dazey 👹

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✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.

“oh, my g-god.” you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.

“i mean it, dove. give y’anything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want… jus’ come home with me.” john’s vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of john’s embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. he’s holding you like you’re already his. as if you’ve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. “and just think… we can do this every night, ’n then some. keep y’nice ’n full. drunk on me, yeah?”

with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way he’s fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of john’s cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.

tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. john’s really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. he’s got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight won’t let you do anything but take it.

“ah… f-fuck. go-gonna come again… i–john…” your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.

“s'alright. go ‘head ’n come if it’s a yes, dove.”

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

The trees hang high above, an arch over the long dirt driveway, a never-ending trail leading to the small cabin secluded in the woods, backing onto a beautiful lake.

You remember the year before you went off to college; running around the backyard, laughing, holding sparklers, your family around you. It hasn’t been the same since your mom passed away–most summers you spent tucked away in your room, reading and writing, distancing yourself from everyone around you; your dad’s biggest heartbreak of them all.

You’re sitting in his truck, his tires chugging along the gravel, and he turns to look at you. Your head is against the window, staring out the glass, watching the familiar mailboxes pass by, and you know it won't be the same this year, even though Beau promised you over the phone it would be. 

“Honey, you can’t sulk the entire time,” your dad mumbles to you, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to pat your knee. “Actin’ like this is only goin’ to make it worse, you know that,” he drawls, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“You really expect this to be the same? Without mom?” you shoot, glaring at him, and he clenches his jaw.

“No, I don’t,” he shakes his head, huffing out a breath. “But I also know she wouldn’t want you actin’ like this either,” he tells you, looking at you from the corner of his eye, and you know it’s true.

Full of life she was, a smile bright enough to cast away rainy days, and a voice loud enough to send you into your room crying–a complicated relationship you had with her. Two personalities that clashed, and you still found yourself mourning her, every single damn day of your life, even when there were days you were face down in your pillow, wondering why she treated you that way. You swallow the grief when your dad parks the car.

You look up from your lap, not even realizing that a few tears have run down your cheek, and you immediately wipe them away, hiding the evidence. You step out of the truck, slinging a backpack over your shoulder, and there he wanders out of his cabin, an unmistakable smile curled at his cheeks: Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend.

“Took you long enough,” Beau immediately jokes, his boots crunching on the gravel, and he looks at you, his retired Sheriff instincts immediately picking up on the mood shift, the way you look away when he tries to make eye contact.

“Yeah… yeah, we forgot your place is in tha’ middle of nowhere,” your dad jokes back, walking around to the truck bed, pulling out the few duffel bags for your three-week-long vacation.

“Better than the city, huh,” Beau quips, and you’re awkwardly standing there as he approaches you. You look down at your sneakers, swallowing hard as he steps into your shadow.

“Kid,” he mumbles quietly to you, already knowing the impact your mother’s death had on you. “Can show ya’ your room, finally get one to yourself this year,” he tells you, tilting his head to the side.

You were used to most vacations: having to share with your cousins or Beau’s relatives, squished in a shitty twin bed, resorting to the couch in the living room, where Beau would wake you up earlier than you wanted to. It was nice having the place to yourself, but the weight of your mother is what holds you down.

“Okay,” you breathe out and look up at him; he’s already staring down at you; those green eyes, his hair a little longer than when you last saw him, his beard needing a little maintenance, but he’s smiling, and you crack the tiniest one. You somehow manage.

“I got her,” Beau calls to your dad, and it’s a relief for him. Dealing with you and the grief has been a burden that he carries too.

Beau carefully takes your bag from you, removing only the physical weight from your shoulders, and leads you into the wood cabin. It’s tinier than you remember; a small kitchenette, an even smaller living room, and three bedrooms, a bathroom, and the longest damn dock you’ve seen in your life.

“Here, darlin’,” he mumbles, stopping in front of the large door and swiftly opening it. “All yours this year,” he grins, and you step inside–yep, still smells like musk and a signature Beau scent you only ever smell when he gives you his jacket around the campfires.

“A lot bigger when I’m not sharing it with three other people,” you joke, and he’s smiling, placing your bags on the bed. “Thanks, Beau,” you say, and turn around to see him loitering by the doorway now.

“Ain’t a problem,” he shakes his head, scratching his jawline. “Can even take my room if it’s not big enough for ya’,” he teases, knowing the bed is big enough for you.

“It’s okay… I’m okay,” you reassure, and he sighs, seeing a completely different girl than when he last saw you.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he mumbles, and he knows to leave you alone, even if you don’t want to be alone, not at all.

Beau disappears from the doorway, and you wander over to the temporary dresser, carefully putting your clothes for the trip: your bathing suit, you’re sure you won’t wear, and other articles you mindlessly put away, knowing your head was elsewhere. You sigh and look out of the window. 

You see Beau with your dad in the driveway, the two of them smiling, bags slung over their shoulders, and your jaw clenches. You wonder how both of them are so unaffected by your mother’s death. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath; that’s what your therapist started to tell you to do, and you’re pretty sure it's the dumbest thing you’ve been told. You wish a deep breath took away the grief, but it only smothered you.

Two knocks on the door snap your head back, and Beau stands there, rubbing his jaw, and gestures behind you when you look.

“C’mon, kid, rowboat ride?” he asks, and your lips part at the offer–you just got there, and all you want to do is curl up in the bed, and drown in the sheets, and close your eyes. You nod.

You shut the drawer and pass by Beau at the door, and he lightly pats your back as you stand in front of him. You remember the cabin like the back of your hand, and you find your way to the back door, and he’s watching you carefully; your hair cut differently, the way you carry yourself differently, everything different, and he squeezes his hands into fists.

The two of you head down to the shoreline where the old boat sits, and you smile at just the sight of it. Some of your fondest memories were on that old thing. You remember drifting out accidentally with your cousin, screaming and crying for help, just for Beau to come on another one and scold the living daylights out of both of you. You were just sixteen.

“You remember this thing?” Beau asks, watching your eyes graze over it. “Taught you how to steer, damn disaster,” he tells you, and you laugh, remembering that moment too.

“Yeah, I remember that,” you nod, sucking in a breath, and he smiles.

“You kept thinkin’ the thing was gonna flip, and I was tellin’ you it wouldn’t. Started cryin’, beggin’ me to take you back to shore,” he reminisces, and you’re smiling for the first time in a minute. “Took you to the lil’ island over there, and you said it was the best thing ever.”

“It was,” you nod, looking over at him. “Tons of those… really cute birds,” you vividly remember; you were with those things, always whining, wanting to see them again, and Beau gave every time.

“Birdie,” he says softly, and your cheeks grow warm. “Called you that for the rest of the trip, and you kept complainin’ about it,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that, too.

“Thought it sounded so silly.” You raise your eyebrows, still thinking it does. 

“You still think so, birdie?” Beau teases, and you shoot him a fake glare, and you see his tongue just behind his teeth. He sighs, gesturing to the boat.

You silently follow the order and head towards the wooden boat, awkwardly balancing when you step inside, and he watches, bending slowly to push you into the cold water. He follows behind, jumping in just as it begins to float. You laugh at the way it sways, and he sits directly across from you.

“Bringin’ you back?” Beau asks, his strong arms reaching for the paddles. 

“Kinda,” you shrug, and he’s doing all the work, giving firm pushes to send you both out into the centre of the vast lake.

He grunts quietly with each push, and you look up at him; his head turned, looking behind him as you two leave shore, and his hair is blowing in the wind slightly, his jawline sharp, and you suddenly become aware of the way your knees are touching; his denim jeans against your bare legs, and you shift.

Beau sighs when the two of you are finally out in the open, but deep into the lake. He adjusts the plaid shirt over a white one, pats his thighs, and looks at you.

“Tell me, sweetheart, what’cha been up to,” he asks, tipping his head forward as he briefly adjusts his shaggy hair, pushing it back. He looks back at you, and he grins.

“Nothing, just… I don’t know, reading,” you shake your head, knowing just how boring your life had been lately. It was embarrassing, and you didn’t want to tell him how you spent your days.

“Readin’ is great,” Beau praises, nodding as he wets his lips. “Keeps you smart,” he quips, and you grin, enjoying the way he always seemed to make everything better, even if it came out all wrong and sad.

“Yeah,” you mumble, looking down into your lap, and he follows your gaze, lightly nudging your knee with his, and you look back up at him.

“You holdin’ up?” he shifts the conversation, and you hold your breath.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, not wanting to unpack the effects of your mother’s death right now, on a boat, in the middle of a lake.

“You always been an honest girl,” you drawls out, almost like he’s saying that you aren’t being one right now. He’d be right.

“I am being honest, Beau,” you shoot back, and he ticks his jaw, seeing that attitude you never had slipping out, and he has the urge to patch every hole it seeps from.

“I believe ya’, darlin’,” Beau nods, running his tongue along his teeth as he looks around the lake, squinting. “Jus’ don’t want you hidin’ stuff from me.”

“I don’t,” you say flatly, sighing heavily as you look past him and at the shore.

“Ain’t say you were,” he counters, and that shuts you up–not the words, but the look in his green eyes, and you curl into yourself, shifting on the wooden boat.

A silence settles between you, just the distant sound of birds when they pass over the water, and a gloomy sky settling above the two of you–most days were like this at the cabin; rainy and cloudy. You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble in defeat, and he blinks, dismissing your apologies with a hand.

“Get outta here, kid,” Beau laughs, and you look at him, confused. “Don’t have to apologize for nothin’, I wasn’t tryin’ to make you feel bad,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.

“I know, but I still do,” you tell him, slumping forward a little, and he follows the gesture, leaning forward too, resting his elbows on his thighs.

He taps his fingers against your bare knees in front of him, looking up at you, and you feel goosebumps prickling on your skin, and he can, too.

“No apologies startin’ now, okay?” Beau tells you, his palm settling fully over your bare knee as he rubs a bruise. “Don’t wanna hear a lick of nothin’ from you,” he grins, and you do too.

“Okay,” you nod, and he pats your knee, leaning back away from you and reaching for the paddles. “I won’t say anything.” 

He sighs. “Can tell it’s gonna rain in jus’ a few seconds,” he shakes his head. “Busllhit weather this year,” he grumbles out, but you can still feel the warmth he left behind, and you press your knee around his. He barely notices.

You watch as he carefully rows the two of you back to the shore, and you feel the drizzle picking up. You tilt your head back, looking up at the sky. The dark clouds hang heavy, and he’s going as fast as he can, and you can’t help but giggle a little. It’s the first time that sound has left your mouth in months, and he’s grinning, but he’s also scrunching his face when the rain comes down heavier.

You laugh louder and lift your hands when it suddenly pours, and Beau is cursing to himself, laughing too, and his hair is getting damp, and his shirt is sticking to him, and you hate that’s what you notice right now. 

The minute the boat hits the dock, he’s scrambling out and grabbing your hand to help you off, but he does something that immediately makes you scream when you’re on land: he lifts you just a bit, keeping your feet off the ground. You’re laughing louder now, and he has you in his big arms, strong and all muscle.

Beau’s moving quickly along the wet grass, and you’re practically screaming, the both of you getting soaked in the rain. He’s purposely holding off going inside, letting your hair get completely wet, your clothes soaked through–he’s always been like this, and you’re realizing how much you missed it, missed him.

He still has you in his arms as he steps into the cabin, and he’s dragging you to your bedroom. You’re still laughing louder than ever, squirming in his strong arms, and you have no idea where your dad is right now. He’d cuss out Beau and throw him out of his own place if he saw what it looked like.

