Fresh 🍋

He was quick to define it of course. This was private. You didn’t go out on dates. You didn’t go wailing about how you come apart on Soldier Boy’s cock every night to the slop they call newspapers today.

He even had even implemented rules for your hookups. Neither of you bitched when you couldn’t come over. He didn’t do kisses and cuddles. You got what you both needed and then you went your separate ways.

Casual.

He couldn’t let you get attached.

And he wasn’t attached either. But he was nosy. He could hear you poking around in his bathroom, getting ready for work. Rushing.

No time for a shower or makeup because he’d had you pinned beneath him, lapping at you like a man devouring his last meal, a grin tugging at his face as you protested that you absolutely had to get ready for work right until he sucked on that spot that made your eyes roll back in your head, dumb and boneless, just how he liked you.

So when your phone buzzed on his nightstand, he was curious. If anything he was hoping that you might have a text or something that would mean you wouldn’t have to leave. His cock was still hard, but you didn’t have time for that, so he was waiting until you’d gone to sort himself out. If you didn’t have to leave, well, that suited him just fine.

He leant over lifting it up off the wood until it lit up. You had a raft of notifications, but the one that had just come through was from something called Tinder.

You matched with Jack! Say hi now.

Ben frowned, though he didn’t know why. Didn’t know what that feeling inside him was either, though it sat sourly in the pit of his stomach.

As you walked out of the bathroom, unfurling your hair from your shirt as you tied it up, he slung it on the nightstand and watched you. That thing bubbled inside him until it blurted out without warning, ‘what’s Tinder?’

‘What?’ you said, stilling just a fraction. He noticed. He always did.

‘Your phone buzzed,’ he said, jutting his chin in the direction of the offending item. You looked at it and the scooped it up, checking the notification but not opening it.

‘You matched with Jack,’ he said, letting the insinuation sit in the air around you.

‘Oh it’s just a socials app,’ you lied, throwing it in your bag without looking. Soldier boy hesitated. He didn’t know much about that stuff. He’d heard about it along with all the other stuff he didn’t have a grasp on yet. But he didn’t do social media, and he avoided the whole app thing like the plague, so the phone someone had given him after he broke his first one in half out of frustration mostly served as a paperweight. But Jack still sat bitterly on his tongue.

He didn’t say anything, just sat there bare-chested, jaw tight, cock still straining under the sheets in a way he wanted you to relieve right now, though there was something behind your eyes that meant he knew you wouldn’t.

‘I um… I should go,’ you said. Soldier Boy said nothing, just nodded, pretending to be deeply interested in rolling himself a joint as you slipped out quietly.

And after that he should have let it go. He wanted to. Not because he wasn’t curious but because these days his curiosity he had found often led him to needing people. The world didn’t work the way it used to. And he hated that.

He hated that he had to ask Hughie, of all people. Hughie who’d laughed in his face and then immediately gave him that panicked look pussies got when they knew they were in trouble if they didn’t answer him correctly. He’d asked if he was wanting to expand his dating pool. Soldier Boy’s heart sank.

And then he’d locked himself in his room. Sitting. Sulking.

Thinking of you.

Thinking of you and Jack.

And yet when you’d texted, the only reason he really kept the phone around, asking if he minded you coming over after work, he hadn’t said no.

He’d been quiet though. You’d noticed that. Jaw set, eyes absent of their usual warmth when he was teasing you for needing him again so soon after this morning. He’d normally make fun of you, ask if you’d been thinking of bouncing of his cock all day. He’d whisper sweet nothings on your ear, if sweet came in the form of ‘my needy girl’ and ‘bet you soaked through your damn office chair, huh princess?’

He’d still made you come apart. Still had you writhing as you rode him, still pounded you into the mattress, finishing inside you with a heavy grunt before sliding off, rolling over, grabbing his weed off the nightstand, and busying himself with rolling a joint so he didn’t have to look at you. You noticed it, figured he was in another one of his moods, and sighed.

Feeling none of the usual softness that you’d become accustomed to was coming your way you busied yourself with getting dressed. You pulled on your shirt, untucking the hair you were sure looked like a bird’s nest out of your collar. before you moved to grab your underwear and jeans. Soldier boy watched you, admiring the curve of your ass before it disappeared behind cotton and denim.

Off somewhere else. To someone else.

‘So,’ he said, clearing his throat. You looked over expectantly, ‘what are you doing later?’

‘Nothing much,’ you shrugged.

‘Hot date, huh?’ he grunted.

‘No,’ you frowned, your eyebrows pulling together which made you look cuter than it ought to, ‘why would you think that?’

‘Your app.’

‘My what?’ you said, before it dawned on you, ‘oh.’

Soldier Boy said nothing.

‘Is that a problem?’ you asked.

‘Why would it be a problem?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ you said, ‘you’re being weird.’

‘About you fucking other dudes?’ he scoffed, ‘why would I be weird?’

‘Ben,’ you sighed.

He looked away from you, the muscle in his jaw twitching with irritation. You moved around the bed, perched yourself on the edge of it. He still wouldn’t look at you.

‘Are you jealous?’ you asked, unable to take the amusement fully out of your voice because you knew that would make him look or rather glare at you.

‘Jealous?’ he baulked, ‘why the fuck would I be jealous?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ you challenged. Ben scowled and you dropped your voice lower, ‘you were the one who said that this was casual, remember?’

‘It is.’

‘Okay so you fuck other girls, right?’

Ben didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t. He hadn’t for a long while. Since about three weeks into this thing.

Since you were too tired to go home and he’d been nice enough to let you stay, already breaking his own rules. When he’d woken up, you were wrapped around him, head on his chest, lips pouted out against his skin in a way that made you look like a fish. The cutest damn fish he’d ever seen.

‘I didn’t make a date…with Jack,’ you offered quietly, ‘we messaged, but he was-’

‘A limp-dick commie.’

‘Perfectly pleasant and polite,’ you corrected, raising a scolding eyebrow at him, ‘and didn’t use phrases like limp-dick commie because he’s not a thousand years old-‘

‘Watch it.’

You smiled wryly and saw a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. You sighed.

‘I just thought there was no harm in looking. That I should make the most of it, but you’d get bored eventually…that I should have options,’ you explained.

‘What am I, a fucking temp job?’

‘I don’t know what we are. You said you don’t do more than this,’ you said.

‘You do?’

‘I’m not stupid enough to think that when I’m fifty, I’ll wanna be going out of my mind wondering if you’re out there fucking some other woman,’ you said.

‘Are you jealous?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Ben took a breath, searching your face.

‘Are you?’ you asked.

‘I’m not good at this.’

‘Evidently,’ you said.

‘I’ve not done the whole relationship thing,’ he started, the words feeling awkward between you.

‘Colour me surprised,’ you teased gently.

‘Not sure I’m a boyfriend material,’ he muttered.

‘You’re really selling it here,’ you joked, but when he stayed quiet, your expression softened, ‘Ben, I’m not asking you to marry me here.’

He let out a weak, quiet breath of a laugh.

‘So…what are you asking?’ he said after a minute, his voice smaller than you’d expected. Smaller than the man you found took up every inch of space, every corner of your mind, every facet of your life.

‘That we’re less casual?’

‘You don’t fuck any other guys?’

‘I didn’t fuck-’ you sighed when he raised an eyebrow, ‘okay, no other guys. That goes for you too.’

‘No other women. Got it.’

‘I meant you can’t fuck other guys,’ you teased.

‘Watch it,’ he mused. You leaned forward, allowing his hand to capture your chin, his calloused thumb rough against your skin.

‘So?’ you asked.

‘So,’ he said, ‘not casual huh?’

‘Not casual.’

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soldier boys tags

"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.

He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.

"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.

But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.

.

The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.

Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"

Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.

If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.

Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.

He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.

In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.

He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.

The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.

Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.

He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.

.

The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.

Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.

His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.

The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.

Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.

Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.

Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.

If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.

You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.

From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.

The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.

You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.

Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,

"She's beautiful from this angle."

"She tastes so sweet."

"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"

Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.

Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.

He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.

That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.

Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.

Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck

Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.

Somehow, the fantasy deepened.

He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.

His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.

Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love

Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.

Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.

No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.

Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.

Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.

Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.

Until it stuck...or didn't.

The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.

Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—

With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.

The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.

His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.

.

The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.

"Ahh, shoot!"

He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.

Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"

"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."

You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.

Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.

Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.

Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.

His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.

His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.

Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.

Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.

Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.

How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.

How devastating.

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However, you let doubt shroud the clarity of your judgment and his feelings towards you when things like this happen.

When he swings open his dorm room door to find you standing in the hallway with the biggest, happiest grin on your face, he immediately panics and pulls you in. He sticks his head out into the hallway to check if anyone saw you. His eyes dart around every nook and cranny in search of probing gazes. It is only when he is satisfied with the quiet that he closes the door behind him with a deep sigh.

“Baby, calm down,” you laugh, dropping your bag onto the floor before coming up to him and pressing him up against his door.

“I am calm,” he says nervously and nudges his glasses up on his face again. His eyes fall to meet yours first, then drop to your lips — glossed up shiny the way he likes it, before lifting back up.

Your lips curl into an amused smirk at how red he has gotten. “Nobody saw me, Clark. Don’t worry, I’m still your dirty little secret.”

His brows furrow at your words and, before he can respond, you’re sliding your hands up his broad chest and around his neck to tug him down to meet your lips. You chase after him hungrily, eager to taste the familiar kick of bubblegum on his tongue. Clark groans into your mouth as he picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his torso.

You giggle when he stumbles back onto his bed, and you’re scrambling to climb and straddle his lap. He tastes as good as always. His hair is slightly damp from his fresh shower, based on his text only minutes ago when he confirmed you’re good to come over. He smells like that lavender shampoo you love, the one you left once at his place and he never returned. His skin is warm and soft, tender underneath your delicate fingertips as you trace up his arm.

Times like these, the voices in your head quiet down. You’re not two kids from two different social circles. It’s only you and Clark, and Clark and you.

Clark spends his time with people who have 4.0s and are out there ready to change the world — if not already working towards it. They are future Nobel Peace Prize winners, the kind that do not have to buy them with daddy’s money. Revolutionaries. You hear them in classrooms, answering questions in rapid fire and challenging professors with words you can barely grasp.

You, on the other hand, are surrounded by people who host tailgates and Greek parties, who are inebriated more than sober throughout the week, and have abysmal class attendance to the point of surrender from most teachers. You love them, you absolutely do, but you also understand that they aren’t ones to care about changing the world — making money and networking, sure, but not so much about the other good stuff.

The two of you might as well live on different planes of existence.

Part of it is your personal insecurity (that’s something to deal with in therapy!), but another part of you is sincerely concerned that Clark doesn’t feel as strongly about you as you do him. Sometimes, when the worries get too much, when they occupy too much space in your brain, you let the words roll off your tongue.

“Why are we still doing all this in secret, Clark?” The moan that leaves your lips is caught between both petulance and desire as Clark drags his lips down your neck, sucking little love bites onto your skin. You’ve learned that, even if he is relatively secretive of you, he loves marking his territory. Typical men.

