little too hot, the subway a little more crowded and your heartbeat a little too fast as you squeezed into the elevator with a dozen other Vought employees pretending they weren’t hungover, overworked, or both.

You’d grabbed clothes on autopilot. Another pencil skirt from the small rotation in your closet. Dark gray, this one. A simple white blouse you’d ironed on Sunday. The only heels you owned. They were black and not very high. They made you just tall enough to see over some people’s shoulders but not tall enough to twist an ankle.

It wasn’t until the elevator to the “museum” floors hummed up past eighty that you realized the skirt didn’t fit quite the way you remembered. You shifted your weight, the fabric pulling snug across your thighs. Had it always done that? Maybe you’d shrunk it in the wash. Or maybe you’d just never worn it with this blouse, the combination making the cut feel… different. More fitted. More… there.

You glanced at your reflection in the brushed steel. The heels changed your posture, tilting your hips, arching your back just a bit. The blouse, buttoned to a perfectly reasonable place, still seemed… bright. The white stood out against your skin and the dark skirt in a way your usual soft colors didn’t.

“It’s fine”, you murmured under your breath. “It’s work clothes. Nobody cares”.

The elevator chimed and you stepped out into the quiet hallway. You checked the time on your phone. 8:01. Caldwell had wanted “a quick morning touchpoint” before he had to talk to Legal at nine. The networks were circling the exclusive like sharks; you needed to know what you could actually promise before they smelled blood. You took a slow breath, adjusted the grip on your tablet, and walked to 87-C. The camera eye beside the door tracked your movement. You lifted your hand and knocked. You weren’t expecting it to actually do anything. You knew he was a supe. Enhanced strength, durability, blah blah blah. You’d seen the footage of him throwing trucks like toys. He also could probably hear your heartbeat from the other side of the door.

Locks thunked and your stomach dropped. The door swung inward and everything in your brain just… shorted out.

He was naked.

Not in underwear, not a towel. Nothing. Just skin and scars and a lot of muscle and absolutely zero fabric.

You registered broad shoulders, chest hair, the line of an old jagged scar sweeping across one rib, and then your survival instincts finally kicked in and you yanked your gaze up so hard your neck popped, staring somewhere in the vague area of his collarbone.

“Jesus Christ”, he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something else. “It’s eight in the fucking morning”. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils a little too blown for the time of day. He blinked at the hallway light.

You, meanwhile, were fairly sure you had forgotten how to exist. “I—I’m so sorry”, you stammered, every word tripping over the next. “I didn’t—I thought— I mean, Caldwell wanted me to—”. You could hear yourself babbling and couldn’t stop. Heat tore up your face so fast your ears burned. You tried to angle your body so your tablet was as much of a shield as possible, even though you weren’t the one missing clothes.

He squinted at you, then down the empty hallway, then back at you again. His gaze dropped for a second, taking in the pencil skirt, the white blouse and the heels. A slow, crooked grin curled his mouth. “Well, shit”, he said. “If I’d known you were bringing the church picnic outfit, I’d have put pants on”.

Your brain, unhelpfully, supplied a vivid image of him doing exactly that. You strangled it with extreme prejudice. “I should’ve— I’m early”, you blurted. “I can come back later. It’s fine. You should, um, sleep. Or… not—”.

He made a low sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a groan. He wasn’t even trying to cover himself. Just leaning one arm on the doorframe like a guy on a porch in the suburbs, except for the part where there was absolutely nothing between his skin and the air.

You stared pointedly over his shoulder where a light fixture hummed faintly.

“You knock that soft”, he said, “you’re lucky I hear you at all. Half the chicks Vought sends up here would’ve been banging on the door with a shoe and wet lips by now”.

You made a strangled noise that was supposed to be some kind of polite laugh and came out like your soul trying to escape.

“Cute shoes, by the way”, he added, voice dipping. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘fuck-me heels’ type”.

“They’re not—”. You bit down on the rest mortified. “They’re just… shoes”.

“Yeah”. You could hear the smirk in his tone. “Sure they are”.

He sniffed once, sharp, and wiped under his nose with the back of his wrist. Not the frantic, jittery motion you’d seen yesterday. Just… casual. Maintained. The kind of adjustment that said whatever he’d done last night was still humming in his system.

“Are you high?”, you heard yourself ask before your brain could slap a hand over your own mouth.

His eyebrow arched. “You always this fucking forward before breakfast, doll?”.

“I just… we have a lot to go over today, and if you’re—”. “I’m fine”, he cut in. “Takes more than a little pick-me-up to knock me on my fucking ass”. You believed that. That was the problem.

He shifted his weight, the movement making you flinch automatically even though he hadn’t come any closer. Some part of you expected the door to slam in your face, or for him to bark at you to get lost. Instead he sighed, long-suffering, like you were a raincloud that had followed him home. “You gonna stand out there blushing ’til noon”, he asked, “or you gonna come in so I can put on some damn pants before security thinks I’m assaulting you?”.

You startled. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Um. Right”. You shuffled inside sideways, eyes glued to the floor. The suite smelled like stale beer, something stronger under it, and his cologne. The curtains were mostly shut. The TV was off this time, but the coffee table was still a mess.

He shut the door with a heavy thunk. You zeroed in on the nearest wall and tried very hard to think about nothing at all. “Relax”, he said again, like that was something people could do on command. “I’m not gonna flash you on purpose”.

You had the wild urge to ask if this counted as on purpose, but your tongue was currently attempting to tie itself into a noose. You heard him pad away across the carpet but you kept your eyes on the wall, tracing the pattern in the wallpaper like it was suddenly fascinating. A drawer slid open. Something soft flopped. Fabric rustled. He cursed under his breath something about laundry and Vought and “you’d think America’s First Hero would get a damn hamper”.

You risked a glance back. He had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and now scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “See?”, he said, dropping onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “PG-13 again. You can stop looking like you’re about to pass out”.

You were still blushing so hard your whole body felt overheated. You adjusted your grip on the tablet with fingers shaking just enough to make the screen wobble. “I wasn’t— I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”, you said, which was insane, given the circumstances.

He stared at you for a beat, then cackled. “Sweetheart”, he said, “if I was uncomfortable being naked, this fucking company would’ve gone bankrupt in ’84”.

You made another helpless little noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.

He took you in again, head tilted slightly. Your hair was pulled back neatly, but a piece was already slipping out to curl by your cheek. “Caldwell make you dress up?”, he asked.

You frowned, thrown by the question. “This is… how I always dress”.

“Yeah?”. His gaze lingered on the line where your blouse tucked into your waistband. “How’s that working out for you?”.

You weren’t sure what he meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to ask. Instead you clung to the one thing that made sense. “We have an update on the interview”. you said, your voice snapping back into professional mode with almost audible whiplash. “Three networks responded. One’s willing to agree to your conditions”.

-

An hour later, you were back at his door with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing again. The coffee cup tray shook faintly in your hands when you pressed your badge to the panel. The light blinked green and you knocked a little louder this time. Still soft by normal standards, but practically a shout compared to earlier.

“Yeah”, his voice came muffled from inside. “Door’s open”.