He tosses you onto your own bed, right onto your back, and you squeal, knowing just how wet your sheets and blankets are about to be. He doesn’t stop there; he nudges his way through your legs, and you’re suddenly growing warm, and he reaches down, cold hands reaching out to tickle at your waist. He used to do this when you were smaller, but something has shifted now, and you can tell he notices, too.

Your head tips back as you groan out, your wet body withering against the blankets, and Beau is leaning over you, drenched himself, and the droplets from his longer hair drip onto you. You’re laughing still, but it’s strained as he grabs at your waist and hips.

“Jesus, you’re still ticklish, sweetheart,” he jokes, but when he looks up, he immediately has to clear his throat; your eyes closed, lips parted, neck back. He reaches down and grabs at your bare thigh, stopping you from moving around.

“Beau, come on,” you shake your head, your mouth hanging open as you writher around. “I can’t take it,” you whine, gasping for air, the laughs still trying to escape you as he tickles your body.

He has to take a step back when he hears that, his mind reeling; you whining his name, saying you can’t take it. It’s suddenly not just tickling, and he knows that; he knew that the minute something in his body told him to grab at your thigh.

You sit up when he finally stops, your hair drenched, your shirt too, sticking to your body in ways that make his eyes trail down, and you notice it, too. You’re panting, out of breath from the way he was forcing those laughs right out of you. Beau rubs the side of his jaw, shaking his head–not at you, at himself.

“Rain came outta nowhere,” he says casually, and you can only smile, feeling the odd tension.

The both of you feel oddly lucky when your dad comes in now instead of moments earlier, knocking on the door that’s already swung open; his best friend, his daughter on her bed. He doesn’t make a face, but he looks to Beau and clears his throat.

“Looks like we can’t barbecue tonight,” your dad says, and you just sit there, trying to act like you still can’t feel Beau’s hands on your waist, hips, and thigh. “Shame the weather is so bad,” he shrugs, and Beau nods.

“Don’t worry, got other stuff that don’t need barbecuin’,” Beau reassures and pats your dad on the shoulder. “Gonna get changed, n’ then I can show ya,” he tells the other man, and he pats his upper back.

You watch the two disappear from the bedroom, and you sit there damp and cold, but an undeniable warmth settles in the centre of your stomach, one you hadn’t felt in a long time. The warmth settles there, but dips in between your thighs, and you can’t help it; Beau was in between your damn legs, grabbing your thighs, his hair resembling a sweaty man who had just fucked you for hours. You cringe at the thought and physically shake your head.

When you emerge from your bedroom just a few hours later, you find Beau in the kitchen, your dad in the small living room, drinking a beer and watching the television with the worst signal ever. Constant flickering and skipping, buffering and pausing, and you hear your dad’s groan each time the game stops on a part he was ‘just watching’.

You shamelessly let your eyes rake over Beau; now just wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants, not his usual cowboy-esque attire you remember him always wearing. It’s casual, and there’s something in you that churns.

“Hey, darlin,” Beau drawls when you wander into the kitchen, hair and pjs dry. “Didn’t come out for dinner,” he mentions, and you shrug, looking over at your dad, who must’ve told him not to pry when you choose not to do things–even eating dinner.

“Got distracted; I was reading,” you explain, wandering towards the counter, standing beside Beau, and he’s cracking open beers.

“Want one, kid?” he offers, and you immediately shake your head, never liking the bitter taste.

“Don’t tempt her,” your dad jokes from the living room, glancing over the back of the chair, and you roll your eyes.

“Ain’t temptin’ her,” Beau shakes his head, holding the two beers, and nodding for you to join him on the couch.

You follow behind him and glance around the small space. Your dad is resting in the only chair, and the only thing left is an oddly small couch. Beau sits down on it with a groan, and you pause, and he gestures with two fingers, patting the side beside him.

Hesitantly, you sit beside him, and the couch sinks further under your weight, an odd pressure point causing the centre to sink, your shoulder pressing right into his, your body basically nestled against him. He knows it would be inappropriate to put his arm around your shoulders, but it would be the perfect time to do so. He holds back and just glances at you.

To make it less awkward, Beau tries draping a blanket around the two of you instead, but it only makes it worse, and the minute the knitted garment covers your bodies, it’s like another level of secrecy is thrown in: the secrecy of what’s going underneath, the warmth building, your dad oblivious. You suck in a breath, looking at the sports game.

Beau’s one hand holds his beer, which he takes occasional sips from, and you watch his lips each time they wrap around the bottle, and you wonder when you became so perverted. You feel the light brush beneath the blanket, and it’s his pinky finger sticking out, poking the side of your bare thigh.

You turn your head to look at him; he’s watching the game, and you feel his hips shift beneath the blanket. You shift, too, and he’s just letting his pinky run over your bare skin, a gentle, constant touch.

“Geez,” your dad suddenly groans out, and you feel Beau’s hand pause on your leg, his finger coming to a stop. “I don’t think I can be watchin’ this anymore,” he jokes, shaking his head. “Team keeps losin’, it’s hell!”

Beau laughs at your dad’s complaint, flashing his white grin at him, and he doesn’t have a clue as to what’s happening so subtly beneath the blanket. He’s just worried about his team losing, so much so that he begins to stand up, shaking his head.

“Can’t watch,” your dad laughs, and Beau looks up at him, shrugging. “Need to head to bed anyway, drove for too long,” he mumbles, turning to look at you. He begins walking over, and you clear your throat, shifting.

“Night, honey,” your dad mumbles, leaning down and kissing your forehead, and you’re just praying he doesn't decide to lean down and rip off the blanket.

“Goodnight, Dad,” you say softly, and grin up at him, swallowing hard, still feeling that pinky finger moving against your bare leg.

Your dad disappears from the living room and walks into his bedroom, the door quietly shutting, leaving you and Beau alone in the living room. It’s quiet, only the sports game playing, and the soft rain still carrying on from earlier. He slides his hand from your thigh and settles it around your shoulders, squeezing gently. You’re in the clear.

“You enjoyin’ yourself so far?” Beau asks, turning to look at you, and you nod.

“Mhm, it’s nice here,” you tell him, and he slowly lifts his hand, brushing your hair out of your face. He notices the blush flooding your face, your lashes batting. 

“Good, m’glad,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb across the tip of your nose briefly. “Can take you to do all sorts’a things tomorrow,” he smiles, wetting his lips.

“What about the forest?” you prompt, your eyes looking into his; green and sharp.

“The forest?” he repeats, biting his lip and nodding. “Can take ya’ to the forest,” he agrees.

“It’s pretty there, and I remember they had those wildflowers last time, really… really liked it,” you grin, and Beau would do just about anything to keep that look on your face; innocent, maybe happy.

“First thing we’ll do tomorrow,” Beau promises with a firm nod, his hand cupping the side of your neck, rubbing the pulse point. “Might wanna head t’sleep now,” he suggests, nodding to your bedroom.

You don’t want to sleep; you want to stay here with him on the couch, where he’s talking to you like a human, and not as ‘the girl whose mom just died’. You hesitantly nod, knowing he knows best.

“Atta girl,” Beau mumbles as you stand up from the couch and he pats the back of your thigh as you pass by him. “See you in the mornin’, sunshine,” he smiles, and you nod again, disappearing back into your small bedroom. 

The bedroom is dark, and your mind is swimming; the absolute worst thoughts you can conjure up suddenly slip in through the cracks, and you toss and turn. It’s your mother; her crying, asking you why this had to happen to her, why your relationship with her had to be so poor, yet her death was one of the worst things that happened to you—you thought the nightmares would stop when you left home, but they seemed only to grow worse.

You sit up in a sweat, panting, your chest heaving and the bedroom black. The crickets buzz outside, and the television no longer lingers in the background. It’s late, and you don’t know how long you’ve been sleeping, but your drowsy mind has you standing up and wandering out of bed.

The cabin is hard to see in, and you wander towards another bedroom door, footsteps quiet against the wooden panels, and you slowly grip the handle, turning the knob. You look around the room, sighing quietly to yourself, embarrassed as ever.

“Dad,” you mumble softly, shutting the door behind you, knowing this ritual: climbing into bed with him, cuddling him, and him playing with your hair and letting you cry. It’s been happening since your mother was in the hospital.

You walk towards the bed, quietly moving along, until you’re standing at the edge. You blink in the darkness, reaching out when he doesn’t respond, nudging his shoulder—firm and muscular, and your eyes widen the second you realize it. It’s too late to slip out.

“Sweetheart?” A soft voice drawls out, and it’s not your dad’s; it’s Beau’s, and it’s groggy and low, sleep-riddled, and you stand there frozen.

“Baby… what? What’s wrong?” He grumbles, sitting up slightly, rubbing his eyes, peeking at you in the dark room. “Your daddy okay?” He asks, 

“Yeah—” you mumble, shaking your head and looking over your shoulder. “Everything… yeah, he’s fine.”

“What’s wrong, then?” He whispers, wondering why the hell you just stumbled into his bedroom at three in the morning if nothing is wrong. 

“Just—I can’t sleep,” you excuse yourself, and Beau furrows his brow, wondering why you didn’t walk into your dad’s room instead.

“Hm,” he groans, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them and waving a hand. “C’mere.” 

You freeze when he suggests you climb into bed with him, but you do anyway; slowly but surely, climbing in beside him. The wooden frame groans, and you feel your body completely still when you lie down beneath the covers. He doesn’t hesitate to let his warm arm drift over your waist, his palm flat against your stomach, a soft anchor amidst the chaos in your brain.

Your eyes close and you exhale, feeling Beau’s warm, firm body against yours from behind. His breath against the back of your neck, slow puffs as he breathes steadily, and you’re more focused on forgetting the nightmares that keep you awake. They slip out of your head when his thumb moves across your abdomen, a gentle brush to soothe you, and you shift.

“Easy,” he murmurs when you squirm, and he presses his nose into your hair. “Relax f’me,” he adds, calming you down and trying to make you forget the uneasy feeling the nightmare left behind.

When the sunlight drools in through the curtains, you stir awake, groaning as you roll over. The bed is empty, Beau missing, and you assume that he’s already left for something–maybe driving into the small town to grab stuff, or maybe helping your dad with something. But you’re not sure how he’d explain his daughter sleeping there, in his bed. 

The cabin is just as quiet when you step out of the bedroom, and you rub your eyes, looking around. Breakfast isn’t made, but the two men are already on the long dock, resting in two lawn chairs, fishing rods held in their laps. You blink and carefully open the screened door, walking down barefoot to them, and Beau notices you first. 

“Look who woke up,” Beau teases, and your dad turns to glance over his shoulder at you; still sleepy, your hair a mess, and your pjs flimsy and loose.

“Hey, honey,” your dad drawls out, waving you over. “Beau was tellin’ me about last night–sleepwalkin’ into his room, forcin’ the poor guy to sleep on the couch,” he laughs, and Beau is looking at the lake, knowing he can’t face your dad when he lies.

“Yeah… got confused when I got up to go to the bathroom,” you shrug, taking steps across the wooden panels. “Didn’t even notice until I just woke up,” you tell your dad, and he grins.

Beau is still looking out at the lake, at the way it glistens in the sun, at some fish jumping out of the water, and at the occasional bird swooping in for a hasty landing. You look to Beau, and that’s right when he looks at you, too.

“Said I was gonna take her out,” Beau says to your dad, nodding towards you. “The forest.” 