“Dunno what you mean,” he mumbles lazily against your skin, clearly too distracted to be having this conversation. Drunk off your smell, your warmth, your skin.

You giggle when his breath tickles your skin. He slowly makes his way back up, slanting his lips over yours and nibbling on your pout. “Come on, we’ve been hiding our relationship for months. I want to go on dates with you. I could take you to parties, you said you wanted to meet more people — and, even if I don’t understand half the presentations you do on thermonuclear dynamics, I’ll still sit in the audience to support you.”

You’re fully taking advantage of the fact that Clark is distracted by the wet drag of your mouth down the column of his throat, his throat bobbing as his heart rate picks up. You’re coaxing him to give you permission with soft kisses along his jaw while he mutters incoherently, his usually big and brilliant brain taking a little more time to compute your words.

It’s satisfying, you have to admit. To have someone as big, as handsome, as smart as Clark putty in your hands. You smile quietly into his neck as you shift your hips just right, just enough to have him let out a little whine.

“If we were out in the open, I could kiss you anywhere you want. Remind everyone that you’re mine,” you hum, pleased.

“Honey,” he breathes out in a near whimper.

“So tell me, hm, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why won’t you let us go public?” You press up against him and ensure every inch of you is touching every inch of him. All you need is a teensy yes. One word from him to allow you to share this with all your friends.

For someone who shares everything with their best friends, keeping this relationship a secret has been an impossible feat. Nights you sneak away from your shared apartment. Days spent dodging questions about your whereabouts. Lying to your friends. It’s not you.

It’s not Clark’s fault. The two of you agreed to this early on; well, Clark mentioned the desire to keep it hush-hush, and you — like he is now — were too caught up in him and immediately agreed to his terms and conditions. You should’ve known better, should’ve read all the stipulations.

“Please,” he pleads, lungs devoid of any capacity for oxygen.

But please isn’t an answer. Not really. That silence is louder than anything. Your chest tightens as another fear sinks and takes root in the stiffness of your muscles. “Are you embarrassed by me?” Your voice is a tad quieter this time, a tremor in your fingers as you draw away from him.

Clark looks at you through hazy eyes, his usually bright sapphire irises clouded over into a murky blue. Confusion tugs at his brows. “Honey,” he says again.

Still not an answer.

With a heavy heart, you decide that it's best if you leave now — while you still can, while your pride is still semi-intact. Self-awareness has always been your strong suit, but self-restraint balances on the precarious line of your greatest strength and your fatal flaw. This time, you remind yourself that you know better. So you rewind your movements, reluctantly peeling yourself off him and getting to your feet.

His eyes follow you, wide and bewildered, as you gather your bag. You avoid his prying gaze. It’s easier to focus on the rough fabric of your backpack and the cool metallic touch of the doorknob on your palm. Just as you’re about to twist the door open, a hand settles against the door beside your head.

A shudder wracks through you when his lips ghost the back of your neck. His lips hover, never quite touching. “Stay,” he murmurs quietly.

Resolve, you remind yourself. You have some of that left. “I should go,” you say, with none of it.

“Stay,” he urges once again. For a man who usually babbles nonstop about whatever topic is plaguing his mind, he is a man of few words today.

“I can’t do this, Clark. I don’t want to keep hiding like this. If you’re ashamed of me—” your throat tightens, “—then maybe you should find someone who makes more sense for you.”

“Makes more sense for me,” he repeats, numb.

Before you can step away, his hands tighten on your shoulders to turn you around. Your head immediately ducks, eschewing the expression on his face that will undoubtedly be your undoing. Your resolution crumbles like sand when he uses his fingers to gently tip your chin up to face him.

Clark watches the slight quiver of your lips and searches your eyes. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice frayed, “what’s going on? Why now?”

“I don’t know, I just— I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be seen with me, why see me at all?” The words tumble clumsily from your lips as you struggle to form the syllables on your tongue.

“What makes you think I don’t want to be seen with you?” His tone is soft, almost patronizing if you didn’t know Clark any better, but you know his question comes from a point of curiosity, confusion.

Your lips twist in displeasure as you scowl up at him. His gaze smooths around the edges. “Why do you think?” There are no teeth to your words. Even when you try to protect yourself, you’ve never been able to be cruel to Clark Kent.

Clark’s lips part again, another explanation — or excuse — on his tongue.

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper now, though your voice wavers, “I don’t want to hear it. Just… let me leave with a little pride left. If you— if you don’t want to be with me, then I don’t want this either. I deserve better than this.”

His expression splinters and shifts between confusion and hurt, and a touch of what you may mistake as love. His gaze cracks as he leans down again to capture your lips with his. He swallows your little protests, weak ones that carry no weight, and lifts you again to plant you on his desk. Relentlessly chasing after you, your love, your lips. His mouth trails fire across your skin and you are only human.

“Clark,” you exhale sharply when he kisses a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. “Hold on. We need to— oh fuck.”

“That mouth of yours,” he mutters and steals another kiss. “I know. We need to talk. Can’t help myself when I’m with you.” The weight of his unwillingness to be apart from you is heavy in the air as you make every effort to regain control of your breathing.

“We need to talk.” It’s your turn to echo him, mostly for your own sanity.

“I love you.” The words that leave Clark’s mouth come out in such a rush that you almost get whiplash. You’re not even entirely sure that you heard him right. Judging by the flush that spreads quickly up his neck, across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, your listening skills may be better than you think.

However, your brain is still struggling to connect the dots. There are so many questions circling through your mind, one a far cry from the next. You don’t know if this is him pulling a get-out-of-jail-free card, an easy phrase to tame the wildfires spreading in your brain.

“What?” is the only response you can muster, and it comes out as a squeak.

“I love you,” he repeats, firmer this time. He says it again and again, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw. He says it like a prayer, a promise.

“W-where is this coming from?”

Clark only grins down at you, boyish in a way that makes your heart stutter against your ribs. “Think I’ve always known. I just… never found the right time to say it.”

“How is this— what are you talking about?”

“I was never ashamed of you. Never even crossed my mind.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

Clark scratches his cheek as pink tints it again. “Well, funny you mention it,” he starts, voice dripping with apprehension. “You’re going to think it’s silly, but I never wanted you to be ashamed of me.”

“Ashamed of you?”

“You’re… really cool. Like really cool. You’re completely out of my league and every day I question why you’re even seeing me,” Clark swallows thickly, “I keep waiting for the day you realize that you deserve better and I thought we were doing both of us a favor if you want to end things clean. No mess, no fuss since nobody would know about us in the first place.”

“Clark,” you scold as your brows pucker disapprovingly. 

He ducks his head and presses his temple against yours, closing his eyes as his chest rises with a deep inhale. “I love you, I do. I realize now that I’ve been stupid for making you feel that way, because that’s the last thing I want you to feel. Never want you to doubt my feelings for you.”

Tilting his head, he kisses you — swift and chaste. Sweet, just like him. “I guess we’ve both been incredibly silly then,” you laugh against his lips. 

Clark picks you up again, easily, for that matter. His strength sends a shiver up your spine. He brings you back to his bed and lets you fall back, limbs sprawled comfortably across his mattress. The sight of you just like this, exposed but not vulnerable, has molten lava traveling through his veins. 

He traces his fingers up your stomach, revealed from where your shirt has ridden up, towards your sternum, over the hem of the lace clinging onto your body like second skin. Clark proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes or so — he doesn’t quite know, time is abstract when he’s with you — worshipping every single inch of you. 

Distracted by everything that is you, he misses the door swinging open until he hears a cry that immediately has him faltering, his large frame covering every exposed piece of you. You don’t seem frazzled, instead looking over his shoulder with an amused quirk of your lips. 

Lex has a hand slapped over his eyes, blindly grabbing around his desk before his fingers catch the corner of his laptop. They immediately latch onto it and drag it towards him. “Fucking hell, Clark, warn a man,” he snaps as he shoves his laptop against his chest. 

“I thought you had calc at this time!”

Lex smartly chooses not to respond, instead reaching for the door on his way out. “Next time, put a sock on the door!”

Color spreads quickly across his face and you can’t help but drink in how pretty he looks all red. “Think Lex will tell anyone?” You muse, more entertained than anything.

Clark rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning down to capture your lips again. “Can’t care less. Now, where were we?”

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @stanmarvelous @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @jackierose902109 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @shewhorunswithfandoms @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @micnicmabel @eloucherry @everydaydreamer @pinknerdyunicorn @jasontoddswhitestreak

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 ✦

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young!dean who loves to mark you in his seed

“just lie still, please,” he murmured. he moaned as he reached his peak, his head falling to his shoulder. your legs were wrapped around his waist, holding him close as you watched him jerk himself quickly. “oh, fuck, i’m cumming—“ he groaned, letting himself spill all over your abdomen. after being spent, he grinned, “look at that. so pretty in white.”

young!dean who loves to roleplay

his hands held yours behind you as he pressed up against you. you felt his erection against your ass, sending pulses straight to your core. “you’re under arrest, ma’am. you have the right to remain silent,” he bit his lip, letting himself grind against you. “although i don’t think you’ll be able to.”

young!dean who is into gunplay

he let the cold pistol run along your inner thigh, just missing your core. you whimpered at the sensation, pleading for him to just touch you already. “patience, baby,” he said. then he dragged the gun along your slit with light pressure. your head fell back at its bluntness. “that’s it. good, huh?”

young!dean who always wants to have a quickie

“we can’t,” you muttered, suppressing a giggle. he didn’t respond, instead just pecked kisses along your neck and collarbone. “nobody comes here,” he smirked. he let himself rut against you, jeans against jeans. the janitors closet was dusty, small, and even a bit dark. but you still saw the spark in his eyes. “c’mon, baby, don’t be a wuss.”

young!dean who loves to be bitten

your jaw closes around his shoulder, causing a groan to leave his lips. his hips stutter briefly before he continues thrusting into you. “again. bite me again. harder, though,” he grinned boyishly. and when you did, he moaned against your skin. “again.”

young!dean who watches porn everyday

the mewls and moans from the screen made his head fall back. he watched the screen, and tried to match their pace, but ended up going much faster. he fisted his cock in a rather quickened pace, even letting his hips buck to meet his fist.

Daryl sat a little apart from the group, crossbow resting against the side of his chair like it was just another piece of him. He’d taken his vest off hours ago. The black shirt underneath clung in places from the heat. He kept looking. Not constantly. Just enough that every time you turned or stretched or bent to help RJ with a floating stick, you caught the edge of that blue stare before it slid away again. He never said a word about it. Just watched, then looked off toward the treeline like the trees had suddenly become real interesting.

Carol noticed.

Of course she did.

She was in the chair next to him, legs stretched out, a half-empty bottle of something lukewarm in her hand. She followed his gaze once, then twice, and the corner of her mouth curled.

“You should take a picture,” she said, voice low and dry. “It’ll last longer.”

Daryl’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look at her. Just gave that short, irritated huff through his nose and shifted in the chair like the wood had suddenly gotten uncomfortable under him. One boot scuffed against the dirt.