You eased it inward with your shoulder, careful not to tilt the tray. The suite smelled different now. Steam and soap had cut through the stale beer and old cologne, leaving everything warm and damp. The bathroom door was open, light spilling out, and that’s where you found him. He stood in front of the mirror with a towel slung around his hips, one hand braced on the sink, the other holding a buzzing trimmer to his jaw. Water still clung to his shoulders, rolling down over muscle and old scars. His hair was wet, pushed back off his face. He looked… almost cleaned up.

Your body seized up in the doorway like someone had unplugged you. “Oh”, you said, brilliant as ever.

He met your gaze in the mirror, eyes flicking from your face to the coffees and back. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You ever knock like you mean it”, he said, “you might actually surprise me, doll”.

“I did knock”, you protested weakly.

“Uh-huh”. He turned his head a fraction, checking the line of his beard. “You´re lucky I´m a supe. I hear a fucking mouse fart three floors down. Your little tap-tap-tap’s not exactly waking the dead. Remember that for your life”.

Your cheeks warmed. You edged farther into the room, trying to keep your eyes on the back of his head and not on the broad expanse of bare back in front of you. “I brought your coffee”, you said. “Black. No sugar, no cream. Double shot”.

He turned off the trimmer with a click and set it down on the counter. “You remember that”, he said, almost to himself, like he was testing the words out.

You swallowed. “You… said it yesterday. ‘Anything in it and you’ll throw that fucking gay ass drizzle shit at the wall’”.

“Sounds like me”. He reached for a hand towel, scrubbing it over his jaw to get rid of stray hairs. “Most people hear that and bring me some bullshit oat milk anyway. ‘For your heart, Soldier Boy’”.

His gaze dropped briefly, taking in how the pencil skirt hugged your hips when you leaned forward the tiniest bit. The heels made you just tall enough that your head would fit neatly under his chin if he stood behind you. You straightened so fast your spine twinged.

“Which one’s mine?”, he asked.

You pointed. “Left. The other’s for Caldwell. He’s in a meeting with Legal in twenty minutes. I’m supposed to bring him caffeine so he doesn’t have a stroke when I tell him you picked NCN”.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel hitched carelessly with one hand, and reached for the cup you’d indicated. You had to tip the tray toward him and his fingers brushed yours as he closed them around the cardboard. You snatched your hand back like you’d touched a hot stove.

“Easy”, he said amused. “I don’t bite”.

You remembered him saying that yesterday. It had felt like a threat then. Now it just made your stomach do an unhelpful little flip.

“Outside the bed”, he added, after a beat. “Most of the time”. That didn’t help.

He took a long sip, eyes closing for a second. His throat worked as he swallowed. When he opened them again, he looked… fractionally less wrecked. “Huh”, he said. “You actually got it right”.

“That was… the assignment,” you said.

“Gold star for the good girl”, he said, like it was just the obvious thing to call you.

You pretended your face didn’t immediately go hot, while he watched you fidget with the edge of the tray. You were all soft edges with big eyes darting away from his, lips parted just enough to show you were biting back words you didn’t trust yourself to say. Sweet and small and delicate, without even trying. The way you stood there, shoulders hunched a little like you were trying to make yourself smaller in that fitted blouse and skirt, only made it worse. Or better, depending on how he looked at it. God, you were shy. Barely a peep out of you beyond the necessities and it was driving him fucking insane.

Most women threw themselves at him, all bold and brazen, but you? You hovered like a damn butterfly, too timid to land.

It made his blood run hot, stirring something he hadn’t felt in decades. Not since before the Russians turned him into a lab rat. His dick twitched under the towel, hardening just from watching you avoid his gaze, your cheeks flushing that pretty pink again.

He set the coffee down on the dresser, closer to you than necessary, and leaned in a fraction. The steam from the cup mingled with the leftover heat from his shower, wrapping around you both. “You gonna stand there all fucking day, or you got more errands to run for the suits?”.

You blinked up at him, finally meeting his eyes for a split second before dropping them to his chest. Bad move, because now you were staring at the water droplets tracing paths over his pecs, down to the V where the towel barely clung on. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard. “I… um. Caldwell’s waiting. I should—”.

He stepped closer, crowding you without touching, his voice dropping. “Or you stay and see if I really don’t bite”.

Your breath hitched and you clutched the tray tighter. You were so close he could smell your shampoo. Something clean and floral, nothing like the heavy perfumes the Vought bitches usually drowned themselves in. It made him want to bury his face in your neck, see if you tasted as sweet as you looked.

He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your jaw, and you froze, while your eyes went wide like a deer in headlights. Fuck, that innocence, or whatever it was, had him rock hard now while the towel doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. But he didn’t bother adjusting.

“You’re killing me here, doll”, he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “All quiet and cute. Makes a man think about all the ways he could make you… talk”.

Your lips parted, but again, no words came out. Just a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to his groin. He grinned and leaned in until his mouth was inches from yours. “Or maybe you like being watched. Like knowing what you’re doing to me right now”.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your eyes flicked down, just for a second, and he knew you’d seen the bulge straining against the towel. Your face burned hotter, and he chuckled. “Yeah”, he said. “That’s what I thought”.

Just then, your phone shrieked from inside your bag, shattering the too-thick silence. You nearly dropped the tray as you scrambled to grab for it. “Shoot—sorry”, you breathed shaky as you fumbled for the device. Your hands shook so badly it took three tries to swipe the screen. You didn’t even bother checking the notification. You knew what it was: your alarm for Caldwell’s meeting. Ten minutes until you had to sell the plan you’d somehow wrangled out of Soldier Boy. An unfiltered, live NCN interview, no script, no pre-approval and no leash.

You glanced at him while every nerve in your body was still vibrating from the way his thumb had brushed your cheek and the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of your blush. He watched you with a smirk and arms crossed, a challenge in every line of his body. “Duty calls?”, he drawled, like the words were a private joke.

You nodded, your breath coming short. “I—I have to go. Caldwell—meeting—he’ll want the update”.

He cocked his head, looking you over in a unashamed way that had heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Tell him the hero’s ready for his fucking closeup”, he said with his voice dipped in sarcasm. “Just make sure he knows if anyone tries to muzzle me, the deal’s off”.

You nodded so fast you almost lost your balance in your heels. “Right. I’ll—um. I’ll be back before the car gets here for the studio”.

He didn’t move to let you pass, but he didn’t block you either. He just watched, towel tented, as you skirted around him. You barely breathed until you were through the door.

-

The interview itself was a blur of adrenaline and lights and the kind of panic that left your hands cold, your mouth dry and your heart doing laps in your chest. You barely remembered the questions or the host’s polite smile or the audience’s nervous laughter every time Soldier Boy said something not fit for primetime. He didn’t blow up, didn’t storm out. He even shot you a sidelong look in the middle of one answer, the tiniest tilt of his mouth that told you he knew exactly how much trouble he was causing. And somehow, somehow, it went well.

You texted Caldwell from the green room: He didn’t swear. Once. The reply was a single thumbs-up emoji, which might as well have been a Nobel Prize from Caldwell.

When it was over, the network wrangler hustled you both down through a service corridor and out into the street, past fans and a few hopeful journalists. Soldier Boy let you lead, which made your skin crawl in a way you didn’t have a name for. The company car was waiting at the curb. You slid into the back seat and Soldier Boy followed, folding himself into the space with a grunt while making the plush interior feel two sizes smaller than before. The door thunked shut, the driver checked the rearview—“Back to the tower?”—and you nodded, your voice small: “Please”.