You nod a little when your dad looks at you for clarification, and he smiles, patting his leg. He just wants you to be happy on this trip, and if that means going into the forest with Beau and giving up prime fishing time, then he’s okay with it.

“You two have fun,” your dad nods, and Beau is already standing up, groaning. “And wear bug spray, honey,” your dad points, and you smile, looking to Beau. 

Beau follows you back to the cabin, stepping inside when you do, following you towards your bedroom. He leans on the wall beside the door, patiently waiting for you to finish getting ready. You step out in shorts and a t-shirt, nothing special, and he grins, patting your shoulder.

“All ready?” he asks, clicking his tongue.

“Mhm,” you tell him, already slipping on your sneakers in your bedroom, and the two of you are off.

The walk to the forest is short, just a small distance from his cabin, and the two of you begin following a familiar trail. You remember wandering it just years ago, looking for wild berries and pretty flowers, and you’d pluck each one, giggling when Beau praised you for your find. And now you’re walking it, completely quiet. 

Beau has his hands in his jeans pockets, trailing slightly behind you as you make your way through the dense trees. He stops, and you notice when you hear the gravel stop moving. You look behind him, and he’s just standing there.

“What?” you ask softly, tilting your head to the side.

“Remember that game,” he drawls out smoothly, and your eyes rake over his body. “M’would chase you n’ your cousin through this damn forest, n’ you’d be cryin’ and screamin’, mostly laughin’,” he tells you, and he starts walking again.

“I remember,” you say, specifically recounting the adrenaline rush of hiding between trees, trying not to get caught by Beau. You almost did it every day. 

“Want a headstart?” Beau quips, quirking his brows, and your lips part.

“You… want to do that?” you ask in disbelief, laughing as you look around. “Not as fast as I was before,” you shake your head, and he’s chuckling.

“And you think I am?” he counters, wetting his lips. “C’mon, sunshine, I’ll count to ten,” he pulls his hand out and gestures.

“But–” you mumble, and he’s already starting to count down.

You don’t hesitate to turn on your heel, immediately taking off down the dark trail, and you’re trying your hardest not to laugh. You look behind you, and you see him turned around, rocking his feet, waiting until he reaches one to find you somewhere.

A large tree trunk calls out to you, and you immediately duck behind it. It feels familiar, like this was a hiding spot you picked when you were fifteen, playing the same game with multiple players. This was just a game of cat and mouse this time; no one else was on Beau’s radar except for you. 

You clasp your hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh when you hear him calling your name. It takes you right back to the last few summers; you look over your shoulder, peeking, and your eyes widen the minute you realize he’s actually right there.

You let out a loud laugh, and Beau grins, instantly moving closer to you. Your hiding spot is given up, and he walks over, standing in front of you, acting like he doesn’t see you sitting down, huddled.

“There ya’ are,” Beau drawls out when he crouches down before you, and your back is against the tree, and you bite your lip, shaking your head.

“Not even fair,” you mumble, your knees pulled up to your chest. “I haven’t played in years,” you protest, and he reaches out, brushing the tip of your nose again.

“I ain’t either,” he shakes his head, gazing at you. “Seems like you jus’ ain't the best, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the stump, and he leans forward, getting onto his knees instead of crouching. He kneels before you, and you stare at him, blinking slowly. 

Beau is slow with it, and your jaw goes slack the minute both of his hands are on your bare knees, parting them so he can move closer to you. You keep your eyes on him, his green ones heavy and dark, and you tilt your head, leaning closer to him, and he follows, a hand sliding down your thigh to your hip.

He kisses you, pushing you against the tree a bit more, the old oak groaning as your back presses harder against it. Your lips tangle in his, and he’s still a bit taller, even on his knees; your head is tipped back lightly, his large hand lifting to cradle your face. It’s slow and hungry, two mouths moving in the same rhythm, and he tastes as you expected.

Beau pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. It snaps back on his lip, and he licks it up, staring down at your flushed cheeks and blown-out eyes. He breathes more heavily, realizing he just crossed a boundary he is sure he can never set in place again, not after how blurred the lines are and how easily you gave in.

“Darlin’,” he groans, shaking his head, and your eyebrows lift.

“No… no, I liked it,” you whisper to him, nodding quickly, sitting up a bit more. “I liked it.”

It’s a high you haven’t felt in a long time; adrenaline coursing through you, knowing how wrong it was, how you shouldn’t be doing anything like that; making out with your dad’s best friend, and liking it, wanting more than just a kiss or a makeout session.

“Can’t do this, kid.” Beau shakes his head, pulling back a little. “Not fair to you,” he mumbles.

“What?” you ask, leaning closer to him. “No… no, no, I liked it,” you ramble again, swallowing hard as his eyes meet yours.

“Corruptin’ a lil’ thing like you ain't right,” he mumbles, his jaw clenching. “Too innocent, sweetheart, gonna make you into somethin’ you ain’t,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.

“I… I don’t care,” you shake your head, and his eyebrows at how needy you are suddenly, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You will,” Beau says plainly, his hand still cradling your jaw. “Ain’t supposed to be a man like me, doin’ things to you,” he says, and you can hear the conflicting emotions, the way they clash.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice almost a whine. “Beau… I haven’t felt things in so long, and… and I wan’t something,” you plead, and he lifts his hand away from your face, drying his sweaty forehead.

“Not from me, ya’ don’t,” he counters, sitting back on his haunches. “Known your daddy since high school, can’t be messin’ with his daughter, sunshine, not you,” he tells you.

“So… so if I wasn’t his daughter?” you ask, swallowing hard. “You’d… you know? You’d like me, want me?” you add on, and he’s scratching his jaw at his fucking wrong this is.

“Yeah,” Beau admits, and you feel your heart pumping faster and faster, a warmth blooming in your stomach.

“I wouldn’t tell him,” you whisper, and he shoots you a glare. “Wouldn’t tell him a thing.”

“Baby,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “That would eat ya’, inside n’ out,” he tells you, his hair falling out of place. 

“It wouldn’t,” you promise, almost whining, as he starts to stand up.

“C’mon,” Beau mumbles, reaching down to help you out, and you begrudgingly take his hand, standing up to your full height.

“Now what?” you ask him as the two of you start walking down the trail. “I have to act like we didn’t almost make out?”

“Ain’t complicated,” he drawls, shaking his head and looking at you out of the side of his eye.

“It is,” you counter, staring at him as you walk, but he’s focused on getting the hell out of the forest instead.

“Not gonna talk about this, darlin’,” he shuts down the conversation, and you feel an emptiness settle in your chest–it was already there, but it’s gaping now, and Beau is unfazed by doing it to you.

The walk back to the cabin is awkward, and you have to act like you don’t taste Beau Arlen on your tongue, and that your shirt wasn’t hiking up, and that his hand was your hip, and that you weren’t willing to lie onto the grass and let him do whatever he wanted to you.

At lunch, it’s worse: the three of you are surrounding the kitchen table, and Beau is across from you, biting into the burger your dad had barbecued when the two of you disappeared into the woods to mess around. You pick around at your plate, barely eating a thing.

“Somethin’ wrong with it, honey?” your dad speaks up, chewing his food on one side of his mouth. “Can throw it on if it’s raw, or somethin’,” he offers, reaching for a glass of water.

Beau peeks up from his food, looking at you; his eyes focus on the way you bite your lip and shake your head, just refusing to eat it. He clears his throat, and you look up at him.

“Can take ya’ to the small store up the road, kid,” Beau offers, putting down his burger and dusting his hands. “Candy, that kinda’ stuff,” he tells you, and you grind your jaw, nodding.

“You don’t gotta do things like that for her,” your dad says, laughing through a mouthful of food, and you extend your foot, rubbing it against Beau’s ankle.

He almost chokes on his food he’s still chewing when you do that, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Anythin’ for that girl.” 

Beau opens the door to his Rover when the two of you leave after lunch, and you climb into the passenger side. He pulls out of the gravel driveway, and it’s quiet between the two of you, both of you acting like there isn’t this sexual tension that has him adjusting his hips and you shifting in your seat.

“Do I have to wear a seatbelt?” you ask Beau, and he glances over at you, his hair messy from the cracked windows, one hand on the steering wheel.

“Not really,” he drawls out quietly, shaking his head. “Ain’t anyone on these roads, for miles, sweetheart.”

You unclip the buckle, and your shoes come off next, and he’s glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, wondering what you’re up to. He can hear the shuffling, and then your toes curling right into the bulge against his jeans.

 “Jesus Christ, kid,” Beau groans when he looks over at you; your back against the door, your body completely turned, your sock-clad foot stretched across the centre and into his lap.

“What?” you ask quietly, purposely rubbing your foot against him, and he’s leaning over, gripping the steering wheel.

“Cut it out,” he grits through his teeth, feeling your foot moving against the bulge, and he’s shaking his, glaring at you.

You have a stupid grin on your face, and you press harder, feeling him getting harder. He’s breathing heavier, tipping his head back against the headrest, one hand coming down to grab your ankle. He doesn’t stop you; he just holds your foot there, letting it move.

“Not bein’ a good girl, not at all.” Beau shakes his head as the vehicle still moves along the road, and he’s about to pull over. He can’t focus.

“Why would I be anything for you?” you ask softly, biting your thumbnail. “Don’t even… won’t even touch me properly,” you mutter, and he’s growling in frustration and pleasure.

“Cause m’tellin’ you to,” he groans out again, his head tipping back as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuckin’, stop it, kid,” he shakes his head, looking down at your foot, and he’s panting.

You slowly pull your foot away and let its arch rest on the curve of his thigh. His hand slides up your ankle and rests against his shin, holding it there, his thumb indenting on your warm skin. He shoots you a look, and you have the tip of your thumb in your mouth. 

You wish it were authentic, the way you’re acting, but you’re just coping, wanting attention, something from anyone–it’s Beau you want it from, anything you can get when you feel like you have nothing at all.

Beau groans when he pulls into the tiniest parking lot you’ve seen, and you sit up, looking out the window: the tiniest store, too, with barely anyone around. It was smallest town you’ve seen, and it’s all he ever knows.

“Look what you fuckin’ did,” he growls, nodding down to his lap, and you look; a hard line right there, bulging out of the denim, undeibaly hard, and he puts his hand over it, pushing down.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

“Don’t give me that,” he shoots, glaring at you. “Touchin’ me with your foot like that? What? Gonna give me a hand job to make up for it?” he rolls his eyes, and you almost want to.

The two of you step out of the Rover, and you look over at Beau as he awkwardly loops his thumbs into his jeans, adjusting them, pulling them up, then tugging them down at his thighs. The material is incredibly uncomfortable right now, and he notices you staring.

You run ahead of him and enter the small-town store, immediately heading to the candy aisle, as Beau suggested. He’s walking behind, praying no one can tell that some girl almost gave him a fucking foot job while he was trying to drive. He almost came in his pants.

He gives a friendly wave to the older man working the counter, and he finds you in the aisle, your eyes wide at the display: gummies and chocolate, candy bars, everything you want.

“Pick somethin’,” he gestures to the rack, scratching the back of his neck, feeling himself throbbing, pressing against his boxers, and against his zipper. 

“I’m looking,” you say softly, but end up grabbing a bag of gummy cherries, and Beau takes them quickly, not even bothering to ask if you want anything else. He just heads to the counter and tosses them onto it.

You stand behind him, watching his hands fish out some cash and drop it in front of the old guy, who comments on the candy choice. Beau looks back at you, and those innocent eyes stare right back at him.