Carol’s smile widened a fraction. She didn’t push it further. She didn’t need to.

You waded back into the water up to your waist, letting the cool soak ease the heat from your skin. Judith paddled over and clung to your arm for a second, grinning up at you with lake water dripping from her hair. You spun her gently, listening to her laugh, and when you glanced toward the shore again Daryl’s eyes were already moving away. The muscles in his forearm stood out where his hand rested on the arm of the chair.

The afternoon stretched long and lazy. People drifted in and out of the water. Someone passed around leftover hard candy from the last run. Ezekiel told a story that made the kids go wide-eyed. Through all of it Daryl stayed mostly quiet, answering in short grunts when someone spoke directly to him, but every so often that same look came back. Heavy. Unreadable. Like he was cataloguing something he didn’t plan on mentioning out loud.

You climbed out eventually, water running down your legs, and walked past the chairs to grab the towel you’d left draped over a cooler. Carol said something mild about the temperature dropping later. Daryl still didn’t speak. His gaze flicked once more—quick, almost unwilling—then fixed on the far side of the lake where the trees grew thicker.

The day kept going the way rare good days did in Alexandria. Slow. Almost normal. No alarms. No blood. Just the sound of kids playing and the soft lap of water against the dock.

The sun had gone down hours ago, but the heat still clung to Alexandria like a second skin. Most of the lights in the houses were out. The only sounds left were the soft creak of the wind through the trees and the distant, occasional bark of a dog.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Carol’s voice— loud enough that you had heard without meaning to— kept looping in your head. Take a picture, it’ll last longer—and the way Daryl’s jaw had tightened, the way he’d looked at you all afternoon like he was trying not to and failing. Every time you’d turned, those eyes had been there and then gone again. You kept replaying the moments: the stretch of your arms when you helped Judith float, the water running down your stomach when you climbed out, the thin fabric of the swimsuit clinging in places it shouldn’t have. Had he liked what he saw? Was that what that look meant? Or was it just Daryl being Daryl— stubborn and impossible to read.

You’d always thought there was something between him and Connie. The way they moved around each other sometimes, the soft looks she gave him. And he was your best friend. The one who was always there when things went to shit, who never asked too many questions, who sat next to you on the porch in silence like it was the most natural thing in the world. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him like this. But the thoughts wouldn’t shut up. They kept spinning until your chest felt tight and your feet were already carrying you across the dark street toward his house.

You knocked once. Waited. Nothing.

Knocked again, a little harder.

Still nothing.

You tried the handle. Unlocked, the way it almost always was. You pushed the door open and stepped inside, voice low.

“Daryl? You awake?”

Silence. Then a quiet, rhythmic sound from upstairs—creaking. Your pulse kicked hard under your skin. You hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, then started up anyway, each step careful, the wood warm under your bare feet.

The door to his room was cracked open. The noise was clearer now. Breathing—rough, controlled, a little strained. The soft, slick sound of skin moving over skin.

You pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Daryl was on the bed, shirtless, jeans shoved down just far enough. One arm was bent behind his head. The other was wrapped around his cock, fist moving in long, tight strokes. The head was flushed and shiny with spit or precome, and every upstroke made the muscles in his forearm jump. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. A low sound slipped out of him—half groan, half curse—when his thumb swiped over the tip.

He didn’t see you at first.

Then the floorboard under your foot gave the softest protest.

His head snapped toward the door. Those blue eyes went wide for half a second, pupils blown, before something darker and sharper settled in them. His hand froze mid-stroke, cock still hard and thick in his grip, glistening in the low light from the window.

Neither of you moved.

His voice came out rough, scraped raw.

“…the fuck’re ya doin’ in here?”

You stood frozen in the doorway, heart slamming against your ribs, the image of him burned into the backs of your eyes—the tense line of his stomach, the way his cock twitched once in his fist like it hadn’t gotten the message to stop yet, the flush high on his cheekbones.

He didn’t scramble to cover himself. Didn’t look away. Just stared at you, breathing hard through his nose, waiting.

You swallowed, throat dry.

“I… I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Daryl’s eyes stayed locked on yours. His hand still rested around his cock, not stroking, just holding it like he couldn’t quite make himself let go. The head was still flushed dark and wet, twitching once against his palm when your gaze flicked down for half a second before you forced it back up.

“Talk,” he said. One word, low and rough, like he’d scraped it out of his chest.

Your face felt hot. Standing there with him half-naked, dick still hard and shiny in the dim light, made the words tangle on your tongue. You shifted your weight, suddenly very aware of how close the bed was, how the air in the room smelled like sweat and heat.

He watched the flush climb your neck and something in his expression shifted—less startled, more resigned, like he’d already decided how this was going to go.

“Been thinkin’ 'bout ya,” he said before you could force the question out. Voice quieter now, almost careful. “Couldn’t stop starin’ at y' today. That little swimsuit… shit. Kept lookin’ every time y' moved. Wanted to put my hands on ya so fuckin’ bad.” His throat worked. “Want y'. Been wantin’ ya. But you’re my… best friend. Ain’t tryin’ to fuck that up.”

The honesty landed heavy between you. No deflection. No joke. Just Daryl, raw and still hard, laying it out like it cost him something.

You stepped closer.

One slow step, then another, until your knees nearly brushed the edge of the mattress. His breath hitched—sharp, audible—when you stopped right in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his bare chest. Close enough to see the way his pupils blew wider, the way his fingers tightened once around his cock like the proximity hurt.

He tilted his head back just enough to keep your eyes, waiting, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

You didn’t give him time to say anything else.

You leaned in and kissed him—hungry, desperate, no hesitation left. Your mouth found his open and already breathing hard. He made a low, startled sound against your lips, then his free hand shot up and fisted in the front of your shirt, yanking you closer. The kiss turned messy fast, all teeth and tongue and the rough scrape of his stubble. He tasted like the beer he’d had earlier. When you nipped at his bottom lip he groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through both of you, and the hand still wrapped around his cock gave one involuntary stroke like his body had decided it was done waiting.

You pulled back just enough to breathe against his mouth, lips still wet from the kiss.

“You want help with that?”

Daryl’s eyes were dark, almost black in the low light. His throat worked once. He couldn’t get the words out—just gave a sharp, desperate nod, the hand still wrapped around his cock tightening until the head leaked another bead of precome.

You didn’t make him wait.

You dropped to your knees between his spread thighs, the floorboards cool under you. His cock was thick and heavy when you wrapped your fingers around the base, the skin hot and slick. He hissed through his teeth at the first touch of your tongue—slow, flat, dragging from the root all the way up to the flushed head. The taste of him hit you immediately. You sealed your lips around the tip and sucked, slow and wet, and the sound that tore out of him was pure wreckage.

“Fuck—”

His hand shot into your hair, just holding on like he needed the anchor. You took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the underside in long strokes. Every time you pulled back with a wet drag he cursed under his breath, hips twitching up like he couldn’t help it. Spit ran down the shaft and over your fingers. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, tight and twisted, and the muscles in his stomach jumped hard.

He was already falling apart.

“Shit… look at ya,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Takin’ it so fuckin’ good. Mouth’s so fuckin’ hot—goddamn—”

You hummed around him and his head dropped back against the pillow, a broken groan spilling out. His thighs tensed on either side of your shoulders. Precome leaked steady now, coating your tongue, and you swallowed it down like you were starving for it. The wet sounds filled the room—obscene, rhythmic—every time you bobbed lower, taking him until the head nudged the back of your throat. His free hand fisted the sheet so hard the fabric strained.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice wrecked, hips starting to rock up into your mouth in short, desperate thrusts. “Gonna fuckin’—don’t stop, don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You didn’t.

You sucked harder, faster, hand twisting at the base, and when he finally broke it was with a raw, punched-out sound. His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, thick ropes of come flooding your mouth. You stayed on him, swallowing every drop, throat working around him until he was shaking and oversensitive. Only then did you pull off slow, lips shiny, a thin string of spit and come still connecting you for a second before it broke.

Daryl stared down at you like he’d never seen you before—pupils blown, chest heaving, mouth open. Something darker and hungrier had already taken over his face. The second your tongue flicked out to catch the last taste of him from the corner of your mouth, he moved.

One second you were on your knees. The next his hands were under your arms, hauling you up and onto the bed like you weighed nothing. He rolled you onto your back and pinned you there, wrists caught in one rough hand above your head, his still-hard cock dragging wet against your thigh. His other hand shoved your shirt up, palm dragging hot over your stomach, and the look in his eyes was pure animal need.

“My turn,” he growled against your mouth, voice wrecked and filthy. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day. Gonna take my time with you now.”

He shoved your shirt the rest of the way up and off, then yanked your shorts and underwear down in one rough motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. The cool air hit your bare skin for half a second before his hands were on your thighs, spreading them wide. He stared down at you—open, already wet, glistening in the low light—and the look on his face was pure hunger.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Knew y' would be.”

He dropped down between your legs without another word. The first drag of his tongue was slow and deliberate, flat against your cunt from bottom to top, collecting the slick that was already dripping out of you. You jerked at the contact, a sharp sound catching in your throat, but his hands clamped harder on your thighs, pinning them open. He did it again, slower, like he was tasting every drop, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.

Your back arched off the mattress.

He didn’t give you a rhythm. He edged you on purpose—long, filthy licks that had you panting, then sudden hard sucks that made your hips try to chase his mouth, only for him to pull back the second your thighs started to shake. His tongue circled your clit in tight little flicks, then dragged lower, pushing inside you just enough to feel it before he retreated again. Every time you got close he backed off, breathing hot against your soaked skin, watching your face with those dark eyes.

“Not yet,” he rasped when you whimpered. “Wanna feel you lose it.”

Two of his fingers pushed into you without warning—thick, rough, curling immediately. He fucked them into you in slow, deep strokes while his mouth stayed lazy on your clit, tongue barely moving, just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. The wet sounds were obscene. Your cunt clenched around his fingers every time he crooked them against that spot inside you, and each time he felt you start to tighten he slowed down even more, almost toying with you.

“Listen to that,” he growled against your pussy, voice low and filthy. “So fuckin’ wet for me. Been thinkin’ about eatin’ this all day. Watchin’ y' in that little swimsuit, wonderin’ how hard I could make ya come.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and the stretch made your eyes roll back. His tongue finally pressed harder, circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes while his fingers kept working that same perfect angle. You were shaking, thighs trembling under his grip, every breath a broken sound. He kept you there for what felt like forever—building, backing off, building again—until your whole body was wound so tight it hurt.

Then he stopped playing.

He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard, fingers slamming into you in deep, wet thrusts. The orgasm ripped through you so violently your vision went white. Your cunt clamped down on his fingers and you came with a broken cry, squirting hard—hot, messy pulses that soaked his mouth and chin and the sheets under you. Daryl groaned like he’d been waiting for it, mouth open, drinking every drop greedily. His tongue kept working, licking through the mess, swallowing what you gave him while his fingers stayed buried deep, riding out every pulse.