You didn’t realize how close he was until the car merged into traffic, and you caught the weight of his stare from barely a foot away. Your shoulder almost brushed his. Every shift he made was magnified in the cramped silence. The slow spread of his thighs, the flex of muscle under his pants and the way his hand landed on the seat just behind your back.

You tried to focus on the passing city lights, pretending you didn’t notice his knee bump yours.

“So”, he rumbled, leaning in until you could smell his cologne. “Did I pass your little test?”.

You shook your head, smiling nervously. “It wasn’t… my test”.

“Could’ve fooled me”. He angled himself so he could watch your face, one eyebrow cocked, eyes shining green under the car’s dim lights. “Saw you out there. All stiff and nervous like I was gonna pull a fucking grenade out my ass on live TV”.

You swallowed. “You did fine. Nobody’s fired, so… that’s a win”.

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You’re shaking”, he observed. “Still scared of me, doll?”.

You pulled your arms tighter around your tablet. “Not scared”.

His hand slid a little closer on the seat, not touching you but close enough you felt the heat. His thigh pressed just barely into yours, as if he was seeing how much you’d tolerate before moving away.

-

A few weeks later, you’d stopped jumping every time your phone buzzed with his name. You still felt little spikes of adrenaline in your chest when SB lit up your screen, but you weren’t dropping things anymore. Progress.

In that time, you’d managed to keep him out of rehab, off the nightly news for the wrong reasons and only mildly canceled on social media. Twice. Which, for Vought, counted as a raging success.

There’d been another live interview. Two photo ops. A “surprise” visit to a veterans’ event you’d had to prep in twenty-four hours and a training session that ended with half the reinforced wall dented and you standing in the doorway pretending you weren’t watching him try not to come apart.

He swore constantly, talked like every sentence was dare and stared at you like you were something he hadn’t decided whether to break or keep yet. But he didn’t blow anything up. He didn’t walk off set. And when you were there with your soft voice, he always pulled back from the edge.

So, you were still here.

Trish had started calling you “The Supe Whisperer” behind your back. “You’re taming a nuclear bear”, she’d said over lunch one day with wide eyes. “Do you have a death wish?”.

You didn’t. Not even a little. You just… had a job. And for all his snarling and leering and lazy, filthy comments, Soldier Boy listened when you talked. Not always and not about everything. But enough that you’d learned the shape of his temper. Like the way it rose fast and ugly and then, if you said the right thing in the right tone, receded just a fraction.

You hated that you were starting to read him that well.

-

Today you were too early. You realized it when you stepped off the private elevator onto “his” floor and the hallway clock read 4:41. The debrief with Caldwell had ended ahead of schedule, Legal miraculously satisfied with his “just let him talk, what’s the worst that could happen” arrangement.

You could’ve gone back to your desk. Answered emails. Pretended you had boundaries. Instead, you found yourself walking toward 87-C.

You told yourself it was better to brief him today than tomorrow. That if you waited, he’d blow off the meeting or ignore the talking points or both. That this was you being proactive, not… whatever else it might look like.

You stopped at his door and pressed your badge to the panel. The little light blinked green. The camera eye watched you. You knocked, a little firmer than the first day. You didn’t get a verbal reply. But the door opened. He wasn’t naked this time. Just… half-dressed. Again. Dark jeans, button fly undone. Bare torso, skin still sheened with sweat, hair pushed back and damp. You wondered if he ever wore normal clothes all the way.

“Four fucking forty-something”, he said, squinting past you at the hallway clock like it had personally offended him. “You early or am I late?”.

You held up the folder a little. “Early. I can come back if you’re—”. “Relax, doll”, he cut in, stepping back from the doorway. “You already saw my dick swinging at eight a.m. once. Kinda hard to top that”.

You felt your face heat immediately. Your brain helpfully supplied the memory. You pushed it away. Hard. “I have tomorrow’s schedule”, you said, crossing the threshold. “And the notes from PR about the charity gala. Caldwell wants you to at least pretend to read them”.

“Caldwell can kiss my—”. He stopped himself, smirk tilting. “See? I’m learning. Using my fucking indoor voice”.

The suite was, surprisingly, less of a disaster than usual. There were still empty bottles on the coffee table, but fewer. The cracked TV was off. The curtains were half-open, letting late-afternoon light spill across the carpet in gold stripes.

You tried not to stare at the line of his spine as he walked ahead of you toward the couch. It was ridiculous, how aware you were of the space he took up. How small and breakable you felt next to that much… everything.

He flopped down onto the couch with one arm along the back and his legs sprawling. You took the armchair across from him, smoothing your skirt automatically before you sat. You perched on the edge instead of sinking back while you balanced your folder on your knees like a shield.

“Alright, sweetheart”, he said, nodding at the papers. “Hit me”.

You opened the folder. “Tomorrow: training at ten. Media availability at two. Charity gala at seven. Red carpet, photos, one short speech”.

“No”, he said immediately. “You want a speech, you write it and get some cocksucker in a tux to read it”. You didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t already Plan B. “And the guests?”, he asked, reaching for a bottle on the table and finding it empty. He made a face, dropped it back with a clink. “Who am I smiling at this time?”.

“Donors. Executives. And some celebrities”. You flipped a page. “They’re positioning it as ‘America’s First Gives Back’. Benefits Vought’s veteran outreach”.

He snorted. “Yeah. Bet all those guys living under overpasses feel real fucking good about me posing with canapés and plastic tits”.

Your stomach twisted. “You could… say something about that. If you wanted”.

He looked at you with one of his eyebrow raised. “On camera?”.

“On camera”, you said quietly.

“You trying to get me blacklisted from my own party?”.

“I’m just… saying you don’t have to follow the script”, you murmured. “Not exactly. People believe you more when you sound like… you”.

He watched you for a beat too long. You forced yourself not to look away, hands pressed flat against the folder so he wouldn’t see them shake.

“Careful”, he said finally. “Start talking like that, they’re gonna think I’ve rubbed off on you”.

Your face flamed. You dropped your eyes back to the papers, your teeth pressing into your lower lip.

“Relax”, he added softer. “You’re doing that fucking turtle thing again”.

You blinked. “What… turtle thing?”.

He mimicked you. Shoulders hunching, chin tucking down toward his chest, eyes going wide and darting away. It was a terrible impression and also… painfully accurate.

You let out a small, unwilling laugh. “I don’t do that”.

“Uh-huh”. His mouth quirked. “Next time I’ll get you a shell. Complete the look”.

You shook your head, looking back down at the schedule so he wouldn’t see the way your lips wanted to curl. “The dress code is formal”, you said. “They’ll send up a suit for you to try”.

He groaned. “They wanna put me in a fucking suit again? Thought the whole point of this comeback crap was ‘raw and authentic’”.

“Authentic with a bowtie”, you said before you could swallow the joke.

He stared at you. You panicked internally. Had you gone too far? Was that disrespectful? Was— He laughed. It burst out of him, short and loud and real. You felt it all the way in your chest. “See?”, he said. “Knew there was something under all that vanilla”.

You stared down at the folder, heartbeat skipping in ways that had nothing to do with fear. You’d gotten braver. You could admit that to yourself, at least. You still hovered, still second-guessed, still folded in on yourself whenever anyone raised their voice. But around him, something had… shifted. Maybe because he hadn’t thrown you out a window the first week. Maybe because you’d watched him stop himself, again and again, when he was looking at you.