After paying, the two of you head out of the small store, and Beau is holding the candy for you. He’s walking quicker than you’d like—it’s urgent, and you know why; you just made the poor guy hard as hell, and forced him into a store.

“Never doin’ anythin’ like that again,” he grumbles the second the passenger door shuts, and you slump in the seat, bringing one knee up, your foot on the leather. “Ya’ hear me? Ain’t doin’ things like that ever again.”

Beau’s voice is firm, and you’ve only heard it like that when he was shouting at one of your cousins again, yelling at your dad for forgetting to dock the boat that one time. And he was using it with you, all because you got him hard without release.

The car drives down the gravel road, and your eyes are out of the window, but it comes to a slow stop at the side, and you look to Beau; his eyes are narrowed, and he’s lifting his hips, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“What?” You say softly, looking at him with those confused eyes, and he’s undoing his belt, the buckles clicking.

“Ain’t get to do stuff like that without consequence, darlin’,” Beau shoots, and your eyes widen as you quickly realize what’s happening; his strong hands work the button on his pants, then the zipper.

“Beau—” you mumble, and he shakes his head, reaching over to press the small button to undo your seatbelt.

“C’mon, ain’t startin’ shit with me just to not finish,” he flashes you his green eyes, and you swallow hard.

“Never learned… that,” you gesture to the way his hand is slipping into the front of his jeans, and he groans when his hand touches himself. He’s harder than he’d like to be.

“Looks like you’re gonna learn today,” Beau quips, and you’re almost pouting, breathing heavier.

You slowly lean over the centre console, mimicking what your leg once did, and he has his hand in his jeans, carefully pulling himself out; your eyes widen at the sight, looking at his thick head throbbing, the veins pulsing, and there’s pre-cum on the tip–it was from the teasing, from your dumb foot egging him on. Now he’s aching, absolutely begging for you.

“C’mon, baby,” Beau mumbles, his drawl thicker now, reaching behind you, grabbing a fistful of your locks, and guiding your head down. “Pretty mouth of yours need to do somethin’ about this; you caused it, didn’t ya’?”

You whimper but nod, and your tongue sticks out, lapping up the cum that had already trickled out, and his head tips back against the headrest, a low groan slipping by him. His big hand is still running through your hair, almost as if he's petting you. It’s salty on your tongue.

“Atta girl,” he pats your head gently, feeling the way you focus on the tip. “Mhm… knowin’ jus’ where to start, yeah? Smart thing, you are,” he praises, swallowing hard.

You’re moving your mouth over the head, lapping, leaving saliva against him, and he’s in awe. Beau hadn’t experienced anything like this in a while–he mostly lived alone, drove into town occasionally, finding girls his age, and they mostly were married, not wanting to mess with a man like him. Ever since quitting being a sheriff, it’s been lonely as ever, and your mouth is keeping him company. 

You slowly take more of him, and he moans, a deep sound coming out of the back of his throat. He already hits the back of your throat, a gentle poke, and you gag at the feeling. He’s twitching, already leaking down your throat, and his veins throb on your tongue. You lift your head and dive back down, a slow bob starting, and he’s guiding you with his own hand, holding your hair.

“Jus’ like that, sweet thing,” Beau breathes out, his eyes falling shut. “So good f’me, makin’ up for what’cha did,” he taunts, and you mumble something around him; your mouth is so full.

He pats your head again, his hips lifting in an urgent movement, and it hits the abc of your throat again. You choke, and he grins, his other hand lifting so he can briefly rub over his scruff.

“Barely takin’ me in,” he mumbles, and he groans when you go deeper. “Stuffin’ me in that lil’ mouth, makin’ me fit, perfect,” he praises some more, and your eyes are almost rolling back as saliva drips down your chin and onto his jeans.

Beau cums with little to no warning, and you know that’s a part of the punishment, making you take his load, and you immediately swallow back and lift your head. He’s panting along with you, gazing at the way your eyes are heavy, and tears brim your eyes from the sheer force of trying to fit him with your mouth. 

His hand slides from your hair and to your face, wiping the mess with his thumb, and you blink slowly, mouth agape, still panting. He’s never seen you prettier.

Walking back into the cabin, you keep your head down, and your dad instantly greets you. He’s been working at the kitchen table since you two left, mindlessly reading the newspaper, a pen circling the crossword out of boredom, and you barely say a thing to him. You can’t face him, not right now.

Beau watches the back of your head dip into the bedroom, and the door shuts right behind you. He sighs, adjusts his belt, swallows, and looks at your dad, who is still sipping coffee despite the day growing later and later.

“Still on for that fishin’?” Beau asks your dad, and you can hear it from inside the bedroom. You hear the chair squeak, and your dad immediately stands up, eager to resume the usual marathon they do at the cabin.

You spend the rest of the night in your room, reading and writing in your diary, attempting to use the phone to call your best friend, desperately wanting to tell her about what happened: sucking off Beau, trying to get him off with your damn foot, making out with him in the woods. The line cut out every time, and you cursed being an eight-hour drive from home. 

Beau and your dad have been fishing for hours, both drinking and laughing, and you can hear their conversation from the lake–the sounds bounce off the water and seem to climb right into your room, and your heart clenches at the sound of Beau’s voice and laugh: that drawl, that thick sound and accent. You’re on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

The door creaks open with a slow ease, and you sit up immediately, eyes wide, when you see Beau standing there, slightly drunk, leaning on the frame. He clicks his tongue and tilts his head, staring at your small form on the bed. 

“Beau?” you say softly, looking around your room. “Where’s my dad?” you ask quietly, wondering how he had the guts to saunter into your room, his best friend feet away.

“Mmm… down at the lake… drunk as a skunk, darlin’,” Beau slurs out, and you realize he’s drunker than he’d like to be. You shift on the bed when he shuts the door behind him.

“Been thinkin’ bout you that whole time, baby,” he drawls out, his tongue lazy and his words sloppy. “Felt… so good, you know… jus’ wanted ya’ back, wanna be inside ya’,” he murmurs, and your jaw goes slack at his drunk admission.

“Beau, you’re so drunk,” you whisper to him, and the bed creaks the second his two knees deep onto it, and he’s crawling across it, finding you.

“M’know, sweetheart… makes stuff like this a lot easier,” he whispers to you, and doesn’t hesitate to kiss you.

You kiss back, tasting the whisky on his tongue, and the few cigarettes he must’ve smoked for fun down at the lake. He can taste the cherry gummies you’ve been eating, and he slides his tongue into your mouth. He’s sloppier, a lot sloppier now that he’s inebriated, and you moan into the kiss. 

Beau nudges his way between your legs, parting them for you, putting you down onto your back, and he’s right on top of you. The bed, not used to holding two people, groans; it creaks louder, and you whimper when his hand is travelling up your thigh, and already down into your shorts. 

“Wet f’me… Christ,” he groans as his lips find your neck, and his hand is just cupping your core, that warmth, that slick, all it takes is his rough thumb rubbing in circles to get you going. “Feelin’ good, ain't ya?” he asks, mouthing at your jaw.

Your head tips back, and you whine, nodding quickly, feeling the way he’s toying with your clit; a firm pressure with quick circles, tight ones that send you into a bliss-like state, just from his damn thumb. You’re basking in it, arching your back. 

“Can stuff ya’ elsewhere…” he mumbles out, and he’s fumbling with his belt again, drunk hands struggling with the thick clasp, and he’s pulled back, his head hanging low. “Stuff… mmm… yeah, that… that tummy of yours,” he whispers, and your eyes widen at his filthy words. 

Beau, already with his jeans hanging low, manages to pull his hardened cock out before you can even register that his other hand is also sliding down your flimsy shorts. You groan the second they’re discarded onto the cabin floor, and you squirm when his head nudges your entrance.

“Ah–” you gasp, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “You–you’re not gonna fit, Beau,” you whisper quickly to him, remembering just how big he was earlier, how your mouth could barely take him. 

“Oh, sunshine,” Beau mumbles, his hand sliding down to tap your hip. “Your body, mmm? Knows what it’s doin’, will stretch, all f’me,” he slurs, and he slowly begins pushing in, and God, you feel it.

He’s thick, thicker than you remember, and you can feel your body trying to adjust to the sheer size, feeling like he’s about to fucking split you in half. His head tips back, and he lets out a heavy breath, holding your hip, the other one on your knee, keeping you spread open.

You whine louder, and he grins, feeling the way you adapt and clench, that sting something you’ve never felt before. He pushes all the way in, letting you feel it, that settles in your lower abdomen. His hand slides from your hip to over your stomach, pressing down. 

“See… baby, makin’ me fit,” Beau taunts, his thumb rubbing your navel. “Takin’ me like a champ, yeah? Takin’ every inch I give ya’,” he groans, pulling out just a bit.

The faintest release washes over you when he pulls out slightly, but he slams back in just as quickly, sending your head back and a loud moan out of your mouth. He clicks his tongue in disapproval, your sound being much too loud for what you’re doing. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, and you can feel tears streaming down your cheeks, crying softly at the pain, and he notices, shaking his head.

“Oh, baby girl…” Beau then mutters, slinking down slowly, pressing deeper when he’s just trying to comfort you. “Let it out… bein’ good f’me, through the tears,” he coos, and kisses at your cheeks, still buried inside of you.

You didn’t expect it to be like this–it’s not his fault; he’s big and thick, and relentless, and your body is seizing up, reacting to the size difference. It still feels good, that pressure burning. 

“My lil’ darlin’... cryin’ for me,” he whispers, kissing away your tears. “Cryin’ cause she can’t take me… but she is, so well,” he praises, kissing at your cheeks and over your nose.

The words are sweet, and the feeling is bitter, and he’s starting to thrust, moving back and forth.

You whine through the tears, and he covers your mouth with his to hide the side, but he pulls back and goes back to kiss your tears that don’t seem to stop coming. They’re warm and wet, and he’s thrusting, deeper and deeper.

“M’got you… m’here, got you,’ he reassures, kissing up to your temple, and then back down. 

You groan and your back arches more, feeling him pushing and your clenching around him, squeezing, and he’s groaning now, hating how quickly he needs to cum. 

“Gonna let me cum… all inside ya’? Feelin’ me for hours?” Beau whispers, your noses brushing his beard, scratching your face. “Gonna cum too, baby? On my cock, yeah?”

You whimper through the tears, nodding quickly, biting your lip at the consistent pressure, the way it’s building and twisting, and how aggressive his thrusts are becoming. It’s too much, for the both of you, way too much to handle. You tip your head back, and he captures your mouth the minute he knows you’re gonna cum.

It happens at the same time; you finish, and he does too, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. Your release and his cum clash, but he still buries deep, ensuring none of it leaks out, wanting it to mix and keep you full and warm.

Beau rubs your stomach still, soothing that dull ache that’s only worse now that you’re absolutely stuffed, and he waits there, just letting the both of you pant, trying to register just how good it feels, how drunk he is, how drunk you are. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your neck, twitching inside of you when your body still clenches. “Mmm… feel me in there? All… warm, deep inside ya’…” he whispers, kissing your neck.

Your hand is on Beau’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly as you try to keep yourself calm, but he’s not pulling out; it’s like he refuses to. And your dad is so oblivious, drunk at the lake, and you are Beau, tucked away in the bedroom.

“Makin’ you feel good… so good, birdie,” Beau whispers, and your lips part, a flush going over your cheeks at the nickname. 