He didn’t stop until you were twitching and oversensitive, thighs trying to close around his head. Only then did he pull back, lips and chin shiny, eyes almost black with need. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed back up your body, still hard, cock dragging wet against your thigh.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Gonna ruin ya for anybody else.”

Daryl didn’t give you a second to come down.

The second your body stopped shaking he was already moving—hands rough on your hips, flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. Your face pressed into the pillow, still breathing hard, when he yanked your ass up and back until you were on your knees, chest down. He shoved your thighs wider with one boot, and the head of his cock—already rock hard again— dragged through the mess between your legs.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he growled, voice low and ruined. “Didn’t even need to get myself ready. Y' did that for me.”

He pushed in without warning.

One long, deep thrust that forced the air out of your lungs. The stretch burned in the best way—thick, relentless, filling you until his hips slammed flush against your ass. He stayed buried for a second, breathing hard through his nose, then pulled almost all the way out and drove back in harder. The wet sound of it filled the room, filthy and loud, every stroke pushing more of your release down your thighs.

His hands clamped on your hips hard enough to bruise. He set a brutal pace right away—deep, punishing thrusts that made the bed frame knock against the wall. Every time he bottomed out he ground against you, making sure you felt every inch, then dragged back and did it again.

“Fuck—look at this,” he rasped, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back. “Takin’ my cock so goddamn good. This what y' wanted when ya walked in here? Wanted me to bend ya over and fuck ya stupid?”

You could only moan into the pillow, the angle making every thrust drag perfectly against that spot inside you. He felt it—the way your cunt fluttered around him—and laughed, low and dark, never slowing.

“Yeah. Feel that. Yer gonna come on me again. Gonna make a mess all over my dick.”

He leaned over your back, chest hot against your skin, and reached around to rub tight circles over your clit with two rough fingers. The dual sensation was almost too much. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Precome and your own slick made everything wetter, louder. He kept talking, voice breaking every few words, filthy and raw.

“Been thinkin’ about this—fuck—every time I looked at ya today. Wanted to drag ya behind the trees and put y' on your knees. Wanted to ruin this pretty little cunt until y' couldn’t walk straight.”

His grip on your hair tightened. The other hand stayed working your clit, relentless. You were already close again, body still oversensitive from the first orgasm, and he knew it. He fucked you through the building pressure without mercy, hips snapping harder, until the second orgasm ripped through you so hard your arms gave out. Your cunt clamped down around him in tight, pulsing waves.

He didn’t stop.

He just growled against the back of your neck and kept pounding into you through it, the wet, filthy sounds getting louder as your release soaked his cock and the sheets underneath. Your body tried to collapse but he held your hips up with one arm, fucking you through every aftershock until the overstimulation edged into something sharper again.

“That’s two,” he rasped, never slowing. “Ain’t done with you yet.”

He shifted the angle, hips snapping deeper, and the new pressure dragged another broken sound out of you. His fingers stayed on your clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles while he drove into you over and over. The third orgasm hit faster than the second—sudden and violent—your walls fluttering and squeezing around him as another gush of slick spilled out around his cock. He cursed low and filthy, hips stuttering for half a second before he forced himself to keep going, pounding you into the mattress like he was trying to carve himself into you permanently.

“Fuck—listen to y'. So fuckin’ loud. Keep comin’ for me. Wanna feel it every time.”

Your arms were shaking. Your thighs burned. He didn’t care. He shoved a pillow under your hips to keep you raised and just kept going—long, deep strokes that never let the pressure ease. Every time your body started to calm he changed something: a harder grind, a sharper slap of his hips, two fingers pushing into your mouth so you could taste yourself on them while he fucked you. The fourth orgasm tore through you weaker but no less intense, your voice cracking into a broken cry against the sheets. He groaned at the way you clenched around him, still so hard it almost hurt, and leaned down to bite the back of your shoulder.

“One more,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Gimme one more and maybe I’ll let you rest.”

He didn’t mean it. You could hear it in the way he said it—already planning to keep going until you were nothing but a shaking, overstimulated mess beneath him. His hand slid back between your legs, fingers finding your clit again, and he started fucking you in short, brutal thrusts that forced the air out of your lungs with every impact. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Your cunt was so sensitive every stroke felt electric, and when the fifth orgasm finally crashed over you it left you sobbing into the pillow, body locking up around his cock as another rush of slick soaked the sheets.

Daryl still hadn’t come.

He just held you there, buried deep, breathing hard against your neck, and gave one slow, deliberate grind that made your oversensitive walls flutter weakly around him.

“Not done,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice dark with promise. “Not even close.”

Daryl pulled out only long enough to flip you onto your back.

Your body was limp, thighs trembling, the sheets under you soaked and cold in places. He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He shoved your knees up and open, lined himself up, and drove back into you in one deep, relentless thrust that punched a broken sound out of your throat. The new angle made everything feel sharper—fuller—every ridge of his cock dragging against walls that were already oversensitive and swollen.

He braced himself over you on one forearm and dropped his mouth to your neck.

The first kiss was almost careful. Then he felt the way you shivered, the way your cunt fluttered hard around him when his lips brushed just under your ear. Something dark and pleased flickered across his face. He did it again, slower, then opened his mouth and sucked hard enough to leave a mark. Your back arched. A helpless sound tore out of you.

“There it is,” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ sensitive right here, ain’t you?”

He bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make your whole body jolt—and fucked into you deeper at the same time. His hips never stopped moving. Long, grinding strokes that forced the air out of your lungs every time he bottomed out. He kept his mouth busy on your neck the whole time: sucking dark bruises into the side of your throat, scraping his teeth over the pulse point, licking the marks he’d already left like he was claiming every inch of skin he could reach.

“Knew you’d feel good,” he muttered between bites, breath hot and ragged. “But this—fuck—this is better. You keep squeezin’ me every time I touch your neck. Like your body’s tryin’ to pull me deeper.”

He shifted his weight, one hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and the new angle made stars burst behind your eyes. He pounded into you without mercy, the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin filling the room again. Every thrust forced another broken sound out of you. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your legs wrapped around his waist like you were trying to keep him buried.

He felt the next orgasm building—the way your cunt started to tighten in short, desperate pulses—and he leaned down to suck hard on the most sensitive spot just beneath your jaw while he fucked you through it. The climax hit like a wave, tearing a raw cry from your throat as your walls clamped down around him. Slick spilled out around his cock, soaking both of you all over again.

Daryl groaned like it hurt.

He kept thrusting through it, shorter and harder now, chasing his own edge. His mouth never left your neck. He bit down one last time—rough, possessive—and the sound that tore out of him was almost animal. His hips slammed flush against yours and stayed there as he finally let go, cock pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot ropes. He ground against you through every spurt, burying himself as deep as he could get, filling you until it leaked out around him and down your thighs.

He collapsed forward when it was over, forehead pressed to the pillow beside your head, still buried inside you, still twitching. His breath came in harsh, uneven pulls against your marked-up neck. One of his hands stayed tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you knew you’d feel the bruises tomorrow.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of his heartbeat against your chest and the wet, filthy mess he’d made between your legs.

You lay there for a while, chests rising and falling too fast, the room thick with the smell of sex and sweat. Neither of you moved much. Daryl eventually pulled out with a low, reluctant sound and rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your body felt used in the best way—sore, marked, still twitching with little aftershocks every time the air shifted over sensitive skin.

After a few minutes he sat up without a word, padded downstairs bare-ass naked, and came back with two half-full bottles of water. He handed one over, then dropped back onto the mattress, leaning against the headboard. You both drank in silence for a bit. The cool water felt almost shocking after everything.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at you sideways.

“So,” he said, voice still rough. “This ruin the friendship?”

You looked at him—hair a mess, bite marks already darkening on his shoulder from your nails, that same quiet intensity in his eyes even now—and answered without missing a beat.

“Yeah. Completely. Because now I’m gonna expect this a lot more often.”

For a second he just stared. Then a short, surprised laugh cracked out of him—real and low and a little rusty, like he hadn’t used it in a while. He shook his head, the corner of his mouth still curved.

“Jesus Christ.” He took another drink, then set the bottle on the nightstand. “You’re somethin’ else.”

The quiet that settled after felt different than before. Easier. You shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t pull away. One of his hands found the back of your thigh, thumb stroking absently over the skin there while you both just breathed.

“Been wantin’ this longer than I should’ve,” he admitted after a minute, staring at the far wall. “Kept tellin’ myself it was a bad idea. You’re… important. Didn’t wanna fuck that up.”

“You didn’t,” you said simply.

He looked at you again, something softer and hungrier mixing in his expression. His hand slid higher on your thigh, fingers spreading, possessive without even trying. You could already feel him getting hard again against your hip—slow, inevitable.

“Good,” he muttered. “Cause I ain’t done with you.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slower this time but no less deep. His tongue slid against yours, tasting like water and the leftover salt of earlier. The hand on your thigh tightened, guiding your leg over his lap until you were straddling him. His cock was fully hard again, thick and hot against your still-slick cunt. He rocked up once, dragging the length of himself through the mess he’d left inside you earlier, and a low sound rumbled in his chest.

“Ride me,” he said against your mouth, voice already dropping back into that rough, filthy register. “Wanna watch you take it this time. Wanna see your face when you come on me again.”

His hands gripped your hips, lifting you just enough so the head of his cock caught at your entrance. He held you there for a second, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

The break was over.

Dean had complained the first time he found your jacket thrown over the back of his chair, but he hadn’t moved it for three days. Sam had noticed that too. Sam noticed everything when it came to you, which made him feel like a creep on the nights when he caught himself listening for your footsteps in the hall. Dean was less subtle, but he liked to think he wasn’t obvious. He was wrong.

Sam had seen the way Dean watched you when you bent over a pool table during interviews, the way his hand found your shoulder in crowded bars, the way his smile got tight when another man made you laugh too easily. Dean had seen Sam too, though. He had seen the way his brother softened when you said his name, the way Sam’s anger dulled around the edges when you touched his arm, the way he leaned closer when you spoke like the rest of the room had gone quiet.

Dean still remembered the first night they met you because you had walked into the middle of their hunt like a thunderstorm with a shotgun. The case had been ugly from the start, a string of disappearances around an abandoned church in Ohio, the kind with too many bones under the floorboards and not enough locals willing to talk. Sam had been elbow-deep in research for two days, and Dean had been getting twitchy from waiting around, which meant they were both a little too tired and a little too sure of themselves when they went in.

Then the spirit had come out of the walls faster than expected, and Dean had ended up flat on his back in the mud with the breath knocked out of him. You stepped over him, fired a round of rock salt into the dark, and said, “You always let ghosts throw you around like that, or am I special?” Dean had stared up at you, rain dripping off his lashes, too surprised to be annoyed as quickly as he should’ve been. Sam had come running from the other side of the graveyard, flashlight cutting through the downpour, and he had stopped dead when he saw you standing there.