He’d still said awful things. He still opened his mouth and let filth fall out just to see you blush. He still flouted every rule Vought tried to hand him. But he hadn’t directed that sharp, dangerous temper at you. Not once. He made the room feel unsafe and safer all at once, and you had no idea what that said about you.

You were flipping to the next page when he shifted on the couch.

“Stand up”, he said.

You blinked. “What?”,

He gestured with two fingers. “Up. Lemme see”.

You clutched the folder a little tighter. “See… what?”.

“The outfit”, he said, as if that were obvious. “You gonna wear that tomorrow?”.

You looked down at yourself. Same pencil skirt. Different cardigan. Soft pink this time, over a white camisole. Your heels were in your bag; you’d been at your desk most of the afternoon. “I hadn’t… thought that far ahead”, you admitted.

“Stand up”, he repeated.

You hesitated a second and then pushed to your feet, feeling absurdly like you were in line for inspection. Heat crept up your neck as you smoothed your hands down the front of your skirt.

He let his gaze travel. Slow and thorough. But it was different tonight. Less like he was trying to make you squirm for fun, more like he was cataloguing something for reasons he hadn’t decided to share. “Turn around”, he said.

“Soldier Boy—”.

“Relax, doll. I’m not asking you to strip and rub my dick. Just lemme see”.

You bit the inside of your cheek and did as he asked, turning in a small, awkward circle. The hem of your skirt tugged at your thighs. You fought the urge to tug it back down.

He made a thoughtful sound. “You got anything… dunno… sparkly?”.

You frowned over your shoulder at him. “Sparkly?”.

“It’s a gala”, he said. “They’re gonna throw you in some corner with the other office drones if you show up looking like you’re about to file their taxes”. His mouth tilted. “You got a dress? Something that doesn’t look like HR picked it out?”.

“I don’t… really go to parties”, you said, facing him again. “Or… own party dresses”.

“Figures”. He scratched his jaw, eyeing you like a problem he meant to solve. “What size are you?”.

Your face went nuclear. “I— I don’t—”.

He waved a hand, dismissive. “Forget it. I know already”.

You stared. “How would you… know already?”.

He gave you a look like you’d asked if water was wet. “Been lookin’ at tits longer than you’ve been alive. I can eyeball a size from across the damn room”.

That somehow made it worse. You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers twitched against the folder, wanting something to hide behind. “I don’t need a dress”, you said quickly. “I’m staff. I’ll be in the back with the comms team—”.

“No”, he cut in sharp. “You’re not”. You blinked. “I’m… not?”.

He lounged back into the couch. “Already told ’em I’m not doing their little dog-and-pony show without my handler”. His mouth curled. “They wanted to stick me with some plastic-looking blonde from marketing for ‘optics’. I said no. I pick my own”.

Your heart stuttered. “Pick your own… what?”. His eyes dragged over you meaningfully. “Arm candy”.

The words hit you like a slap and a shove at the same time. “I—I’m not—”. You choked on the rest. Not arm candy. Not the type. Not for you.

He smirked. “Calm down. You won´t climb on my lap in front of the cameras. You stand there, look pretty, smile at the old rich assholes. They feel important, I don’t punch anybody. That’s what they call a win-win”.

“I don’t… look…”. The word pretty lodged in your throat like it didn’t belong there.

He snorted. “You got any idea how you looked on that live hit? Little blouse, big eyes, shaking like a leaf but still mouthing ‘no’ at me when I almost said ‘shit’?”. He shook his head. “You’re sweet, doll. That’s the job”.

You wanted to sink through the floor. “I’m not…”, you tried again, voice tiny. “That’s not… I’m not arm candy”.

He tilted his head. “No? What are you then?”.

“I’m your PR contact”, you said, clinging to the phrase like a lifeline. “I’m here to… manage your schedule. Help with messaging. Not—”. “Messaging”, he repeated dry. “That what they call it when they send you in to keep me from telling the truth?”.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. It wasn’t that simple and you both knew it.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, doll. Vought’s gonna put somebody next to me tomorrow. They always do. Makes the pictures look balanced, like I’m not gonna fucking snap and start throwing tables”.

“That’s… graphic”, you muttered.

He ignored it. “Point is, I’d rather it be someone who doesn’t make me wanna drive my head through a fucking wall”.

You blinked. “And that’s… me”. He shrugged. “Could be worse”.

Somewhere inside, past the embarrassment and the panic and the little voice screaming this is wildly inappropriate, something warm flickered.

“I don’t know how to… do that”, you admitted, fingers worrying the edge of the folder. “Be… arm candy”.

He snorted. “You stand there and exist. You already do that just fine”.

“That’s not…”. You exhaled sharply, trying to put it into words. “I don’t go to galas. Or… parties. I don’t know where to look, or what to say, or who you’re supposed to shake hands with first. I’m going to mess it up”.

He watched you as you spiraled, the way your shoulders crept up, how you slowly folded in on yourself like you were trying to vanish between your cardigan and your skirt. Even more than usually.

“Hey”, he said, a little rougher. You looked up, startled. His eyes locked on yours. “You just gotta stay next to me and not run off when some asshole tries to corner you about brand synergy or whatever the fuck. I handle the rest”.

“That’s… not comforting”, you said, but your voice shook less.

He smirked. “I’ll be good”.

You raised an eyebrow before you could stop yourself. “You don’t… do good”.

That actually made him laugh. “Oh, you’re cute”. He reached for the bottle on the table again, remembered it was empty, and let his hand drop. For a second his wrist brushed his own knee, knuckles whitening like he wanted something in them… glass, a neck, anything. Then he looked back at you. “Listen, sweetheart”, he said. “I’ve spent decades in rooms like that. They’re all the same. Too much cologne, not enough spine. You just stick close, let me know if anyone says something that makes you wanna throw up in your own mouth. I’ll make ’em stop”.

There was something disturbingly comforting about the way he said it. Brutal and simple and absolute.

“Anyway”, he said, like you’d just agreed to a lunch order, “I’ll send one of the little assistants over to your place later with a dress”.

You blinked. “You’ll— what?”.

“A dress”, he repeated, slower, like he was checking for a language barrier. “Y’know. Pretty piece of fabric, makes donors open their wallets. I’ll pick one, they’ll drop it off. You put it on, we go smile for the cameras. Easy”.

Your brain kind of fuzzed out on I’ll pick one. “You’re… choosing my clothes now?”, you managed.

He smirked. “You say it like it’s a bad thing”.

“Because it is”, you said, before your self-preservation could kick in. “That’s not— you can’t just decide what I’m going to wear”.

His eyes flicked over you again, quick and unapologetic. “You’re doing a hell of a job deciding beige so far”.

Your cheeks burned. You glanced down at your skirt. “There’s nothing wrong with beige”.

“There is if you’re standing next to me”, he said.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

He settled deeper into the couch, eyes dragging lazily down and back up like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm. “Means”, he said, “if I’ve gotta haul my sorry ass into a tux and stand under hot lights while rich assholes pretend they give a fuck about vets, the least they can give me is a decent view”.

You blinked. “A… view”.

“Don’t play dumb, doll”. His mouth ticked up. “You got a sweet little body under all those cardigans. Be a fucking shame not to show it off”.