Your face scrunches, and you whimper, and he’s kissing your neck, whispering, and whispering, lulling you both into a state you can’t explain. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain this, not to your diary, to your friends, nobody–this is a secret, and you know it is. 

“My girl…” he whispers to you more, never pulling out, refusing to. “Promised ya’... you’d have a good summer, baby,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that phone call days before leaving.

“Can make it even better, you know?” Beau whispers, nodding. “Makin’ this pretty body… feel good, all the time,” he adds, and you’re not sure if you can do this every day for the next three weeks.

you call it that, infatuation, because you’re not entirely convinced that this is love. more a means of survival. you decided to stick with them after the case, follow them around like a lost puppy, even live with them. they’ve got a lot that you don’t– skills, smarts (debatable), and a whole lot of experience– and, hey, they might be useful.

anyway. that’s how it began.

now? the shared bathroom sink is lined with your expensive skincare products (dean’s never one to shy away from pulling a few more credit card scams to buy what you like), neatly arranged next to sam’s fancy shampoo and a razor that’s seen better days. mornings are spent arguing what to have for breakfast– whether it’s okay to have pancakes, again, or something healthier should be whipped up. there’s evenings that are spent enshrouded in comfortable silence, the only noise coming from sam flicking through another lore book or dean opening another beer.

something settles and loosens, but also tightens. conversations that can only exist in the private sanctuary of the bunker; nostalgic memories that have more biting angst and resentment to them than necessary; haphazard patch-ups of knife and gun injuries, accompanied by dean’s bravado act that’s seen better days getting the best, and simultaneously worst, of him. but vulnerability is never a weapon. never a monster that needs to be slain. or ganked, for that matter.

vulnerability is allowed to exist here. and, sure, sometimes it’s not appreciated, a desperate need to “man up” and take control– typically outspoken in a heat of unadulterated rage– and sometimes it’s left to simmer. it’s not all the time, though; not unlike some hunters you’ve spent time with, who decide that letting your walls down can only be stupidity. no–  life with the winchesters is something else entirely. almost a dream.

but then real life cuts in– all thorns, no roses. because you can’t shield yourself in the bunker forever, hide away from the world for good. there’s the job, the life; hunting.

hunting means removing oneself entirely. take yourself away from the politics and general bullshit of life. chew up all the niceties and make yourself bloody; forget you were ever human. there’s no devotion in this way of living. there are only the means of survival.

and survival means everything to dean. it’s how he gets through the day; if he lives, great, it’s another victory to him. but it’s the macabre nature of his life that ensnares him, leaves him trapped in a prison of generational trauma and living up to his deceased father’s expectations. you know he’s seen more depravity and carnage than you ever have, haunted by it through the mantra of needing to keep going. blur out anything he’s seen, everyone he’s saved. really– only the losses are counted for. those are the ones that stick.

even then, it’s not the end. the horrors of day-to-day life follow him into sleep, and it’s only when you are there, next to him, that he seems to allow himself to feel safe. constantly seeking out subconscious reassurance, as if the sudden absence of you will kill him.

survival is imbedded into dean. anything else is an afterthought. 

for someone who’s been possessed by a demon, carried the mark of cain, been to hell and purgatory (and a bunch of other things that take too long to list), this should be nothing new. he’s lived under such intense pressure and scrutiny that is designed to break a person entirely, it shouldn’t faze him. 

and yet, this does; your relationship.

it’s almost humiliating. for both of you.

that binding of biological nature that keeps two people entwined. the slight chemical imbalance that attracts one to another like magnets that can’t be ripped apart. a sexual desire to become one as you can’t live without them.

alpha and omega. 

heat cycles, ruts, knotting; the whole nine yards.. then increased tenfold once you find your partner. or maybe it’s just you two. you tend to fuck like depraved animals who have to mate or die. oh, and dean’s just incredibly strange sometimes when it comes to sex. 

it was only when you got together that the problems arose. the feelings had been there for a while– never verbalised because you can acknowledge the hefty age gap and the issues that surround it, and dean’s, well.. dean– so nothing happened. your relationship stagnated. until one drunken night at a bar in rhode island and suddenly, you were both laying your cards on the table. flying the white flag of surrender. sam was just glad that you two wouldn’t keep flirting-but-not-flirting in front of him anymore.

after that, you both claimed you were “taking it slow”. you both claimed it was “testing the waters; nothing serious”. you both claimed, privately, that this was just some response to trauma; it wouldn’t lead to anything major..

..and then, he claimed you. 

no pre-warning. no conversation. dean just.. did it. bit down on your neck with such attentive precision, such nauseating depravity– such love– that you couldn’t focus on anything else afterwards. you could’ve died for all you knew. and all because he had to have you– for good. 

then again, you’ve always been claimed. your heart has always been his. you just never knew it.

you’ve known people who go through life and never meet “the one”– your volatile parents, for example, who made a “life-long and regrettable mistake” one drunken night but stayed together, for you– but you knew that couldn’t be you. life always changes, especially when you’re a hunter, and nothing ever seems stable when you’re prone to constant losses. you needed something permanent. you just didn’t expect that “something permanent” to be some 6’1 hunter with a penchant to fight dirty, and fuck dirtier.

and ever since then, the two of you have been inseparable. it’s not like it’s some scandal for two hunters to be together, though, some gossip-rag level of news that’ll leave the whole world in shock. no– because considering who you are, and who the winchesters are, there’s much more pressing issues in the world. 

it’s just worse when the.. biological matters come to light, though; sure, you carry dean's scent on you like a medal of valour, and you’ve both got matching teeth marks directly on your mating glands, but that’s natural. there’s rules to this soul-binding– they’re not written, not spoken, but they do exist. and for good reason. a slip-up in human behaviour can become an investigation for the masses. scrutinised for acting on an instinct that leans into something animalistic and primal, abandoning any sense of humanity.

and then there’s you two– acting as if these rules don’t apply. it’s when the lines between sanity and insanity blur. where dean’ll get possessive over you in public, practically ready to rut into you when someone dares to even glance at you, but follows after you like you’ve got him leashed or something the split-second that you’re in private. or how you seem to always– always– be in his lap, and yet find yourself questioning why all of your underwear seem to be wet constantly. 

but you two aren’t all that perverted. he’ll put his hands on your abdomen to try and relieve your cramps when you’re in heat, do anything and everything you need and ask. you’ll avoid him when he’s in a rut, because you know how disgustingly insatiable he gets. better yet, it’s easier to simply remove yourself from the whole of kansas when he’s like that, not just the bunker. he’s got the internet, after all. and you two have the ability to self-restrain; you’re both very aware of what your passionate.. lovemaking can lead to.

it’s not like you haven’t discussed it– the concept of having a child. but, of course, you’re “testing the waters”, and you’re pretty sure that mating in order to produce something more than an orgasm doesn’t fall under that. and whilst you know that dean totally could be a dad, you’re both hunters. you know from those brief moments of vulnerability, when it’s allowed, that he’s still terrorised by his dad. and you’re not even sure you even want kids.

suppressants can only take you so far. over the years, you’ve been told repeatedly by women to get sterilised, remove the problem altogether, and yes you smile and nod and accept their advice, you never do it. even though, in this line of work, it’s probably best to do it. it’d mean no more leers, nor distasteful glances from other hunters; how your biological, rather sexual, needs are a major issue to them, particularly male hunters. and, of course, you’ve heard all the tales about how motherhood ruins a hunter’s career. you don’t need to lose your passion, not anymore than he should lose his. all or nothing, as the saying goes.

however, in cases such as right now, you really wish you’d taken the advice.

you can’t remember how you got here– or where you are, or what day it even is– but you know one thing is for certain; you’re in heat. it’s brutal, like someone’s peeling off your skin and twirling your muscles and bones into ribbons, and all you can do is focus on the pain. 

something sharp hits deep inside of your abdomen, like taking holy glass and piercing you, trying to make you new. except it’s anything but. you’ve known your heats to be frustrating, never without pain, but it’s never been anything like this. the slightest of movements make you feel as if there’s minuscule needles being stuck in you at random, leaving you unable to move from your current hiding space. 

needless to say, everything hurts. 

you’re sure that this is your worst heat ever, intensified by the fact that you have run out of suppressants and never bothered to get anymore, and you’re possibly, most definitely going to die–

“what’re you doin’ in here?”

your eyes snap open. looking up through blurred vision, your head hazy with exhaustion and lust, you find dean standing in the doorway. he’s got his arms folded over his face, brows furrowed as he stares down at you. he seems unable to enter the space any further, as if there’s some invisible barrier between the two of you, and you make no movement to get up. 

this is weird– this space and everything inbetween– and though you’re not exactly in the headspace to go off and chase monsters, you know something is off. for a start, your bond keeps you two attached at the hip, so your sudden disappearance was obviously going to affect him sooner or later. hell, he’s probably combed every inch of the bunker, meticulously searching for you until you turn up. as long as you’re not dead, it should be enough. but it’s not. 

you left him. it’s the last thing you should’ve done, especially given your current state. and it’s a slap to the face, the refusal–

huh. you can see why dean’s concerned. sort of.

you look up at him again, silently seeking confirmation. you’re right– whilst you’re all hot and needy, he stares down at you like a man starved. it takes him a minute catch up on what’s going on here– as if the heavy scent in the air wasn’t enough– and in an instant, his gaze becomes hunger; something only to be satiated by your warm, wet cunt.

“what’re you doin’, pup?” he asks again. you notice how he shudders slightly, a perverted and delighted grin spreading across his face. he’s beginning to slowly make his way into.. wherever you both are, as if he doesn’t know. but you know how this works; he wants the confirmation, the biting thrill that comes with knowing that he is what you need to feel better. makes him all important.

but all you can think about is that if dean gets any closer, you’ll knee him in the groin. 

“hurting,” you reply. your mind is anywhere but this current conversation– particularly in the heat in your abdomen that refuses to give you a second of peace– and you don’t notice how weak you sound. how much it sounds like you’re trying to egg him on, adding fuel to this forsaken fire between you two. “‘m fine, though.”

and as he lets out a short laugh, clearly not fooled by your lies, you turn your head away and bury it into one of his nearby flannels. you clamp your thighs together at the scent. maybe you do want him.

he’s at the side of the bed now, and you can feel how he seems to hesitant on sitting down or staying where he is. the mattress moves slightly, his knee nudging the side of it, and you snap your head back up at him, frowning.

“go away,” you warn. every second dean spends in your secluded– horny– vicinity, the wetter you feel your underwear grow. you’ve been here before; you know how this real-life porno will end if he keeps pushing you. and he will, because that’s what a caring, pussy-whipped boyfriend does. “‘m serious.”

but dean doesn’t listen. “y’realise where you are, right?”

deciding that playing along is the only way to get him to leave you alone, despite the full-body crippling ache you feel blooming inside of your body, you finally raise your head properly and look around the room.

it’s the storage room, you realise, where you’ve formed some nest in the corner on the single bed. the old dean bed; the one he had before you were a thing, before you convinced him to buy a bigger, better one because it was too small for sleeping together on. oh, and sex.

you’re curled up in a ball, as tight as you possibly can. you’ve found that pressing your knees into your abdomen and stomach seems to alleviate some pressure (and, sure, you could’ve just asked him to hold you, but something about this heat– or just life in general– told you that was a bad idea, you’re not one to question fate), as you periodically bury your face into the collection of stolen items of clothing you’ve nicked from him in the passing weeks.

right now, like a mother protecting its young, your only goal right now is to keep the nest safe, undisturbed. and that goal does not involve your boyfriend fucking you raw.