You had blood on your cheek, mud on your jeans, and a look on your face like you had already decided the Winchesters were a full-time headache. By sunrise, you had helped them burn the bones, called their plan reckless, and accepted diner coffee from Sam with both hands curled around the mug. Dean had told himself you were trouble. Sam had thought the same thing, but softer.

After that, you kept crossing paths with them until it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like a choice. Dean would never admit it, but every time your number lit up his phone, something in his chest settled before he even answered. Sam was worse in a quieter way, always asking if you were okay before asking what case you were on, always saving you a seat at the library table when you came through Lebanon.

You teased him for it once, nudging his boot with yours beneath the table, and Sam had gone pink around the ears like he was still capable of being embarrassed by kindness. Dean had laughed at him, of course, but only because your foot had brushed Dean’s ankle next, and his own thoughts had turned dangerous enough to make mockery feel safer. You became the person they both looked for after a hunt, the person they both wanted beside them in the Impala, the person they both pretended not to watch when you were curled up on the couch in one of their stolen flannels.

It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t simple. Nothing about wanting you had ever been simple. Dean wanted you loudly, even when he tried to hide it. Sam wanted you carefully, which somehow made it worse. The worst part was that you seemed to know.

The hunt that night had only made things uglier between them. You had gone undercover at a bar outside town, all warm smiles and easy laughter, leaning close to some suspect with your hand wrapped around a glass you barely drank from. Dean had watched from a booth with his shoulders stiff and his mouth pressed into a flat line, looking like he might break the table if the man touched you. Sam had been standing near the jukebox, arms folded, expression calm enough to seem harmless to anyone who didn’t know him.

Dean knew him. Dean saw the tension in Sam’s jaw, the way his eyes followed the man’s hand when it drifted too close to your waist. “You gonna glare him to death, Sammy?” Dean had muttered, but his own voice came out rougher than he wanted. Sam hadn’t looked at him right away. He kept watching you smile at a man neither of them trusted, and the old protective instinct twisted into something much more selfish inside him.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam had said finally, low enough that only Dean could hear. The words should’ve ended there, but Dean had looked over just as you laughed at something the man said. His hand tightened around his beer bottle. Sam saw that too, and something bitter and competitive sparked between them before the hunt had even finished.

By the time the three of you got back to the bunker, the air inside the Impala had been thick enough to choke on. Dean drove too fast, one hand loose on the wheel and the other tapping restless patterns against the leather. Sam sat in the passenger seat with his shoulders squared and his eyes on the road, acting like he wasn’t listening to you shift in the backseat.

You were quiet behind them, probably tired, probably amused, probably too aware of the way both brothers had gone tense the second that man at the bar looked at you like you were something he could keep. Dean glanced at you in the rearview mirror more times than he needed to. Sam caught every single look reflected in the glass.

“Case is done,” you said from the backseat eventually, your voice soft but edged with curiosity. “So why do you both look like you’re still hunting something?” Dean huffed, like the answer was ridiculous. Sam didn’t answer at all. That was when Dean knew his brother was in deep, because Sam Winchester only got that silent when the thing he wanted was sitting too close and too far away at the same time.

Now, in the library, Dean kept dragging the rag over the pistol like friction might burn the image of you out of his head. Sam closed the book in front of him with careful hands, the sound small but final. Dean’s eyes snapped up at once, because everything Sam did had started to feel like a challenge tonight. “You gonna actually read that thing, or are you just trying to look thoughtful?” Dean asked, his voice lazy in a way that didn’t fool Sam at all.

Sam leaned back in his chair and looked at his brother over the book, expression mild but eyes sharp. He didn’t answer right away, because he knew Dean hated waiting almost as much as he hated being seen through. The library light caught on Sam’s cheekbones, making him look tired, annoyed, and far too composed for Dean’s liking.

Then Sam looked toward the hallway again, where you still hadn’t reappeared, and Dean felt something hot and ugly move under his ribs. “I’m thinking fine,” Sam said at last, his voice measured. “That’s usually the part where you get nervous.” Dean laughed once, short and humorless, because the comment landed too close to the truth. He set the gun down carefully, which only made him look more dangerous.

You appeared in the doorway before Dean could answer, and both brothers went still in two completely different ways. Dean’s stillness was physical, a sudden pause in his hands, his breathing, his entire posture, like his body had forgotten what it was doing. Sam’s was quieter, but no less obvious, his gaze lifting to you and staying there just long enough to give him away.

You had changed into soft shorts and an oversized shirt, your hair slightly messy, your face bare of the focus you wore on hunts. You looked comfortable in their home, and that did something unbearable to both of them. Dean’s eyes flicked over you before he forced them back to your face, and Sam watched him do it with a tightness gathering in his chest. “You two are doing that thing again,” you said, stepping farther into the room.

Your voice carried easily in the quiet, teasing at first, but there was something underneath it that made Sam’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. Dean tilted his head, acting confused because denial had always been one of his favorite bad habits. “What thing?” he asked, like he hadn’t been sitting there vibrating with jealousy for the better part of an hour. You looked at Sam instead of answering Dean, and Dean’s smile sharpened.

Sam saw the way Dean reacted to your attention shifting, and he hated the small satisfaction it gave him. You weren’t trying to be cruel. That was the thing that kept ruining them both. You didn’t toss them looks because you wanted to watch them bleed.

You did it because you were honest with your attention, because when you cared, it showed, and when you wanted, that showed too. Sam had seen it in the car, in motel rooms, in the bunker kitchen when you reached over him for coffee and lingered close enough that he could smell your shampoo. He had seen you go warm under Dean’s praise, and he had seen you turn quiet when Sam’s voice softened around your name.

“The thing where you both act like you’re mad at each other, but somehow I’m the one getting stared at,” you said, folding your arms loosely as you leaned against the table. Dean dropped his gaze to the movement for half a second, then dragged it back up, annoyed with himself. Sam looked down at the closed book like it might offer mercy. It didn’t. “Maybe you like being stared at,” Dean said, and the words came out lower than he meant them to. You didn’t flinch. You smiled, and Sam felt the room tilt around it.

Dean knew he should stop there. He knew that tone, that look, that dangerous little space opening between all three of you was exactly the kind of thing that ruined people’s sleep and made mornings complicated. But then Sam looked at you again, and the look on his brother’s face was too careful, too hungry, too patient. Dean hated patience when it came to you. He hated the way Sam could stand there and make restraint look like devotion. “Careful, Dean,” Sam said, and his voice was calm enough that it sounded almost kind. Dean turned his head slowly, brows lifting as if Sam had just done something interesting and stupid at the same time.

There was no raised voice, no slammed glass, no dramatic shove toward violence, but the tension between them snapped tight anyway. You felt it too, because your smile faded into something softer, something more aware. “Careful with what?” Dean asked, though they all knew he wasn’t asking because he didn’t understand. Sam’s eyes stayed on him for a moment, then moved back to you. “With acting like you’re the only one who gets to say things like that to her,” he said. The words landed heavy in the room, and Dean’s grin disappeared.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. The bunker seemed too large around you, too quiet, every small sound suddenly amplified. Dean could hear the faint buzz of the light overhead, the shift of Sam’s breathing, the tiny inhale you took before you tried to hide it.

Sam could hear Dean’s knuckles flex against the table, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, could feel the old Winchester warning signs lining up one by one. You looked between them, and something in your expression changed from amused to caught. Not scared. Not uncomfortable. Caught, like you’d walked into a room where the truth had been waiting long before you arrived.

“Is that what this is?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “You’re both mad because you think the other one’s getting too close?” Dean wanted to answer fast, something smart and filthy enough to knock the softness out of the moment. He couldn’t. Sam’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again, and Dean saw it. That was what finally pushed him over the edge.

Dean leaned back in his chair, but there was nothing relaxed about him now. “I think Sam here’s got this idea in his head,” he said, dragging his eyes from his brother back to you, “that if he waits long enough and talks soft enough, you’ll just fall right into his lap.” The sentence should’ve sounded like a joke, but it didn’t. It sounded like an accusation dressed up in Dean’s usual arrogance, and Sam’s face went still in the way that meant the comment had hit exactly where Dean meant it to.

You looked at Sam, and Dean hated himself a little for watching your reaction so closely. Sam didn’t rush to defend himself. That was what made him dangerous. He took his time, sitting back with one hand resting on the closed book, his thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover like he was thinking through every possible consequence before choosing the worst one.

“And Dean thinks if he smirks hard enough and calls you sweetheart,” Sam said, voice low and even, “you’ll forget he’s terrified of wanting anything that wants him back.” Dean’s eyes flashed. You went completely still.

That should’ve been the moment one of them backed down. Sam knew it. Dean knew it. Even you seemed to know it from the way your eyes searched both of their faces, no longer teasing, no longer pretending this was just another argument they’d laugh about later. But the truth was already in the room, and neither brother had ever been good at walking away from something once it started bleeding.

“You both sound ridiculous,” you said, though your voice didn’t have enough force behind it to make either of them believe you meant it. Dean’s mouth tugged up at one corner, but his eyes were too dark for the expression to feel light. Sam’s face softened when he looked at you, and Dean hated that too, hated how Sam could make sincerity look like a weapon.

“Maybe,” Sam said, and his voice gentled in a way that made your fingers tighten around the edge of the table. Dean saw it. Of course he saw it. “Or maybe we’re just done pretending,” Sam added, and the room seemed to shrink around the three of you. Dean’s smile returned slowly, but this time there was no humor in it.

The bet came out of Dean because Dean was always better at turning fear into something reckless. He looked at Sam first, like the idea was meant to challenge him, then at you, like he already knew it would make your breathing change. “Fine,” Dean said, tapping two fingers against the table once. “Since we’re all being honest, maybe we settle it.”

Sam’s brows drew together, suspicion flickering across his face, because he knew that tone and almost never liked where it led. You didn’t ask right away, but your attention sharpened, and Dean felt it like a hand around his throat. He stood slowly, chair scraping against the floor, and Sam’s posture shifted at once, not defensive exactly, but alert. Dean didn’t move toward you yet.

He wasn’t that stupid, and despite everything burning through him, he wasn’t about to make you feel cornered. “Settle what?” you asked finally, and the softness in your voice made Sam’s eyes narrow at Dean in warning. Dean’s gaze stayed on you. “Who makes you break first,” he said. The words dropped low, warm, and dangerous, and your breath caught before you could stop it.

Sam heard that breath and felt every thought in his head go quiet. Dean heard it too, because his eyes darkened with immediate satisfaction, the kind that made Sam want to wipe the look off his face. But Sam didn’t move. Not yet. He watched you instead, watched the way you tried to gather yourself, watched the way your gaze moved from Dean to him like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to run from the fire or step closer to it.

“That’s not a bet,” Sam said after a moment, though his voice had gone rougher than before. Dean glanced at him, pleased that he’d managed to drag that much reaction out of him. “No?” Dean asked. “Sounds like one to me.” Sam stood then, slower than Dean had, and the height of him changed the balance of the room. He kept his hands visible, his distance careful, his focus split between Dean’s challenge and your face. You swallowed, and Sam saw that too. Dean saw Sam see it, and the whole thing turned sharper.