Your brain tripped over sweet little body like it had hit black ice. You’d never thought of yourself that way. You knew what bodies looked like at Vought… tall, sculpted, all impossible curves and legs that went on forever. Starlight in her gold suit. The PR execs in their sleek dresses that never wrinkled, glossy hair and glossy smiles. You were… not that. Your chest was nothing to write home about, thighs that didn’t magically not touch, a stomach that was soft when you sat down. You bought padded bras and high-waisted skirts and lived in fabrics that draped more than they clung because it was easier not to think about whether anyone was looking. The idea of that being something to “show off” made your stomach do a weird, swoopy thing.

“There’s nothing… to show”, you muttered.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s where you’re full of fucking shit”.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”.

He pointed at you with two fingers, casual, annoyingly sure of himself. “You think I don’t notice the way every guy in that bullpen suddenly finds a reason to walk past when you´re there? Or the intern who almost walked into a wall staring at your legs last week?”.

Heat slammed into your face. “He tripped”. “Yeah”, he said. “Over his own growing balls”.

You wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that nobody noticed you, that half the time you felt like furniture with a badge. But you remembered the intern’s pink ears, the way he’d stammered out an apology without quite looking at you, and the words died in your throat. “It doesn’t matter what they’re looking at”, you said instead, too fast. “I’m there to work”.

“Sure you are”. He leaned forward a little, forearms on his knees. The motion brought him closer, shrinking the space between you. “But tomorrow night, you’re there to work for me. Which means I get to say no beige, no funeral clothes and no hiding behind some ugly-ass blazer”.

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the folder, feeling shame coil even tighter in your chest. Ugly-ass blazer. You didn’t think you’d ever liked your wardrobe, but you hadn’t thought it was ugly. Not until he said it.

But of course Soldier Boy wasn’t about being gentle or soft or letting things down easy. He was a weapon. Made for war, not comfort. If something needed to be said, he said it. If it hurt, well, you were supposed to get stronger or get out of the way.

You swallowed and nodded, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, not with a man like him, not with years of learning how to take up less space. So you took a breath, made yourself let it go. There were emails to send, a cat waiting for you at home and a dress on the way that you’d probably hate but had to wear anyway. “Alright”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll try whatever you send”.

He watched you closely, like he expected you to break or maybe hoped you wouldn’t. When you didn’t, when you just stood there, small and still but not running, his mouth ticked up at the corner. “Good girl”.

-

By the time you got home, your brain felt like it had been left in the microwave too long. You went through the motions on autopilot. Keys in the dish, shoes off by the door and bag dropped next to the couch. Marmalade trotted out from wherever she slept her afternoons away, tail high and rubbed shamelessly against your ankles. “Hey, menace”, you murmured, bending to scoop her up. She flopped into your arms like a sack of warm sand, purring obnoxiously loud. “You’re the only one who likes my cardigans”. She blinked slowly, smug and unconcerned.

You barely managed to shove a slice of toast into your mouth, when your buzzer went. You froze with crumbs on your fingers and Marmalade twining between your ankles like she’d been the one expecting company. You glanced at the clock above the microwave. 7:12 p.m. Nobody rang your bell at 7:12 p.m.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and shuffled over to the intercom, thumb hesitating over the button. “…Hello?”, you said, voice doing that embarrassing little wobble.

“Vought delivery”, a bored male voice answered. “Signature required”.

Your stomach dropped. Right. You’d said yes. You buzzed him in.

A minute later there was a knock at your door. You checked the peephole out of habit. A guy in his twenties and windbreaker with the Vought logo over his heart. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

You opened the door a crack, chain still on. “Yes?”.

He lifted an eyebrow, then held up a garment bag. It took up most of your doorway. Sleek black, thick plastic, the kind real people used when they traveled first class. In his other hand was a smaller branded shopping bag, the kind that meant trouble. “Delivery for…”, he glanced at the tag, mangling your last name, “from Wardrobe, per special request”.

“Special… request”, you echoed faintly.

He sighed. “Look, lady, I’m just the mule. You sign, I drop, I go back to pretending the seventieth floor doesn’t exist”.

You undid the chain and opened the door fully. The garment bag seemed to grow as he stepped in, the bottom nearly brushing your floor. “Um—just there is fine”, you said, backing up to let him lean it against the wall.

He set the black bag down with a grunt, then handed you a clipboard and a pen.

You looked at the line: your name, your address, the word WARDROBE and then, in a different handwriting, a note in the margin: SB – PERSONAL. Your pulse jumped.

You scribbled your signature before he could say anything. He handed you the smaller bag that was heavier than it looked.

You shut the door slowly and Marmalade immediately trotted over to investigate, nose pressing curiously against the garment bag.

“No”, you said. “Absolutely not. You are not claiming the most expensive thing I’ve ever touched as a scratching post”. You nudged her gently aside and eased the bag upright, fingers tracing the slick material. Your heart hammered absurdly hard for something as simple as opening a zipper. You pulled it down.

The dress inside wasn’t Vought wardrobe.

You knew that instantly. Not from the color or the shape, but from the way the fabric hung. It didn’t drape like polyester or synthetic satin. It fell in a clean, liquid line, the kind of weight that said the price tag had more digits than your rent.

You reached in with careful hands and eased it out. Dark green. At first glance it looked simple. No beading, no rhinestones, no obvious branding. But the cut— You swallowed. Thin straps. A neckline that wasn’t obscene, but wasn’t safe either, low enough you knew you’d be hyper-aware of every breath. The bodice nipped in at the waist, the skirt skimming over hips and thighs before flaring slightly just above the knee. There was a slit, a modest one, but still… a slit.

You caught sight of the tag. You recognized the name, even if you’d only seen it on red-carpet coverage and in the fashion pages you pretended not to read in the break room. You exhaled, a little weak. “Oh my God”.

You checked the other side of the bag on autopilot. No second option, no backup. Just this one dress. You knew in that moment Vought hadn’t paid for this. Caldwell would sooner burn the building down than sign off on this label for a handler.

You glanced at the smaller bag, your stomach sinking, already sure and still not ready. The box inside was matte black with that same designer logo stamped on top. Under it, nested in tissue paper, a thinner velvet case.

You opened the shoe box first. They were black and unmistakable: red lacquer flashing on the soles like a siren. The heel wasn’t insane, but it wasn’t modest either. They looked like the kind of shoes that could ruin your life and your ankles at the same time. You picked one up, thumb running over the arch, feeling a little faint.

Marmalade tried to rub her face against the heel. You yanked it back out of range. “Do you have any idea how much these cost?”, you whispered at her. “Because I don’t. But it’s a lot”. She blinked clearly unconcerned.

You set the shoe down like it was made of glass and reached for the velvet case with hands that were just barely steady. The clasp clicked open. Diamonds. Not the sparklier-than-usual cubic zirconia the Vought party stash used. Real ones. The bracelet lay in the little groove like it lived there, bright. Between were a matching pair of earrings.

There was a folded piece of Vought-branded paper. You hesitated, then unfolded it.

Try it on.

That was it. No name. No from Soldier Boy, no you’re welcome, no smiley face. Just three words that somehow felt like he was standing in the room.

You sat back on your heels on the living room rug with the dress pooled in your lap, diamonds winking from the coffee table, shoes on the floorboards and tried very hard not to freak out.

“This is insane”, you told the cat.

You stared at the dress again. The way the waist narrowed in. The thought of your body in this thing made your throat close.