“i just wanted to be alone, okay?” you shoot back, your voice laced with agitated tiredness. “i don’t need my boyfriend to come rushing to my aid every time that i’m– i– y’know–”

“jesus, how old are you? sixteen? ‘s not exactly like you’re on your period or somethin’; it’s au naturale,” dean scoffs, as he slumps down on the bed next to you. the mattress dips slightly, your body naturally curving into yours, and you have to bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from jumping at him. “sweetheart, y’ever consider how i feel when you get like this? or what i’m even feelin’.. like right now?”

you frown, letting the question wash over you a few times. through a lust-ridden mind, his words might as well be insolvable puzzles. he might as well be from some multiverse, another planet even, because nothing makes sense. your breathing goes heavy as you try to decipher what he’s said. 

he’s gone back to grinning at you, relishing in your torture that’s now enhanced tenfold, but you won’t be beaten that easily; so even as your stomach goes all funny in guilty, suspicious knots, you’re determined to find an answer. 

you stick to the most basic of basics. it can’t be the latest case– typical vampire case in kansas; practically in their own backyard, which you all wrapped up in a day– because it went well. something heavy’s weighting on you now, as your thoughts travels through wormholes and rabbit’s burrows to only bring you to dead ends and further questions. maybe he’s just pretending, fucking with you in order to fuck you.

so, you focus on dean . mainly, because he’s right there. so close, and yet, so far. it’s unfair– he’s probably acting on instinct, waiting for those wanting words of “i need you”, because you’re just as pathetic for him as he is for you. but also, he might not. despite this short-lived separation, your brains are both hardwired to want one another, to seek each other out when needed. when it’s so necessary that the world itself might be ending.

this is worse than the loneliness you feel when you have to abandon him during a rut, or the emptiness you feel when your heat ends and he’s not looking after you 24/7; whatever this is, it’s real. and yet, you can’t have him, not properly, because the world says so, and you say so. however, even as your brain screams at you about anything and everything people can (and will) say about you, your body curls into him. and that’s when it hits you. 

the answer has literally been in front of you all this time.

it’s dean. 

he’s looking at you the same way he does when he’ll practically whimper about how much he loves you as he fucks you, teeth sinking into you as saliva wets your skin. those eyes you’ve seen convey a thousand and one emotions, certain feelings that start to seep into yours and blur the lines where you end and he begins. and he smells all wrong. he smell like he’s– wait–

the stars have well and truly aligned, and in turn, have cast upon both of you the worst, and most depraved, fate possible. 

you’re both in heat.

your eyes flick down. “sorry, it’s just–” and the words get caught in your throat, your brain attempting to form some ill-formed lie. however, you can’t think of anything. can’t think of anything except your boyfriend fucking you raw. “it’s not like i– like i don’t want you, but–”

“but you still want me,” dean finishes for you, even though it contradicts what you just said. “y’made your nest outta all my crap, pup. god– i can smell you all over my stuff that you haven’t brought in here. and what do i get, huh? fuck-all.. well, i get sammy up my ass ‘cause you decided to go awol on me in a time of fuckin’ need.”

your face burns, and you go to bury it in the bare mattress. it’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t have noticed that, especially when you’d been rutting against your shared bed on nights when he wasn’t there– probably caught up in some tv show in the dean cave or whatever– burying your tear-stained face into the pillow just from the sheer thought of him. all whilst he was about ten-feet away from you.

and now? now, you’ve woken up every morning for three days straight, wet, sticky and ashamed, and yet unable to ask him– your boyfriend– to take care of your problem. it’s why you’re avoiding him.

shame.

“you belong to me, ‘kay? and especially your pussy,” he tells you, giving you no room to argue. it’s worse when you feel his hand rest heavily on your thigh, and it’s worse when you feel his fingers graze your cunt. not your best idea to wear just a hoodie and underwear, but you didn’t expect your brief, depression intermission to cut into your heat like this. you didn’t think you’d need to put in effort. “can make you all better if you let me, kid.. make me better as well.”

and before you can answer, he pins you to the small bed by the throat, his hand resting against your pulse. dean’s trying to control himself, trying to be gentle as he can to avoid hurting you, but you can see in his eyes that it’s him who’s hurting. and it’s understandable– that biological, primal, instinct is what’s driving him at the moment, telling him what to do. controlling him like a marionette. you can’t blame him. not ever.

through your slightly stagnant breathing, you notice his eyes glass over. you’ve never known dean winchester to cry, but crying because you won’t let him fuck you? it’s a new low.. or maybe, a new high. “i can’t lose you as well,” he mutters, his face contorting into a frown. it’s dark, something you’ve never seen before– like he blames you– and it scares you. “gotta stop runnin’ from me. gotta let us do what we have to do, pup, ‘cause it’s what fate wants us to do.. to be together..”

“you’ll always have me,” you babble, not sure if you mean it or not. subconsciously, you do, but with the way your cunt pulses and aches as he forces your legs apart, you’ll say anything and everything to get him inside you within the next ten seconds. “but– if you could just– help–”

his hand presses against your mating gland, making you all the more dumb and eager for him. “oh? so now y’want me to help you?” and when you whimper in response, the hand on your throat tightens. 

dean knows that you get a bit.. sensitive when he chooses to silence you– if he’s not biting and marking you up, that is– all simply by choking you. choosing when you can and can’t make those sweet noises that drive him feral. 

he likes it. that control. some of the only control he has in life.

“you always gonna be mine, yeah?” he asks, although you know you have zero say in this. you let out a strangled moan as his rough fingers press down on your gland again, wet teeth shining in the dim light as he relishes in your reaction. “yeah– fuckin’ thought so, sweetheart.”

this is the final straw for dean; before you know it, he’s burying his face into your neck, completely pinning you to the bed from the force he uses. he licks and nips at whatever he can get– your jaw, your neck, everything– like he’s on a one-man mission to make everyone know who you belong to. “gonna make you smell like me– is that what you want?” he mutters against your skin, and you feel him smirk as you nod feverishly. “god, gonna do so much more than make you smell like me..”

his hands grab and grope at you, keeping your body as close to him as possible. you shiver when his hands venture up and under your hoodie, pawing at your aching breasts and making you whimper. “baby, please,” you beg, feeling for his hand through the thick material and keeping him there. “make it better for me.”

he’s groaning into your neck now, muttering something incoherent about how he’ll do whatever you want. it’s funny– for a man like him, to come so quickly undone at the slightest of affection. your affection. or maybe, it’s just all your perversions. but you don’t think about that right now. instead, you bring yourself to the more.. pressing matters you have to deal with.

such as his knot, which you can now feel pressing firmly against you wet cunt. he grinds into you feverishly, that hard bulge making you whimper underneath his aggressive yet loving touch. “gotta have you now,” dean murmurs into your skin, the words so quiet, and yet so loud– you swear that they’re being imprinted into you, a reminder that you’ll forever (and only) be his. “gotta– fuck– gotta make you feel so good, sweetheart..”

he’s more needy than you are, bucking his hips into your cunt like he’s already in you. his teeth catch against your mating gland as he whines, hands forcing your legs as far apart as they can possibly go. you let out a small, stuttered gasp as you feel his cock pulse against your clothed cunt, pre-cum leaking from the tip and staining your underwear. he’s hesitant, you realise, never actually sinking his teeth into your neck like he usually does, instead just runs his tongue over the same spot, savouring your taste.

all the smallest of movements leave you whimpering, grinding for more, your hands scratching at his flannel shirt. a silent plea for him to give you more, but he doesn’t– he’s teasing you, some sadistic punishment, and all because you avoided him. his hands grope at your ass as his mouth finds yours, teeth and tongue bumping consistently like you both can’t get enough of each other. with one hand, you try to tug your underwear done, let him see how you’re ready for him, and eventually his hand finds your fumbling one, helping you get them off.

he pulls back for a moment, panting as he examines you. you’re splayed out under him, waiting with held breath for him to make the next move. it’s agonisingly slow– an act that takes seconds feeling like hours– and you begin to paw at him. 

“no, no– not yet, sweetheart,” through gritted teeth, dean takes both your hands into his, shaking his head. “wanna make this really good f’you; give you what you need, ‘kay?” 

and as soon as you nod, despite how miniscule and reluctant it is, he lets go of your hands and begins un-doing his belt. he shoves down his jeans just enough to free himself, before grabbing ahold of your hips and beginning to turn you over. you start to mutter some incoherent protest, babbling about how you want to see his face and all– as if this isn’t some animalistic ritual where you two are about to fuck like it’s your last day on earth– but he simply shushes you, pinning your wrists behind your back.

“this isn’t fair,” you mutter, as your face meets the mattress. however, your complaints go unnoticed as he ties his belt around your wrists, the soft click of the buckle securing you. you feel yourself pout, even if he can’t see your face. “dean–”

but you cut yourself off as you feel his bare cock against the curve of your ass, pre-cum dripping onto your skin like melted wax. you shift against him, pressing yourself up to him in desperate need of him to fuck you. with a guttural groan, he slowly begins to push into you, taking his time as to not hurt you, one hand holding onto your restrained wrists. 

“just– gotta take my time with you,” you hear dean say, as you already begin to clamp down on him. even with just a few inches in you, it feels good– your body still craves everything, though, that perverse ailment to soothe your needs. and when he pushes you a little too much into the mattress, your hips roughly bumping into the firmness of it, you jerk slightly, a weak moan escaping your lips as your clit meets the surface. this is enough to cause him to snap. “fuck, sweetheart, i– ican’ttakeit–”

he’s even more incoherent as you, as he stretches you out with his cock. “feelin’ so good f’me today,” he tells you, his cock pulsing inside of you violently. of course, this is one of the rare occasions where dean hasn’t worked you up– pushed you to near-orgasm territory again and again, all with the simply use of his fingers; had you crying and begging for him to fuck you– so you can’t help to cry out at the burning that begins to bloom, your nails digging into your palms. 

“hey, hey– none of that, yeah?” you stop your sniffling just enough to hear him, turning your head so you can see him out of the corner of your blurry vision. his face immediately softens, and you can feel his hand pulling at your clenched ones. “don’t need to be all like that when you’ve got me, pup. promise– gonna stop you feelin’ all that pain.”

you bite your bottom lip. “you promise?” the words sound like someone else’s; all child-like and full of blind belief. but it’s also dean. you know that whatever he promises, he’ll see it to his dying days to make sure it stays true for you.

“yeah– i always will,” and he gently begins to rock his hips (as if that makes his promise anymore real; but with your lust-ridden mind, you think it does), working himself deeper until he’s buried at the hilt. he’s got one hand on your waist, the other on your shoulder, as his knot bumps up against your entrance. he doesn’t force it in– much unlike other guys you’ve met, who always attempt to– much rather focuses on thrusting into you, seeing how much you can take. “see? bet that you’re already better than you were– and all because of me.”

the combination of his knot, already so swollen as it nudges up against your cunt with each thrust, as well as the wet, vulgar sounds that emanate throughout the room make you whine, pushing your ass back into him. he fucks into your faster, harder, pulling you up so you’re on your knees as he attacks your neck. his teeth never actually sink in, just graze the same spot– your mating gland– over and over.