You looked like you were trying to decide whether to laugh or tell them both to get a grip, but the flush at your throat betrayed you. Sam’s expression softened again, and Dean wanted to curse because he knew exactly how effective that would be on you. “You don’t have to play along with anything just because he’s being an idiot,” Sam said, and he aimed the words at you, not Dean.

It should’ve made the moment gentler. Instead, it made Dean’s jealousy flare hotter, because Sam’s concern sounded intimate, like he had already earned a place closer to you than Dean had. You looked at Sam for a long second, and Dean’s fingers curled at his side. “I know,” you said, and your voice was steady enough to make both brothers listen.

You shifted against the table, not backing away, not stepping forward, just staying exactly where you were as if you wanted them to understand that the choice was yours before it was anyone else’s. Then your eyes moved to Dean. “And what makes you so sure I’d beg for either of you?” Dean’s smile came back slow and wicked, but Sam saw the relief underneath it. You hadn’t shut the door. You had opened it wider.

Dean took one step closer, stopping with plenty of space still between you, and Sam clocked the restraint with reluctant approval. Dean was reckless, but not careless with you. That mattered, even if Sam was too wound up to feel generous about it. “Because you like pushing,” Dean said, voice low enough to roughen at the edges. “You push and push, then act surprised when somebody finally pushes back.”

His words made your eyes narrow, but your mouth gave you away, parting just slightly before you pressed it shut. Sam watched the reaction with a strange ache in his chest, equal parts want and irritation. Dean had always known how to hit the obvious nerve first. Sam preferred the hidden ones. He took a step too, not toward Dean, but enough that you felt his presence from the other side.

“And because you’ve been waiting for us to say it,” Sam said, quieter than Dean, but no less certain. Your attention flicked to him, and something vulnerable moved over your face before you buried it. Dean saw that expression and realized with a bitter twist that Sam might be right.

The library had become too warm, or maybe that was just the weight of three people refusing to pretend anymore. You glanced down at the table, then back up, and Dean saw the question in your eyes before you formed it.

“So what?” you asked, and your voice came out softer now, not weak, not shy, just honest in a way that made both men stop posturing for half a second. “You two make a bet over me, and I’m supposed to what? Stand here and let you decide who knows me better?” Sam’s face shifted first, guilt flickering there because the question landed exactly where it needed to. Dean’s jaw tightened, and for once he didn’t have a fast answer.

The silence that followed was different from the one before. Less jealous. More serious. Sam looked at Dean, and Dean looked back, both of them understanding at once that the game ended before it began if you weren’t holding the center of it. “No,” Sam said finally, turning back to you. He spoke carefully, every word chosen with the kind of restraint that made Dean grit his teeth. “You decide if there’s anything to decide.”

Dean nodded once, rough but immediate, because whatever else he was, he wasn’t going to let you think for one second that your wanting didn’t matter more than theirs. “You say no, it’s no,” Dean said, and the cockiness had dropped out of his voice, leaving something rawer underneath.

“You tell us to shut up and go back to pretending we’re normal, we do that too.” Sam almost laughed at that, because none of them were normal, and pretending had never saved them from anything. You noticed the faint movement in his expression and looked at him again. Sam held your gaze, steady and open, though his heart was beating hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.

Dean watched that silent exchange and had to force himself not to interrupt it. That was the worst part of loving you around Sam. Dean wanted to be selfish, but he knew Sam would be good to you. Sam wanted to be patient, but he knew Dean could make you feel wanted in a way that burned bright and immediate. Neither of them could hate the other’s wanting when it looked so much like their own.

You breathed in slowly, and the room seemed to wait with you. Dean’s hands were loose at his sides now, but his whole body looked like restraint had become a physical effort. Sam stood a little farther back, giving you space, though his eyes never left your face. You looked from one brother to the other, taking in Dean’s heat, Sam’s control, the jealousy they had been dragging around like a curse they couldn’t bury.

“And if I don’t tell you to shut up?” you asked. Dean’s expression changed so quickly it almost made Sam roll his eyes, that familiar Winchester grin flickering back with dangerous relief. Sam didn’t smile, not quite, but his gaze deepened, and you saw it. You saw both of them.

That was the thing that had always undone them. Dean stepped closer to the table, careful, still waiting. Sam’s voice came from your other side, low and steady, not rushing you. “Then we talk rules,” he said. Dean’s grin widened just enough to make your stomach twist. “And then,” Dean added, softer now, “we find out who you ask for first.”

You stood there for a few seconds after Dean spoke, and the silence felt different than it had before. It wasn't sharp anymore, and it wasn't angry. It felt exposed, like somebody had finally turned on the lights in a room all three of you had been hiding inside for months.

Dean remained near the table, his shoulders tense despite the confidence in his expression, while Sam stood a little farther away with his hands loose at his sides. Neither of them was pushing. Neither of them was moving closer. For the first time all evening, they were waiting entirely on you. Your heart was beating hard enough that you could feel it in your throat, because you had spent so long imagining this conversation that actually standing inside it felt unreal.

You'd imagined Dean admitting he wanted you. You'd imagined Sam doing the same. You had never imagined both of them standing in the same room, looking at you like this. The possibility of it had always seemed too selfish to say out loud. So you wrapped your arms around yourself, partly for comfort and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with your hands.

You had fallen for Dean first, though not in the dramatic way romance novels promised. It happened gradually, hidden inside long drives and late-night diner stops and the way he always made sure you were walking on the inside of the sidewalk without even thinking about it.

Dean was warmth and movement and noise. He was music turned too loud, coffee made too strong, terrible jokes after terrible hunts, and the kind of loyalty that frightened you because it was so complete. He made you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He made you feel wanted in a way that was impossible to ignore. Every time he called you sweetheart, something inside you tightened despite your best efforts.

You noticed the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren't paying attention. You noticed how quickly he became protective whenever another hunter got too familiar. There had been moments when his jealousy flashed so openly that you almost reached for his hand without thinking. You knew Dean wanted you because Dean was terrible at hiding it. The problem was that you wanted him back enough to be scared of it.

Sam had happened differently. Sam had happened quietly, slowly, the way dawn arrived when nobody was looking at the sky. You couldn't even identify the exact moment it changed. Maybe it was the first time he stayed awake with you until four in the morning while you researched a case neither of you could solve.

Maybe it was the way he listened whenever you spoke, like your words deserved his complete attention. Maybe it was how careful he became whenever you were hurt, never treating you as fragile but always making sure you weren't carrying pain alone. Sam made you feel seen in places you usually kept hidden. He remembered little things you forgot saying. He noticed when you were tired before you admitted it.

He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it without ever asking twice. Sometimes he would look at you across the library table with this quiet expression that made your chest ache because it felt so honest. He didn't flirt the way Dean did. He simply stayed close. Somehow that became even more dangerous.

The worst part was that you had realized they both wanted you months ago. Dean's jealousy practically announced itself every time another man smiled at you too long. He became sharper, louder, more possessive in little ways he probably thought nobody noticed. Sam's jealousy was quieter, but you had learned him well enough to recognize it. He would grow still. He would watch.

His voice would become softer in that way it only did when he was trying very hard not to feel something. You had seen Dean glare across bars because someone touched your elbow. You had seen Sam step between you and strangers so naturally that nobody even realized what he was doing.

You knew they both wanted you because nobody looked at another person the way they looked at you without wanting more. The problem wasn't uncertainty. The problem was that you wanted them too. You simply didn't know whether either Winchester could survive hearing that truth.

You had spent months assuming you would eventually have to choose. Some nights, lying awake in your room, you would imagine Dean knocking on your door. Other nights, you imagined Sam staying behind after research and finally saying your name the way he sometimes looked at you.

You never let yourself imagine both of them because it seemed impossible. Dean and Sam loved each other fiercely, but they also competed over everything from pool games to pie. You couldn't imagine either brother being willing to step aside. You couldn't imagine either brother wanting to share something as complicated as feelings. So you stayed quiet.

You laughed off Dean's flirting. You pretended not to notice Sam's lingering looks. You convinced yourself that eventually one of them would move on or find somebody else. Instead, the tension only grew. Sometimes you caught Dean watching you while Sam was talking. Sometimes you caught Sam watching Dean watch you. Those moments made your stomach twist with equal parts hope and guilt.

Dean shifted beside the table, and his voice softened enough to surprise you. "You don't have to answer right now." His eyes remained fixed on you, but there was something gentler behind the heat now. Dean Winchester could be reckless, arrogant, and impulsive, but he wasn't careless with your feelings. That mattered more than he probably realized. Sam nodded slightly from where he stood. "He's right." The agreement between them felt almost stranger than the argument had. You had expected competition.

You had expected jealousy. You had not expected them both to step back at the same time and give you room to breathe. That simple act made your chest ache because it proved what you had secretly suspected all along. Neither one of them wanted to win if winning meant hurting you. Dean folded his arms, looking suddenly uncertain beneath all his confidence. Sam glanced toward the floor briefly before looking back at you.

"I've known for a while," you admitted quietly. Your own voice sounded unfamiliar in the library. Dean blinked first. Sam went completely still. You looked down at your hands because looking directly at them suddenly felt impossible. "Not everything," you clarified. "But enough." Dean let out a breath through his nose. "We're not exactly subtle." His attempt at humour earned the faintest smile from you. Sam's expression softened immediately at the sight of it.

"How long?" he asked. The question was careful, almost hesitant. You thought about it honestly before answering. "Long enough to know Dean gets jealous whenever somebody flirts with me." Dean looked offended for approximately two seconds. "That obvious?" You glanced at him. "Dean, you practically growl."

Dean muttered something under his breath that made Sam smile despite himself. The sight of Sam smiling relaxed something inside you because it reminded you that beneath all the tension, these were still your boys. These were still the men who sat with you during nightmares and brought you food after difficult hunts. Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Okay, fair." Sam looked toward you then, his expression more vulnerable than you had ever seen it.

"And me?" he asked. The question carried genuine uncertainty. That almost broke your heart. Sam Winchester, who could read ancient languages and understand monsters nobody else believed in, somehow didn't know whether you had noticed him looking at you. You met his eyes fully. "You look at me like you're trying not to," you said softly. Sam went quiet immediately. Dean looked between the two of you and sighed dramatically.

"Great," Dean said. "So apparently we're both idiots." His voice carried some of its familiar warmth again, which helped ease the tightness sitting between all three of you. You found yourself laughing quietly, more from relief than amusement. The sound seemed to affect both brothers in entirely different ways. Dean smiled automatically because your laughter always did that to him.

Sam relaxed visibly, his shoulders lowering slightly. "You know what the worst part is?" you asked. Dean lifted an eyebrow. Sam waited. You swallowed before continuing. "I didn't know if either of you would be okay with me..." Your voice trailed off. Dean's expression changed first. Sam's followed immediately afterward. Neither of them interrupted. Neither of them rushed you. The patience of it gave you courage.