This had to be from his own pocket. There was no way Vought signed off on this when wardrobe already had a sponsorship deal with some mid-tier designer who gave them ten red carpet looks for the price of one of these.

You were still staring at the diamonds like they might bite when your phone buzzed across the coffee table.

FaceTime: Trish

You considered not answering. You considered throwing the phone in the laundry basket and pretending you’d fallen asleep at 7:30 like someone with a head injury. Instead, you swiped accept.

Her face filled the screen. She took one look at you, at the garment bag behind you, at the way you were sitting on the rug like you’d been dropped there, and groaned.

“Oh my God, you look like someone just told you you’re drafted”, she said. “Is this about tomorrow? Are you panicking? Blink twice if you’re panicking”.

“I’m… fine”, you lied.

“You’re absolutely not”. Her gaze slid past you. “What´s in the bag?”.

You glanced over your shoulder. You lifted the phone, turned it so she could see the coffee table with the Louboutins and the velvet case.

“Holy shit.”

You gave her a small, helpless shrug.

“Is that—”, she leaned closer, squinting at the shoes, “those are red soles. Those are the ones I have to scroll past on Instagram because they make my bank account cry”.

You set the phone back down so she could see your face again. “There’s also this”, you said, holding up the velvet case and cracking it open.

Her eyes bugged. “Oh cool, love that for you. You’re about to get murdered and rolled into a Hudson River gift bag”.

“They’re real, right?”, you asked quietly. “They look… real”.

“They look illegal”, she said. “Okay, back up—did wardrobe send this, or did… he send this?”.

Your stomach twisted. “The shipping slip said SB – personal”, you admitted.

She slapped a hand over her facemask. “Oh my God. Oh my God. He bought you diamonds?”.

You winced. “When you say it like that I want to throw up”.

“Yeah, that’s fair”. She took a sip of wine through the little mouth gap in her mask. “Okay. Okay. Pros and cons. Pro: you are now the proud temporary owner of enough resale value to pay off your student loans. Con: it’s from a man who does cocaine for breakfast”.

You huffed a weak laugh. “I don’t think you’re helping”.

“Show me the dress”, she said laser-focused.

You hesitated, then stood, propping the phone up against the lamp base so she got a slightly skewed view of the room. You walked over, slipped the hanger off the hook, and turned.

Trish actually made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a swear. “Okay”, she said, voice gone almost reverent. “Okay, that’s not a dress, that’s a weapon”.

“It’s missing… a lot of fabric”.

“It’s missing nothing it needs”, she countered. “Look at that waist. And the slit? And the color? You’re gonna look like a poisonous plant”.

“That’s not comforting”, you said.

“It’s the only kind of comforting I offer”, she replied. “Try it on”.

You froze. “Right now?”.

“Yes, right now. You think you’re gonna be less terrified if you wait until five minutes before the car gets here tomorrow?”.

She had a point. You hated that she had a point. You glanced at the closed bedroom door. “If it doesn’t fit, I’m going to spontaneously combust”.

“If it doesn’t fit, I’m marching down to Vought and shoving it up his—”. “Please do not finish that sentence”, you cut in.

She grinned. “Go. I’ll stay on. Angle me at the mirror. I will coach”.

You scooped up the dress and your phone, retreating to the bedroom with Marmalade trotting along, clearly pleased that the evening had turned into enrichment time.

You set the phone on your dresser, propped against a stack of old paperbacks so the front-facing camera caught most of the room. Trish gave you two thumbs-up from her tiny rectangle.

“Alright”, you muttered to yourself, to her and to the dress. “Here goes nothing”.

You shimmed out of your banana pajamas, folded them out of sheer muscle memory, and hung the dress on the closet door knob. Up close, it was even more obscene in its quality. The zipper glided under your hand without catching once. The lining felt cool and expensive and not at all like the fast-fashion dresses you’d tried on for office parties and put back on the rack because they made you feel like an overstuffed sausage.

You stepped into it carefully, one hand on the wall for balance. The fabric slid up your legs like water. You pulled the bodice into place, heart hammering, and reached back for the zipper, fingers fumbling.

“Need help?”, Trish’s voice floated over. “Do I need to order you one of those dressing maids off Etsy?”.

“I’m fine”, you grunted, lying. Your arms were shaking. The zipper inched up, inch by inch, the dress closing around you in a slow, inevitable hug.

It fit. You turned toward the mirror and forgot how to breathe.

The green made your skin look warmer, your eyes brighter. The neckline framed your collarbones, hint of cleavage that made your cheeks heat just looking at it. The waist actually looked like a waist, nipped in clean. The skirt skimmed your hips instead of clinging or hanging limp, and the slit flashed a teasing slice of thigh when you shifted your weight. Your legs looked… long. Not objectively. But longer than you’d ever seen them.

You squeezed your fists at your sides, feeling the unfamiliar absence of sleeves. Your arms were bare. Your shoulders were bare. There was nowhere to hide.

Trish was silent. Alarmingly silent.

“Say something”, you whispered.

Her hand came up, dragging the sheet mask a little askew. “Okay”, she said slowly. “Don’t freak out, but… you look hot”.

Your instinct was to laugh, deflect, protest. “No, I don’t. I look—”. “You look hot”, she repeated firmly. “Like, ‘who’s the mystery date and how did he pull that off’ hot”.

You stared at the mirror, at the little dip of your waist, the curve of your hips. At the way you weren’t… disappearing. “I feel naked”, you said.

“You’re covered from collarbone to knee”, she said. “You’re just not buried alive in knitwear. There’s a difference”.

You swallowed. Your throat felt tight. “What if they stare?”, you asked, voice small.

“They should!”, she said.

“I don’t know if I can do this”, you whispered.

Trish softened. “Hey”, she said. “Listen. You go, you stand next to America’s Most Traumatized Action Figure, you smile at some rich people, you eat a free canapé, and you go home. That’s it. You’re not there to impress them. You’re there because he didn’t want a plastic marketing bot. He wanted you. Cardigans, panic and all”.

Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the dress. “He doesn’t… want me”, you said, heat crawling up your neck. “He wants a prop that doesn’t annoy him”.

“Sure”, she said unconvinced. “And I buy wine for the antioxidants”.

You looked at yourself again. At the way your shoulders curled in by habit, how your chin dipped, how your hands kept wanting to find something to clutch. You forced your shoulders back, just an inch. Lifted your chin. The reflection changed. Not completely. You were still small. Still soft. Still obviously someone who worked too much and slept too little and had a cat instead of a social life. But you didn’t look like you were apologizing for existing. You looked like someone who could, maybe, believe that a man like him might spend too much money on a dress and send it to your shitty apartment with two words and the expectation that you’d wear it because he’d said so.

“Okay”, you said again, barely audible.

“You’re gonna knock him on his handsome ass”, Trish said smug.

“Please don’t say that”, you said weakly. “He’ll take it as a challenge”.

She cackled. “True. Alright, twirl. Let me see the back”.

You did, feeling ridiculous, the slit flashing as you turned. The back dipped lower than you expected. You caught sight of the line of your spine, the slope of your shoulder blades. Vulnerable.

“Damn”, Trish muttered. “He is going to lose what’s left of his tiny mind”.

You flushed so hard you could feel your pulse in your ears. “He sees women like this all the time”.

“Yeah”, she said. “´But not in his clothes”.

You swallowed. “They’re not his clothes”.