“fuckin’ need you so bad,” dean groans pathetically, arms wrapping around your body like a snake trapping its prey. you can feel his face pressed against the space where your neck and shoulder meet, something wet mixing with the slick that seeps from your gland and you sweat. tears. “you– you have no idea how much i need you–”

“ineedyoutoo,” you babble out, as quickly as you possibly can before you go back to whimpering and whining. every time he brushes up against your gland, it messes with your brain– you’re so desperate for him to claim you, to knot you, and yet, you can’t find the words to ask. “‘m never gonna leave you again, please–”

as the tip of his cock begins to tap up against your cervix, his hands sneak back up and under your hoodie, finding your tits and groping them. you shudder at the roughness, biting down on your bottom lip as his knot stretches your cunt open just a little bit every time he thrusts into you. 

“gotta make you full of me, yeah? give you a– a kid an' all?” he cries into your neck, hands moving down your body until they rest in front of your abdomen. dean presses down gently, making you groan, feeling for himself. his thrusts have grown more erratic, lost of that certain rhythm that kept him in control. you can tell how eager he is to do it, to finally knot you, and for once, you’re not going to say no. “gotta put it in you– gotta– shit–” he stops himself from crying out once more by sinking his teeth into your flushed skin; instead, it’s your turn to cry. “gotta fill you up with me, pup– got it?”

you’ve started to sob now, your own cries competing with his. your cunt keep spasming around him as he drags his cock against your walls each time he thrusts in and out, trying to keep him in place. when you do this, you can hear him grit his teeth, his nails instinctively dig into your abdomen like you’re actually hurting him. however, it’s not until your cunt tighten around him a little too hard– even with your slick gushing over of you and soaking the both of you– that he lurches forward and almost knocks you over. 

it’d be fine.. if his knot hadn’t (finally) made its way inside of you.

the noise you make might as well be a warning sound. you cry out so loudly that it’s on the verge of a scream, and dean clamps a hand over your mouth, occasionally slipping from the wetness of your face. he keeps fucking into you, though, now officially up and in your guts as his knot keeps him in place. your muffled noises seem to just encourage him; the only thing, aside from you, that will satiate his depraved, animalistic appetite.

“thank you,” he whine into your neck, ignoring how you struggle against his firm hold. every time that you feel his cock pulse and throb within you, you can’t help but to push yourself away from him, like you’re trying to escape.. something. “fuckin’– stop it, now. ‘m not lettin’ you go now, pup– gotta finish this off.”

and despite how gruff he sounds, how exasperated he is that you’re still refusing to let him properly mate with you, he drops his hand from your mouth, holding you firmly to his chest. you can tell he’s about to cum– the way he’s gone deathly silent, except for the pathetic, albeit aggressive noises he makes. with an occasional mutter of how “y’mine” and “needyounow”, he pants and whimpers loudly against your gland, getting dangerously close to biting down on your sore flesh. he’s still thrusting into you with that frenzied pace, until he suddenly seizes up and stills.

the first load of his cum is enough to make you choke. you can feel his heavy cock jerk and pulsate inside of you, his knot impressively pushing deeper into you as he fucks his cum into you. the thickness of his knot, however, ensures that nothing leaks out, stuffing you until you’re sure that you cannot physically hold any more. but it keeps coming out, making you gasp a little when dean's shaking hand presses tentatively down on your sensitive and full abdomen.

another gush of warm cum floods your cunt, this time heading past your cervix– simply because there’s nowhere else for it to go. he keeps rutting into you, not as hard and feverish as before, but just enough to make sure he’s breeding you. “‘m so proud of you– did so good f’me,” he groans against you neck once more, praising you as his teeth nip at your gland. your tilt your head a little, giving him better access; you’re already bonded to him, for good, so this is nothing more than a reassurance. a re-do of the first time you had sex together. the knotting was just to make sure you didn’t get away. and if you were to get pregnant..

“do it– please!” you cry, your pulse loud in your ears. “wanna be yours forever!”

the puncture hurts at first– you’re forever sore from the amount of times dean sinks his teeth into your neck, even if it should be second nature at this point– but you’re distracted by that brief ach of pain as you feel your cunt squirt around him, grinding your ass back into him. all this does is cause him to sink his teeth in further, harder, like he refuses to let go of you. he grunts against your flesh, mumbles something completely unintelligible, before he finally releases you. 

“gonna give you everythin’ you need,” he’s ragged, his pent-up frustrations defeated from his primal.. exertions. his cock occasionally throbs in you, his knot stretching you out more and more as his keeps pushing his cum into you. “promise ‘m gonna give you a baby if that’s what i have to do to keep you, pup.. can’t have you gettin’ away anymore..”

he still holds you firmly to his chest, the two of you breathing and panting heavily. you merely nod in agreement to whatever he’s saying, not properly taking in anything. it’s not like you do plan on leaving him– probably not ever after.. this– and hearing what he says to you, promises you, makes something bloom in your chest. it’s not dread (something you’ve felt before when guys try to mate and then get all controlling over you), but something that calms you; a silent reminder that he means good by his words, no matter how delirious he may sound.

maybe it’s not love, not yet, but it’s getting there.

it’s nice.

however. your brief moment of comforting reassurance is broken when dean starts talking again..

An apology is going to taste like bile on Homelander’s tongue, but he’s willing to extend something of an olive branch if it will placate Soldier Boy enough to help him find the key to immortality. 

That had been his plan, anyway—try and smooth things over with Ben. He just hadn’t anticipated stumbling upon the two of you caught in the throes of passion.

Homelander hears your voice through the walls, high-pitched and loud, his father’s name spewed out like a prayer before ending on a sharp moan.

He knows, immediately, that it’s you on the other side of the door—his father’s sweet little pet, the human that worships Soldier Boy like a god, who has no regard for the heavenly power that Homelander has been gifted with. 

You are also the only human in the world that’s getting away with such misplaced devotion. 

Homelander licks his lips, tensing his jaw as his eyes itch to burn through the drywall, red flares that will your pretty little head off once his father spills his seed into you. It would be gratifying to knock Soldier Boy down a few pegs, to make him realize that Homelander is the god that humans are supposed to worship, not him. Ben does not have the upper-hand just because his poor, powerless lover has been allowed to live this long. 

He considers it; that timeline of events plays out before Homelander’s eyes like a film reel. It would be gratifying, yes, but stupid—the life of one human isn’t worth risking his chance at eternity. 

Homelander knows that his father would hate him if he killed you, would see him as something worse than a disappointment, and he’d track down any remaining V1 to destroy it himself. 

Not that Homelander thinks he can’t succeed without his father. He can find the V1 on his own, but there’s no reason to create unnecessary obstacles. 

Your death can wait a little longer. 

“Please, Ben,” Homelander hears you say through the wall, your voice soft, far too gentle for someone like Soldier Boy to love. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah? You like that, hm?” There’s a pause, a mocking laugh as his father’s voice deepens. “’Course you do, pretty cunt’s still squeezing my fingers so tightly. Can’t even count the number of times you’ve come, and she still wants more. Dirty girl.” 

Homelander considers leaving, but the thought is brief, overshadowed by his growing desire to, somehow, get back at his father. Soldier Boy will be more sorry about what happened back at Fort Harmony if the real force of Homelander’s powers are used against him, if he can find a way to prove he’s misjudged his son yet again. 

The desire to kill you erupts once more, but Homelander stays still, silent, assessing the scene from a shadowy advantage like a natural predator. 

When another cry leaves your lips, curiosity wins out and Homelander peers through the wall, peeling back the layers with his super-powered vision. 

The room is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, and he grimaces at the bodily fluids he can detect on nearly every surface. His scan of the bedroom is quick, much more dismissive than studious, before he focuses his attention on you and Soldier Boy. 

Your cheek is pressed into the bed, head tilted in Homelander’s direction, the view enough to see the pleasure, laced with a hint of pain, that is sketched into the lines of your expression. Exhaustion wears at you, spilled cum is drying on your stomach, but your body still radiates with heat, still beats with need as tears gather at your lashes. 

His father’s face is deep in your cunt, fingers stretching your folds as he sucks your clit, hard enough to have your back arching up off the bed. With a gasp, your hands fly to Ben’s hair, lacing through the strands as you tug reactively. 

To Homelander’s surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to mind your attempts at control, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, every word raspy and salacious. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet as candy, aren’t you, doll?” Ben mutters against your skin, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before diving deeper into your cunt. 

He pins your other leg onto the mattress, spreading your thighs far enough that every inch of you is exposed to the man before it. It also gives Homelander the perfect view of his father’s tongue deep in your core, slurping up the juices with more passion than he’s ever seen him devote to anything. 

Homelander feels himself growing hard, an erection forming steadily in his pants, straining against the tight material of his uniform. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, hoping that his hatred for you will cool the conflicting lust he feels. 

A few of your nails have cracked, the tips bloody from the way you’d dug them into Ben’s back. Had he been a weaker man, a man without V1 and years of experimentation done on him, there would be long, red lines scratched into his taut muscles. 

Instead, the skin is flawless, the dried blood there belonging to you alone. You’re not strong enough to harm him, but Ben doesn’t care, perhaps, even, derives pleasure from how easily he can handle you. 

Homelander thinks it’s demeaning that his father is so devoted to you when you’re so weak, when you’re nothing compared to his otherworldly strength. It makes Homelander sick to look at you, to see the hazy affection that clouds Ben’s irises, because that’s his father, and it’s wrong that any love he’s able to muster up should go to such a pathetic creature. 

Tears gather at your lashes, and you dig your nails deeper into Ben’s scalp, crying out painfully. “Too much, Ben,” you say, writhing on the bed beneath him, voice wracked with desperation.

No sympathy is spared from Soldier Boy. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you free even as the tears fall onto your cheeks, heavy from the overstimulation. Your lips are swollen and parted, saliva coating the corners of them as you take whatever Ben will give you. 

For whatever reason, his father is infatuated with you. You aren't special; there’s nothing marginally interesting about you, except for, perhaps, the fact that you aren’t scared of anyone on the Seven, not even Homelander. 

You’re still human, though, still sickeningly fragile, and Homelander is beginning to wonder if that’s why Ben is so determined to find the V1, if he has ulterior motives that don’t include giving his son the gift of immortality. 

That lights him up with indignation that, for some reason, only goes between his legs. He can’t look away from the scene before him, can’t tear his eyes from the sickeningly sweet affection that has become tangible between the two of you. His father is many things, things that even Homelander can’t figure out, but he is just as starved for adoration and you give it to him tenfold. 

He doesn’t understand—can’t understand why your love is so undying. Soldier Boy is no better than Homelander, he is no God, and yet, he has still earned the pure, innocent love of a human, the love that Vought had always promised was Homelander’s birthright. 

Frustration rises in him and Homelander palms himself over the suit, suppressing a groan, the pressure relieving only a bit of his lust. He needs to be more careful, needs to find a way to get to the V1 before his father. There’s more room in his heart than Homelander initially believed, and while there’s a slim chance you’d even survive an injection of V1, his father might be foolish enough to try. 

Homelander could kill you—he should kill you before it comes to that. He wants his father to see that you’re not worth anything, certainly not worth the world that could be built with their two forces combined. If he can just get you out of the picture, maybe things will be smoother. 

Maybe you’re the reason his father keeps turning against him.

The thought flares his eyes red again, threatening and bright, but the color flickers, dies back down into their normal blue as he feels the repulsive want take control. Homelander is too intrigued by the way his father is fucking you, the way his tongue flicks into you, rendering you a mess. He’s never seen Soldier Boy so vulnerable, and though his walls are still high, there’s a softness about him that remains behind these doors. 