"I thought eventually I'd have to pick one of you," you admitted. The confession settled heavily into the room. Dean's jaw tightened slightly. Sam's eyes lowered for a moment before returning to you. "Because I knew how I felt about Dean." You looked toward him briefly.

Dean's expression had gone completely serious now. "And I knew how I felt about Sam." Sam looked almost startled hearing his name spoken like that. Your heart hammered against your ribs because these words had lived inside you for so long that speaking them felt impossible.

"But I never knew if..." You paused again. Dean took a slow breath. Sam remained perfectly still. "I never knew if either of you could handle hearing that I didn't want to choose." The honesty of it left you feeling exposed. Dean's eyes widened slightly. Sam looked almost stricken.

The silence afterward wasn't uncomfortable. It was simply full. Dean looked toward his brother for the first time in several minutes. Sam met his gaze. Whatever passed between them happened quietly, years of understanding condensed into a few seconds of eye contact. You watched them looking at one another, and it hit you again how much you cared about both of them together.

Dean brought out pieces of Sam that nobody else could. Sam steadied parts of Dean that nobody else could reach. You loved their arguments, their loyalty, their ability to communicate entire conversations through glances. You had never wanted to come between them. If anything, the idea terrified you. "You two matter too much to each other," you said quietly.

Dean looked back at you immediately. Sam did the same. "I never wanted to be the reason something changed between you." Dean's expression softened so completely it almost hurt to see. Sam looked like he understood exactly what you meant.

Dean rubbed his thumb against his lower lip before speaking. "Sweetheart, we've been driving each other insane for forty years." The faint humour helped. You smiled despite yourself. Sam shook his head slightly. "You're not ruining anything." His voice carried absolute certainty. Dean nodded immediately afterward. "Seriously." The reassurance settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You had spent months fearing this exact conversation because you assumed somebody would lose. You assumed somebody would get hurt.

Instead, both brothers stood there looking at you with the same impossible tenderness. Their jealousy suddenly made more sense. Their arguments made more sense. The longing looks and tense silences and protective instincts all fit together now. They hadn't only been afraid of losing you. They had been afraid of losing each other too.

You looked between them again, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you appreciated the ridiculous honesty of the evening. The bet itself was stupid. Childish, even. It sounded exactly like something Dean Winchester would invent because he didn't know what else to do with his feelings. Sam clearly knew that too, judging by the look he gave his brother. But beneath the ridiculousness sat something that touched you more than you expected.

Two men you loved had spent months wanting you enough to become jealous. They had noticed each other's feelings because they were both paying attention to you. They had reached a point where pretending no longer worked. Dean wanted you enough to risk rejection. Sam wanted you enough to admit it aloud. That knowledge settled warmly inside your chest. You looked down briefly, suddenly shy in a way that hunting monsters had never made you feel. "The bet is kind of stupid," you said quietly.

Dean immediately groaned. "Knew it." Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "Dean..." The embarrassment on both their faces made your smile widen slightly. You shook your head before either of them could retreat completely.

"No, I mean it is." Dean looked resigned. Sam looked apologetic. You took a slow breath. "But..." That single word brought both their eyes back to you immediately. You could see hope there now, carefully hidden but unmistakable. Your pulse jumped harder. "I appreciate it too."

Dean frowned slightly, confused. Sam looked curious. You folded your arms more tightly across yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt. "Knowing that you both want me enough to be jealous." The confession made Dean inhale sharply. Sam's eyes softened again. Neither of them spoke.

Your cheeks had begun warming several minutes ago, but now the heat spread fully across your face. Dean noticed immediately because Dean noticed everything physical about you. Sam noticed because he noticed everything else. The library suddenly felt too quiet again. You looked at Dean and saw all that heat and confidence hiding uncertainty underneath. You looked at Sam and saw all that patience concealing the exact same fear.

They wanted answers. They wanted reassurance. More than anything, they wanted to know whether this conversation was about to end with disappointment. Your fingers tightened against your sleeves. Your stomach twisted hard enough to make you dizzy. Dean opened his mouth like he might speak, but stopped himself. Sam waited. Both of them waited.

You finally looked up, your face warm and your heart pounding, and met both their eyes at once. Dean seemed almost afraid to move. Sam looked like he was holding his breath. The weight of months sat between all three of you. The jealousy. The pining. The late nights. The stolen looks. The fear of saying the wrong thing. You swallowed once, and your voice came out softer than you intended.

"What if..." Dean's expression changed immediately. Sam took the smallest step forward before stopping himself. You could feel yourself blushing now, unable to hide it anymore. Your eyes moved from Dean to Sam and back again. For the first time all evening, you allowed yourself to say the truth exactly as it existed. "What if I want both of you?"

Neither brother answered at first. Dean’s mouth parted, but whatever quick remark had been waiting on his tongue disappeared before it could leave him. Sam’s breath left him slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to something so openly hopeful that you nearly had to look away.

You could almost see both of them replaying your words, searching for some hidden condition or cruel misunderstanding. Dean looked at Sam, and for once there was no challenge in it, only a silent question that carried the weight of everything they had already admitted.

Sam met his gaze steadily, his throat moving as he swallowed. The jealousy between them hadn’t vanished, but something inside it had softened, becoming less like a weapon and more like a fear they finally shared. Then Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh and dragged one hand down his face.

“Both of us,” Dean repeated, testing the words like he wasn’t entirely convinced he was allowed to believe them. You nodded, though the movement was small because your nerves had started making your whole body feel strangely weightless. Sam watched your face closely, careful even now, like he needed to make certain your answer wasn’t coming from pressure or panic. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rougher than before despite how gently he spoke.

“I’m sure,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as warmth spread down your neck. Dean’s eyes moved over your expression, searching for hesitation, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders when he didn’t find any. Sam took a slow breath, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then we can work with that,” he said, and Dean turned toward him with his eyebrows raised.

“We can work with it,” Dean agreed, though his tone made it clear he was already imagining several ways to prove that point. Sam gave him a warning look, but there was no real anger behind it anymore. “That doesn’t mean this is going to be simple,” Sam said, looking between you and Dean.

Dean scoffed softly and folded his arms, trying to disguise how vulnerable the moment had made him. “Nothing with us is simple, Sammy.” His gaze settled on you again, his expression losing some of its teasing edge. “I’m gonna get jealous,” he admitted, the honesty sounding almost uncomfortable in his mouth. Sam glanced at him before adding quietly, “So will I.”

“I don’t need either of you to pretend you won’t,” you told them. Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, but attentive in a way that meant every word mattered. Sam stepped closer to the table, though he still kept enough distance to let you breathe. “Then we talk about it when it happens,” he said.

“No turning it into some competition where one of you has to win,” you added, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated offence, but the faint colour rising along his neck betrayed him. “I have no idea why you’re looking at me.” Sam’s mouth twitched before he said, “And no making decisions for her because you think you know what she wants.”

“And neither of you gets to pull away without telling me why,” you continued, looking at Sam this time. His expression changed immediately because he understood exactly why that rule belonged to him. Dean glanced at his brother, some quiet recognition passing over his face before he looked back at you. “Fair,” Sam said, though the word came out softer now. Dean nodded once, the gesture firm and immediate.

“Yeah, fair.” The agreement settled between you, fragile but real, and the last of the earlier hostility seemed to drain from the room. What remained was heavier in a completely different way, all anticipation, heat, and three people suddenly aware that nothing stood between wanting and acting on it except permission.

Sam moved first, but only by a single step. Dean followed more slowly, circling the edge of the table until the two of them stood on opposite sides of you. You stayed exactly where you were, your palms pressed lightly against the worn wood behind you as your heartbeat climbed higher.

Sam raised one hand, stopping before his fingers reached your face. The restraint in that unfinished movement made your stomach tighten more than confidence ever could. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on yours. “Yes,” you whispered. His fingertips brushed along your cheek so carefully that the tenderness of it almost hurt.

Dean came closer behind you, near enough that the warmth of him reached your back without his body touching yours yet. “Still okay?” he asked, his voice lower beside your ear, stripped of every joke he usually used to protect himself. “Yes,” you answered again, more steadily this time. His palm settled at your waist, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Sam watched your reaction, his thumb tracing once beneath your cheekbone while Dean’s fingers flexed gently against your side. Being held between them should have felt overwhelming, but instead it felt like the answer to a question your body had been asking for months. “You two are being suspiciously careful,” you murmured, trying to disguise how uneven your breathing had become. Dean’s quiet laugh brushed across the side of your neck as he said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

Sam’s expression darkened at Dean’s words, though the change wasn’t directed at his brother this time. He leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to turn your head or change your mind. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. You answered by curling your fingers into the front of his shirt and pulling him the final inch toward you.

The first kiss was softer than you expected, a careful press of his mouth against yours that lasted only long enough to make you chase him when he began to pull away. Something in Sam snapped at the movement. His second kiss landed harder, his hand sliding from your cheek to your jaw as he tilted your face upward and kissed you with a hunger that didn’t match his usual gentleness. A quiet sound escaped you before you could swallow it, and Dean’s grip tightened instantly at your waist.

Dean pressed closer behind you, his chest finally meeting your back while Sam kept your attention trapped in front of you. One of Dean’s hands spread over your stomach, holding you securely as his mouth brushed beneath your ear. The touch sent a shiver through you, and Sam felt it in the way your fingers clenched harder around his shirt.

“Didn’t know Sammy had that in him, did you?” Dean murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin below your jaw. Sam broke the kiss just enough to glare past you at his brother, though his swollen mouth ruined any real attempt at intimidation. “You talk too much,” Sam said, his voice low and strained. Dean smiled against your neck. “She usually likes it.”

You turned your head before Dean could say anything else and caught his mouth with yours. He made a surprised sound that quickly deepened into a rough groan, his hand pulling you more firmly against him as he returned the kiss without hesitation. Dean kissed exactly the way you had always imagined, hot, demanding, and almost impatient, like he had spent too long restraining himself to waste another second.

Sam’s hand remained against your jaw, his thumb stroking over your skin while he watched, the jealousy in his eyes tangled tightly with fascination. You reached for him blindly, catching his wrist and keeping him close so he couldn’t mistake your attention shifting for rejection.

His expression softened immediately, and Dean felt the movement, breaking the kiss with a breathless smile. “Look at that,” he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against yours. “Already making sure neither one of us gets left out.”

“I meant what I said,” you whispered, still holding Sam’s wrist while Dean’s hand stayed firm at your waist. Sam stepped closer until there was hardly any space left in front of you, his body boxing you gently between both brothers without making you feel trapped. “We know,” he said, though the wonder in his voice suggested he was still trying to believe it. Dean brushed his nose against your temple, his breathing warm and uneven beside your face.

“And we meant it too,” he added. Sam’s eyes moved briefly to Dean’s, and whatever silent conversation passed between them ended with both men turning their attention back to you. The jealousy would come, and so would arguments, mistakes, and all the complicated pieces none of you could solve tonight.

But when Sam kissed you again and Dean’s arms tightened around you from behind, you realised complication had never frightened you as much as losing this chance would have.