She gave you a look. “You keep telling yourself that”.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: You try it on or am I wasting my philanthropy here, doll?

You almost dropped the phone. Trish leaned in until her forehead nearly bonked the inside of your screen. “Is that him?”.

“Yes”, you hissed. “Shut up”.

YOU: Yes. It fits.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah?

You bit your lip. YOU: Yeah.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Good. I bought it.

Your chest did that weird, traitor squeeze again.

YOU: You shouldn’t have spend money on me

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: I wanted to.

You stared at that for a long, long second. Then, impulsively, before you could think better of it, you lifted the phone, switched to the front camera, and snapped the quickest photo you could. Just from the collarbone down, head cut off, no face. It showed the neckline, the green against your skin, the way the bodice fit. Your heart tried to escape through your ribs as you attached it.

YOU: So you know your “philanthropy” wasn’t wasted

Trish made a strangled, delighted sound. “You did not just—”. You did. It was gone. Delivered. You paced the length of your bedroom and back, nearly tripping over the cat as you waited for the dots. They popped up almost instantly. Stayed. Stayed.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Jesus. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah. That’ll do.

Your knees nearly gave out. You sank onto the edge of the bed, green fabric pooling around your thighs, phone clutched in your hand and your pulse roaring in your ears.

Trish was staring at you, mask askew, eyes wide. “Well?”, she demanded.

“He said…”. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathless. “He said ‘that’ll do’”.

She stared another second. Then burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh my God”, she wheezed. “He’s such an asshole. And you are so gone”.

“I am not”, you protested, but it sounded thin even to you.

She softened again, looking at you over the edge of her wine glass. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s a walking trauma factory with a pretty face and the highest bodycount in history. And I´m not talking about dead bodies”.

“I know”, you said quietly.

“And you’re… you”, she went on. “You apologize to chairs when you bump into them. You were not designed for… this”.

“I know”, you repeated.

But as you sat there in a dress bought by a man who’d once scared you so much you shook holding your tablet, feeling the weight of diamonds waiting on the coffee table and the echo of I wanted to in your chest, you also knew something else: You weren’t backing out. Not of the gala. Not of the car ride. Not of walking in next to him and pretending you weren’t terrified. You’d been small and safe and invisible for a long time.

Tomorrow night, for whatever twisted, dangerous reason, a volatile, exhausted, impossible man had decided you were going to be seen. And despite everything—despite knowing better—part of you wanted that. Wanted him to see you.

“All I have to do”, you whispered, more to yourself than to Trish, “is get through the night”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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It was the sound that first alerted you to your visitor. The low hum and the sound of such well-crafted metal slicing through the air carried easily across the fields of grass surrounding your home. Typically a rather quiet place, the night especially desolate from bird song and other noises of life, you were thankful for how hard it was for anyone to sneak up on you. Setting down your watering can, you watched as the rapidly approaching shape reflecting the faint gold from your lanterns grew closer. It slowed as it did and you reached for a nearby stake as a precaution. 

You recognised the shape of an N-1 Starfighter even if you couldn’t say you’d ever seen one in person. As it landed carefully in the space you’d cleared for supply ships a few hundred metres away, you stood straighter. The number of people that knew where you were was few and you weren’t expecting any of them, nor in such a ship. You weren’t properly equipped to deal with any hostility but you’d do your best. Then the top slid open and your entire body eased as the familiar glean of cool beskar came into view. 

The Mandalorian climbed out of his ship far more gracefully than you could ever have hoped to. Stabbing the stake back into your garden, you started down the path towards him. His back to you as he retrieved his satchel and blaster from the cockpit, you felt a strange sense of concern looking at him. When he turned around and stood there, unmoving, facing you as you came closer, the realisation dawned on you. Your steps slowed and you stopped a wee way away from him, your stomach sank. 

He didn’t have The Child. 

“I’ve just finished cooking some stew,” you said. Talking to him had never been easy but now, with such a glaring change hanging about him, you feared that his silence would be heavier than ever.

“Thank you.”

That was worse than silence. 

Turning back towards your house, you led him back up the path. His boots thudded lightly on the dirt as he trudged behind you. Holding the door open for him, he gave a small nod of thanks. This wasn’t the first time you’d ever welcomed him inside but he still stood static in a corner out of your way. The light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling shone gold across his helmet and breastplate. You’d often studied how the rare Mandalorian metal caught the light when he wasn’t looking at you.

Busying yourself with preparing him a bowl of stew, you told yourself not to assume the worst about The Child. “It should be cool enough to eat now,” you said, setting it down on your kitchen table, “I’ll just be outside, you can eat while I finish watering the plants. I’ll knock before I come back in.” 

“Thank you,” he repeated and you smiled at him before returning outside, shutting the door behind yourself. 

Picking up your watering can and continuing with the work you’d been doing before he arrived, an uneasy ache settled in your stomach. How many worlds and friends and allies had Mando chosen you over? You weren’t more than friendly acquaintances so it didn’t quite make sense. He wasn’t here for any urgent business, perhaps just a familiar face? Or a place to lay low? Without The Child attached to him at the hip, he seemed a little lost and that itself was a glaring answer to the why of his visit. Where that little green creature could’ve wandered off to, you couldn’t imagine. And if something unthinkable had happened, there was no doubt in your mind that the Mandalorian warrior would be off in the vast Galaxy exacting justice on any deserving bastard stupid enough to be found.

“Why are you watering at this hour?” came Mando’s voice from your front porch. You looked up, a little startled.

“Quite a few of the plants are from regions of this planet with regular evening rain, they absorb it better once the sun goes down,” you explain, “and since we haven’t had rain this side of the mountains in a while I’ve got to do it myself.”

“Thank you for the stew.” 

“Of course, you’re very welcome.”

He remained there, unmoving. It was like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“There’s a basket to your right if you wouldn’t mind picking the tomatoes, Mando?” you suggested, pointing at it with your watering can. He looked at it for a second before picking it up and plodding over to the aforementioned plant. As he began to pick the ripe ones, you went back to your Kashyyyk lettuces, carefully pouring water on them.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he said softly. It wasn’t anything in the scheme of things but his words felt like a confession. Weighed with honour and trust and vulnerability. 

“Thank you, Din.”

It didn’t take long for him to finish and once he was done he set the basket back on your porch and sat down beside it. He watched you work in silence and although you had never particularly liked being stared at you didn’t mind for once. It was nice to have a fellow sentient being around. 

Tipping out the last of the water on some half-grown sprouts, you returned your watering can to the tap around the corner of your house before heading towards Din.

You sat down beside him, purposefully keeping your eyes on the garden ahead of you. 

"What colour are your eyes?" you asked.

"My Creed-"

"I don't want to see them. I was just wondering, that’s all."

He paused before replying, "Brown."

Brown-eyed Din Djarin. Oh, Maker.

"I bet they're awfully pretty."

"No one's ever told me otherwise." So he could joke after all. You pictured him smiling a little under his helmet, maybe the corners of his brown eyes crinkled too. 

“He’s safe.”

The gentle words answered the question you’d never have asked.

“Where?”

“With his people.”

Putting a hand on his shoulder cautiously, you turned to him. “I’m sorry, Din.”

Slowly, he turned to you, reaching up with his own gloved hand to rest on yours.

“Thank you.”