“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve got one more in you.” Ben says, scoffing at the tears running down your cheeks. He is mocking, but gentle at the edges, careful to search for your breaking point. The stamina and strength of a supe is ten times that of a human, and ten times that for someone like Soldier Boy. If he doesn’t want his toy to break, he has to know its limits. 

You whimper, closer to pain now than you were before. A choked sob escapes your lips, but your orgasm creeps up on you, your body shaking miserably as it tries to force another one through the painful stimulation. 

That’s more gratifying to Homelander than anything—the pain on your face—and he presses his palm to his bulge harder, faster, resting one hand against the wall as he thrusts his hips into the other. He’s careful not to make a sound, though he’s certain Ben’s hearing is not as good as his, and he’s probably high enough to write it off as delusion. 

“I-I can’t—” you say, and it would seem miserable if you weren’t breathless, if you didn’t want to come again so badly.

Soldier Boy groans into your cunt, his eyes commanding as he gazes up at you over your hips. The tears falling down your cheeks, onto the bed, are making him harder, his cock swollen between his legs, even though he’d come just minutes before. He drags a hand down the length of it, enough to give him some relief, but not enough to come quite yet. 

“You can. You’re close I can feel it.” He traces a soothing, possessive circle on your thigh with his thumb, keeping you steady on the bed. “Touch those pretty tits for me. My girls aren’t getting enough attention.” 

You obey without question, lazily dragging your hands up your stomach and onto your chest. The moment your fingertips graze your nipples, you come to the edge of a climax, your voice louder, body more pliant under Ben’s touch. 

His father grins, face shiny with your slick as you grope yourself. 

Homelander pulses with need, shaking with a silent moan as he watches you play with your breasts. He swallows back the sounds, suppresses the lasers that flick in his irises. You have a nice pair of tits, ones that would look even better swollen, leaking with milk, and briefly, he wonders if his father would share you. You’re just a human, after all, and you could serve a much greater purpose if you devoted yourself to two gods instead of one. 

Or, maybe, his father will find a way to fix the mistake he’s made in his lab rat son, to create the child that Homelander apparently isn’t. A better version of him will never exist, and Soldier Boy would be stupid for ever thinking so, even though Homelander knows the thought has crossed his mind, knows that he is too much of a disappointment for Ben to ever try to build the kind of relationship with Homelander that he craves.

The hypotheticals don’t matter because Homelander knows you wouldn’t be a good mother, not to someone of their bloodline. You’d infect any super-abled child with your pathetic human morals, twist their minds until they suppress their powers and try to fit into a world that doesn’t want them. 

That is, of course, if the child didn’t tear you apart from the inside-out first. 

Homelander grits his teeth, a metallic taste flowing into his mouth as he thinks of it, of watching you grow a baby inside of you that will ultimately be your demise. His breath stutters; he’s pathetically close, but his orgasm doesn’t come until a moment later, when he realizes that his father isn’t half the man he thinks he is, and he’ll never be the God that Homelander is. 

Soldier Boy a slave to your pleasure—a weak, measly being—even when he pretends everything he does is for himself. You’re crying, and though Soldier Boy is tugging at himself, he’s not focused on making sure he comes—he wants to break you down, build you back up with his mouth and his hands. Ben wants you to worship him, wants you to see him as a holy figure, wants you to praise him even as he degrades you.

He is controlled by his emotions, too swayed by a pretty face and a sultry tongue.

Unlike his father, Homelander is no longer focused on winning over people’s love, and certainly not the love of one person. 

You release one more sob before you come, soaking his father’s face with whatever your body has left to give. His father works you through the orgasm, even though you can hardly move, your eyes shut, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. 

“That’s my girl,” Soldier Boy says, and he’s so proud, so caring, that it has Homelander spilling into his pants right after you. It lasts for a few seconds, and then relief comes, then the disgusting sensation that settles as the cum dries in his suit. 

The realization of what he’s done is not staggering, but it hits him just as his father presses a kiss to your forehead. You’re half passed-out already, eyes closed as your breathing evens out, thighs still sticky with bodily fluids, but you mutter something unintelligible under your breath anyway. 

Even with his hearing, Homelander can’t catch the words, but Ben doesn’t seem to understand either. Still, his father gives you something of a smile before leaning over to pluck the joint off of his nightstand, keeping one hand possessively on your thigh. He’s still hard, but for a few minutes he sits there in the quiet of the evening, smoking, before he places the blunt back in the ash tray and moves to take care of the erection himself. 

Homelander decides that’s his cue to leave. He can justify watching his father fuck you, but watching only him masturbate over your sleeping body feels like a line he shouldn’t cross. 

Sparing one last exhale, Homelander slinks off the floor, hoping that neither of you hear the elevator ding.

You remember it as clear as day.

Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.

“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”

“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you. 

It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near. 

“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”

Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”

And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.

Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.

It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy. 

It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky. 

One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.

“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”

You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”

“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”

You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”

Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class. 

“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”

You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.” 

Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer. 

“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”

You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.

“Very funny, Stevie.”

“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”

“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”

“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”

Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”

You knew exactly where this was going. 

After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity. 

As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.

“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”

You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.

“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”

You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”

“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”

You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”

“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”

“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”

You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.

Making you feel small yet again. 

“About what?” he challenged. 

You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway. 

“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”

Steve’s face fell. 

The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.

“Steve… I—”

“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”

Christ.

You had attacked the one thing he loved most.

What kind of friend were you?

“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”

“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”

He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door. 

“I’ll see you around.”

Then the door shut coldly. 

Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.

You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.

It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?

Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.

Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court. 

Unmoved.

You missed Steve dearly.

He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him. 

You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.

“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.

He also looked like he had been working out. 

He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.

Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.

Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.

“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.

You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.

“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.

“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.

“He would want you there, you know.”

You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?

You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.

“No, he wouldn’t.”

It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.

“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”

Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener? 

He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.

Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”

Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask. 

Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.

“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied. 

He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.

“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”

“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.

“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?

“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”

The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.

The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.

“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”

The audience was eating it up. 

Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?

Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.

“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”

The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.

“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—” 

“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”

Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room. 

Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me? 

They were already over their time.

“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”

The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.

“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.

Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more. 

Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.

The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.

It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard. 

It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.

Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”

By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out. 

Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.

“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”

Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.

“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.” 

Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage. 

“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”

And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.

Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice. 

All he could hear was the echo of that name. 

Your name. 

“Steve.”

You.

“Are you okay?”

You had started writing songs? Since when? 

“Steve, we’re up—”

And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?

“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”

“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.

But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.

“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”

And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.

It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.

Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.

You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Steve.

Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.

But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.

Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.

You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.

He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.

Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.

Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.

Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.

“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.

It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”

With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.

You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.

“Not now, Steve,” you whispered. 

Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.

“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”

You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.

“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”

The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.

“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”

The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.

You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time? 

Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.

That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.

With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.

“Where are you going?”

“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.

You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.

You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.

You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”

But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.

“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.

He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.

“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”

You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”

When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”

Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.

“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”

You felt your heart drop.

In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.

You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.

Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.

He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”

But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.

“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”

You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive. 

“Steve…”

“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”

He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face. 

But it never came.

The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.

The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.

“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”

Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.

There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”

But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.

“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly. 

Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.

And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him. 

But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.

You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.

Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.

“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.” 

You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all. 

That’s all?

Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.

But he pulled away.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.

He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.

Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together. 

“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”

Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”

Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”

Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?

He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.

“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.

“I did, yeah.”

“And?” Bucky prodded.

“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”

Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.

“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”

That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”

He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.

The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small. 

Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.

“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”

Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.

He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.

As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.

He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.

He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by. 

The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.

He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them. 

Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.

You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.

Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.

Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.

Your heart ached a little. 

You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.

“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”

He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.

“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”

It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it. 

The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him. 

With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.

“Motivated?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”

You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”

Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”

Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.

The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.

Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.

“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”

“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”

“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”

You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”

“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”

At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!

Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.

Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.

“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”

You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.

“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”

You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.

“I missed you.”

Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.

Fuck. 

Did I just screw this up?

But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.

“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.

Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.

“Right. Study.”

Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.

As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.

But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.

He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise. 

“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”

Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.

“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”

Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.

“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”

“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.

“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”

“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”

The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say. 

You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.

He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.

You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.

“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”

With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.

Fuck. Pull yourself together.

You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him. 

Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.

You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind. 

Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?

No. That sounded too desperate.

Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?

Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?

“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.

You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—” 

You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.

Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.

“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”

Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity. 

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.

Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.

“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.

“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.

He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.

“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend. 

It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.

To someone you wanted.

“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.

His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I know that look.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”

His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.

“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”

A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”

A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.

And him only.

“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”

Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.

“My best girl.”

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.

“Steve…”

He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”

Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”

Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest. 

And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.

“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled. 

With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”

You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind. 

A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.

“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…” 

“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”

He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit. 

It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you. 

“Oh—! Steve—!” 

“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”

You shook your head. “Mmphh.” 

With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?” 

You nodded. 

The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture. 

Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy. 

It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.” 

His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”

A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.

You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.

It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.

“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.

The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad. 

“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”

“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”

Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.

“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”

You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out. 

Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.

“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”

His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming. 

His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.

With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.

“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.” 

Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum. 

“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”

Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.

He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it. 

He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp. 

He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—” 

Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.

He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.

“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath. 

He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle. 

“That was—”

The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle. 

You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.

He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you. 

“Close.” 

Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.

Your bedroom.

Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan. 

To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.

And that was the problem. 

If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right. 

Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent. 

You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere. 

He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.

“Done studying already?”

“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.” 

Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.

“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.

Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.

“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back. 

“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”

You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.

“Is that so?”

You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”

When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation. 

You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.

Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press. 

You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”

His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.

“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”

“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”

You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”

Stopped talking.

Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.

“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”

You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.

“I’m—”

“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”

Fuck.

What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?

He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.

And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.

“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”

You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.

“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.

“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”

He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.

“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”

You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window. 

He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.

I love you. 

But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.

“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”

Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too. 

“It’s fine—”

But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.

“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”

As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.

You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”

Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.

“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—” 

“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?” 

You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush. 

You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time? 

Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away. 

“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”

“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”

“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.

You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.

A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”

“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.

“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”

Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him. 

“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”

Sweetheart.

Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.

“Get out.”

Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”

“Get out of my house, Steve!”

The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.

He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you. 

He let it happen. 

It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.

He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.

Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention. 

“Wait!”

And to his surprise, you actually did.

You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there. 

A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.

“What?” you shouted over the rain. 

Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.

“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.” 

He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined. 

“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”

He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.

“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”

Your hand tightened around the doorknob. 

Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.

“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”

Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you. 

He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.

“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”

When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.

“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”

You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly. 

For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes. 

He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.

You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose. 

You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more. 

Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.

Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever. 

Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.

A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.

Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.

He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him. 

They were best friends, after all.

To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”

Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”

So much for avoiding the awkwardness.

“I see,” was all you could manage.

Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.

“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”

You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”

After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.

Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear. 

“Wait!”

You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.

You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.

“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”

But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.

“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”

You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.

He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.

In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.

My best girl.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”

“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours. 

He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.

“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”

He had written a song? 

For you?

You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.

As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.

“I don’t know what to say—”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”

With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.

“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”

The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.

“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”

He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.

“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”

You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”

The sound made Steve’s smile brighten. 

Another small victory.

“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.

The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave. 

Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow. 

You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen. 

With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.

Then, the acoustic guitar started to play. 

The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.

Then, Steve started to sing.

You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy. 

Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart. 

The song was a masterpiece of us.

It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this. 

By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying. 

first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.