It didn’t ease the emptiness in him but having you right there, constant and warm and real. He might not have the kid but he wasn’t alone. 

Jessica yanks the white and blue sundress from her closet with a “Tada!”. You stare at it, wondering whether you could look even remotely pretty from something so beautiful. It had a low neckline, puffy sleeves and screamed summer but you shook your head, feeling that you could not pull it off.

“Oh come on, honey, you’ll look great. Trust me, you’ll definitely turn some heads.” she said, kissing your forehead and wiggling her eyebrows.

You rolled her eyes at her comment. She didn’t mean “some heads”, she was talking about one specific head that you’d pick out of the 7.8 billion heads on the planet. It had been a few years since you saw him, with you going to university. You had given up on him after he didn’t show up to Jessica’s wedding to William Miller, willing yourself to forget about him.

But here you are, a small sad frog playing on your broken heartstrings, trying to piece back together the feelings that you had for Frankie Morales. You missed his curly brown hair that was hidden under his cap and his beautiful smile that was accentuated by a perfect little dimple on his right cheek. You missed his eyes, the beautiful eyes that were the colour of freshly melted chocolate and were full of so much kindness.

You gave Jessica a small smile as she rubbed your shoulder sympathetically.

“Look, this is your chance to get to know all of the cute young bachelors that are going to be at the baby shower. I’m not letting you go without dolling you up. After all, this can just be my practice round before this little princess grows up.” she says, rubbing her tummy.

“Fine, as long as you don’t make me look like a clown.”

“Aye, aye, captain!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Jessica kept her word and you gasped at your reflection when she turned the makeup chair around. Soft makeup adorned your face, accentuating your features and your hair fell around your head in magnificent curls. A jewelled headband adorned your head and the dress fit perfectly. You gave Jessica a big hug before holding her hand and leading her downstairs for her baby shower that you had been preparing for all day. At the bottom of the stairs you were met with Santiago who gave you the biggest smile and hugged you tightly.

“¡Ay, chica! When did you take your nose out from your books and decided to visit us?” He chuckled as you pout and punched him playfully in the stomach.

“Oh I’d save that punch for someone else if I were you, if you know what I mean.” he said almost immediately and you frowned further, administering another punch, making him groan. “Leave her alone Pope, how’ve you been, sweetheart.” Benny pulled you out of Santiago’s arms and into his, making you squeal.

“All good, Benny, still being a menace?” you smile sweetly up at the 6 feet tall man.

“As always.” he replied with a small smile playing on his lips.

You couldn’t help but look around for Frankie, your eyes searching hopefully willing for them to meet his sweet brown ones, but to no avail. You sigh and help Jessica to her seat, when the front door opens and the atmosphere of the room changes. Your heart stilled the moment Frankie waltzed through the door, every cell in your body screaming for oxygen as you conveniently forgot how to breathe.

He looked different, a little older with a few grey hairs decorating his crown of brown curls. He had ditched his usual hat and casual shirts for a more formal button down and slacks. The crows feet were more prominent at his eyes when he grinned, but they framed the same beautiful eyes that you had been looking for all these years.

He stopped in his tracks when he looked at you but he didn’t look surprised at your presence, but more of your appearance. He took a second to look you up and down and you blushed, a smile creeping up your face as Jessica tapped your hand. William shoved Frankie’s shoulder with his, nudging him forward. It was then when you noticed he was holding two bouquets.

He knelt down in front of Jessica and kissed her forehead, handing her a bouquet of beautiful pink roses which she cooed at. He then slowly stood up and turned to you, his eyes big and wide as he took in your appearance from up close. You wanted to scream at him, hit him and walk away but you were held captive by his matured beauty. His hand found yours and he brought it up to his lips, kissing it gently, sending an array of butterflies to attack your insides.

“Hi.” he whispered and you didn’t realise how much you missed the sound of his voice.

“Hi.” you said back as you clutched the hand that he kissed close to your heart.

He handed you a bouquet of blue dyed Gardenias and you took a second to glare down at Jessica who was busy sipping on her juice and grinning at her husband.

“They’re beautiful, Francisco, thanks.” you whispered and he raised a hand to the nape of his neck and blushed.

You couldn’t help but grin at his bashfulness, letting him stir you aside as guests started to pile into the house with gifts and well wishes for Jessica. He plucked a flower from your bouquet and tucked it behind your ear, letting his hand slide down to graze your jaw and tip your chin up to meet his eyes.

“You look heavenly.” he breathed.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” you say, feeling yourself get dizzy from all of the attention he was giving you.

Your sweet dream was broken when Santiago yelled, “Catfish, you simp, come here we gotta toast!”

You rolled your eyes at your boys and smiled down at the beautiful bouquet, your heart feeling content for the first time in a long time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You busied yourself with carrying the gifts up to the nursery, arranging them in piles so that the Millers could have a proper look at them once the party was over. A soft knock sounded at the door and before you could say anything, Frankie opened the door and slipped inside. You smiled at him and he carefully approached you, sitting cross legged beside you.

“Sorting the gifts, huh? Anything good in here?” his first full sentence to you in years made you look up from your work instantly.

“Other than burp clothes and tons of nappies, nothing that we could use.” you chuckled.

Frankie reached out and grabbed a big teddy bear, observing its face before hugging it close to his chest. The action made your heart yearn bad and you stifled a smile as you watched him snuggle his nose into the bear’s head.

“How’ve you been, miel?” he asked, tilting his head so that his eyes met yours again.

“Could have been better, you?”

“About the same as you.” he replied, sighing into the teddy.

“Feels like I’m missing something.” you decided to casually take a leap.

“Me too, miel.”

Frankie straightened his back and scooted closer to you, the smell of his cologne enveloping you in sweet memories. You bit your lip and furrowed your eyebrows, almost as if you were pleading with him to do something about the gap that was between the both of you. Slowly, he got closer and closer, until you could count every single one of his eyelashes that framed his eyes perfectly.

If you tipped your head slightly to the right, your lips would have been on his and you would have felt complete but the door swings open for a second time, causing the both of you to jump away from each other. Benny Miller stood there holding a bottle of wine in one hand and his tie in the other and you mentally cursed him for his perfect timing. His eyes were wide as saucers as he noted the way your hand magically clutched onto Frankie’s thigh.

“Andddd that's another moment ruined by Benjamin Miller. You’re welcome folks.” he said, giving you both a two fingered salute and scurrying away before Frankie could come to his senses and beat the living daylights out of his best friend.

You found yourself giggling, remembering the other moment ruined by Benny that included his brother and your best friend attempting to get some alone time together.

“Oh that bastard, I’m going to kill-” Frankie attempted to stand up but you pulled him down, tired of waiting any longer.

“Shut up, Frankie.” You breathed before letting yourself fall onto the carpet and pulling Frankie down with you, causing his lips to come crashing down against yours with a shocked groan getting caught in his throat. He immediately took hold of the reins and kissed you back, years of tension easing from the way his lips moved against yours in a slow dance.

He pulled away only when he started to suffocate, refusing to leave the safe sanctuary of your soft breaths against your face. He kissed your forehead, nose and cheeks before lying down beside you and staring at the impressive mural that William had painted on the ceiling of the nursery. He laced his fingers with yours and kissed the back of your hand again, before clutching it close to his heart as his breathing slowed.

“We should do that more often.” you whisper into the air.

“We really should.” he whispered back, a smile gracing his face.