Dean’s chest pressed harder into your back as Sam crowded closer in front of you, their bodies hemming you in without either brother touching the other. The thin fabric of your shirt did nothing to soften the heat pouring from both of them, and every breath you took made your body brush against Sam’s while Dean’s arms tightened around your waist. Dean’s erection pushed thick and unmistakable against the curve of your ass, his hips giving one involuntary roll before he caught himself with a rough exhale against your neck.

Sam was no better, the hard length of him pressing against your lower stomach through his jeans whenever you leaned into his kiss. “Feel what you’ve done to us, sweetheart?” Dean murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself for a man whose breathing had already gone ragged. You rolled your hips backward just enough to make him groan, then pressed forward into Sam until his jaw tightened and his hand closed around your waist.

Sam caught your chin between his fingers and kissed you slowly, but the controlled pace only made the hunger beneath it more obvious. “Still good?” he asked against your mouth, his eyes dark and fixed on yours. “I want more than good,” you whispered, and both men reacted like the words had struck straight through them.

Dean’s hands slid beneath the hem of your oversized shirt, his palms spreading over the bare skin of your stomach while Sam lifted the fabric carefully from the front. “Arms up,” Sam said, and the softness of his instruction made you obey before you even had time to tease him. Dean helped pull the shirt over your head from behind, letting it fall somewhere beside the table while Sam’s gaze dropped openly to your chest. The shorts came next, Dean hooking his fingers into the waistband while Sam steadied you with both hands at your hips.

“You boys always this coordinated?” you asked, breath catching when the material slid down your thighs. “Only when there’s something worth working together for,” Dean replied, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you stepped free of the shorts. Sam crouched briefly to guide them over your feet, his knuckles brushing your calf before he rose again with a look that made your knees feel loose.

Your underwear remained in place for only another second before Dean traced the damp fabric between your legs and let out a low, satisfied sound. “Sammy,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “she’s already soaked.”

Heat rushed across your face, but Sam’s expression turned reverent rather than smug as he took in the sight of you standing bare between them. Your breasts rose and fell with every unsteady breath, full and soft beneath his gaze, their weight shifting slightly whenever Dean moved you against him. Your nipples had tightened into hard little peaks from the cool air and the attention, and Sam brushed the back of one finger over the nearest one as though he couldn’t resist testing your reaction.

The light touch made you gasp, your chest arching instinctively toward his hand while Dean cupped your other breast from behind. “Sensitive,” Dean observed, rolling your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger until your thighs pressed together. Sam’s eyes followed the movement, then dropped lower when Dean slid your underwear down and exposed the wet shine gathered along your folds.

You were slick enough that the inner curves of your thighs glistened, the evidence of your arousal impossible to hide even before Dean spread you slightly with two careful fingers. A slightly unruly patch of pubic hair rested above your pussy, soft and natural, and Dean’s grin deepened when he noticed the way you tried to glance down at yourself. “Don’t you dare get shy now,” he murmured, kissing beneath your ear while Sam said softly, “You’re beautiful exactly like this.”

You turned in Dean’s arms before either man could keep staring without consequence, catching the hem of Sam’s shirt and tugging it upward. Sam lifted his arms and let you strip it away, his broad chest and defined stomach coming into view beneath the warm library light. Dean made an impatient sound behind you, so you reached back and dragged at his shirt too until he laughed and pulled it off himself.

Their jeans were harder to manage with your hands shaking, but you worked Sam’s belt loose first while Dean kissed your shoulder and offered entirely unhelpful commentary. “Easy there, sweetheart, you break the giant and I’m not carrying him,” Dean said, earning a flat look from Sam and a breathless laugh from you. Sam’s cock sprang free when you pushed his jeans and underwear down, long, thick, and flushed dark at the head, a bead of precum already shining at the tip.

Your mouth went dry at the sight, and Sam’s stomach tightened when your fingers wrapped experimentally around his shaft. Dean stepped out of his own jeans beside you, revealing himself just as hard, his cock slightly shorter than Sam’s but heavy and broad, the veins standing out along its length as it curved toward his stomach. “Still think the bet was stupid?” Dean asked, and you answered by stroking them both once, making their teasing disappear into matched groans.

They guided you toward the couch with a hand at each hip, not rushing you but leaving no doubt about where they wanted you. Dean reached it first and dropped onto the cushions on his back, stretching his body along the length of the couch with his legs parted and his cock hard against his stomach. “C’mere,” he said, curling two fingers toward you while his eyes dragged over your naked body.

Sam stayed behind you, one palm sliding down the line of your spine as you climbed onto the couch between Dean’s legs. You settled on your knees facing Dean, your hands braced against his thighs while he watched you with a mixture of hunger and disbelief. “You’ve thought about this,” you accused, leaning close enough that your breath warmed the head of his cock. “Every damn time you wore my flannel with nothing under it,” Dean admitted, his voice cracking slightly when your lips brushed him.

Sam knelt on the couch behind you, his thighs framing yours without touching Dean, and gathered your hair away from your face so Dean could see you clearly. “Show him what he’s been imagining,” Sam murmured near your ear, and the command sent a fresh pulse of wetness down your thighs.

You wrapped one hand around Dean’s shaft and licked slowly over the bead of precum at his tip, tasting salt as his abdomen clenched beneath you. His head fell back against the couch with a rough groan, but he forced himself to look down again when you opened your mouth around the broad head. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, one hand fisting in the cushion instead of grabbing you before you invited it.

You took him deeper a little at a time, letting your tongue flatten along the underside while your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t yet fit. Dean’s hips twitched upward, then stopped when Sam planted a steadying hand against your lower back and gave him a warning look over your shoulder. “Don’t make her choke because you can’t control yourself,” Sam said, though his own voice sounded strained from watching your lips stretch around Dean.

Dean laughed breathlessly and threaded his fingers into your hair with deliberate care, guiding rather than forcing as you bobbed your head. “Hear that?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face while you hollowed your cheeks around him, “Sammy’s pretending he isn’t dying back there.” Sam answered by sliding two fingers through your soaked folds, and your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock hard enough to make him swear.

Sam stroked you from behind with slow, deliberate passes, spreading your wetness from your entrance to your swollen clit while you continued sucking Dean. Each glide of his fingers made your hips rock backward, your body asking for more even while your mouth stayed full. “So wet,” Sam said, the words almost lost beneath Dean’s ragged breathing.

He pressed one finger inside you, then a second, curling them until your knees shifted wider on the cushion and another muffled cry escaped around Dean. Dean looked wrecked beneath you, his lips parted and his chest rising hard as he watched Sam prepare you without ever looking directly at him. “That’s it,” Dean praised, brushing your hair back from your flushed face, “take what you need from him while you take care of me.”

Sam withdrew his fingers only when your pussy was clenching greedily around them, and you heard the slick sound of his hand closing around his own cock behind you. He rubbed the thick head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your arousal and nudging your clit just enough to make your whole body shake. “Tell me you want it,” Sam said, one hand gripping your hip while the other lined his cock up with your entrance.

You pulled off Dean just long enough to drag in a breath, your hand continuing to stroke him as you looked back over your shoulder at Sam. “I want you inside me,” you said, voice shaking with need, “and I want Dean in my mouth while you do it.” Dean made a broken sound beneath you and guided your face back toward his cock, his thumb brushing affectionately over your swollen lower lip. Sam pushed forward slowly, the broad head of him stretching your entrance before the first thick inch slipped inside.

Your mouth opened on a cry, and Dean used the moment to slide between your lips again, groaning when the sound closed hot around him. Sam paused with both hands firm on your hips, giving your body time to adjust as your pussy fluttered tightly around the length already inside you. “You’re squeezing me so hard,” he whispered, bending over your back to kiss your shoulder while keeping his body carefully separate from Dean’s.

Dean stroked your cheek and smiled down at you with ruined, hungry tenderness, saying, “Look at you, taking both of us exactly the way you wanted.”

Your lips closed around Dean again, swallowing the low groan that tore from his chest when your tongue dragged firmly along the underside of his cock. Dean’s hand slid from your cheek into your hair, his fingers gathering it carefully before he tightened his grip enough to hold your head steady. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathed, watching your mouth stretch around him with a look of ruined fascination. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked as you moved, taking him deeper with every downward stroke until the broad head pushed against the back of your throat.

He started guiding you gently, testing the rhythm before giving a slow thrust upward that made your eyes water. Each push of his hips fed more of his cock into your mouth, and you relaxed your throat around him as best you could, letting him feel how willingly you took it. His cock dragged hot and heavy over your tongue while his thumb stroked the side of your face, the tenderness of the gesture contrasting obscenely with the way he used your mouth.

“Tap my thigh if you need me to stop,” Dean reminded you, his voice strained despite the careful seriousness in his eyes. You answered by gripping his leg and sucking harder, making his head fall back against the couch with a broken curse.

Once he felt you settle into the rhythm, Dean’s control began slipping, his hips lifting more firmly as he fucked into the wet heat of your mouth. His fingers stayed tangled in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted while he drew you down until your nose nearly brushed the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He rolled his hips upward again, slow enough to let you breathe between thrusts but deep enough that your throat tightened around him.

You let saliva spill from the corners of your mouth, slicking his shaft and your swollen lips as he pulled back before pressing deep again. Tears gathered along your lashes from the repeated stretch, and Dean wiped one away with his free thumb without slowing. Dean groaned when you swallowed around him, his stomach flexing beneath your hands as the muscles in his thighs tightened.

“You look so fucking pretty with your mouth full,” he praised, his voice turning rougher when you moaned around his cock. The praise made you press backward instinctively, silently begging Sam to give you more at the same time. Sam’s hand tightened around your hip as he understood the movement, and his next thrust drove deeper into your soaked pussy.

Sam fucked you with long, forceful strokes, drawing nearly all the way out before sinking back inside until his hips met the soft curve of your ass. His hips established a steady rhythm that rocked your entire body forward onto Dean’s cock each time he buried himself inside you. The angle had the thick head of him rubbing somewhere deep that made your thighs tremble and your fingers dig into Dean’s legs.

One hand remained firm on your hip, controlling your movement, while the other slid around your body and found your swollen clit. “Spread your knees a little wider for me,” Sam instructed, his breath breaking when your pussy clenched around him. You obeyed immediately, opening yourself farther and giving his fingers more room to work between your thighs.

His fingertips rubbed tight circles over your clit, slick with the wetness that coated you both, while his cock continued stretching and filling you from behind. The pressure built so quickly that your stomach pulled tight, every thrust grinding his fingers harder against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock, making him thrust into your mouth with a groan while Sam whispered, “There she is.”

Sam felt your body beginning to unravel before you could warn him, your pussy fluttering rapidly around his cock while your hips chased his fingers. “Right there?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the desperate way you pushed backward against him. He kept his thrusts deep and measured, grinding into you instead of pulling away as his fingers rubbed your clit faster.

Your knees shifted unsteadily on the couch, and Sam tightened his arm around your waist to keep you supported between them. Dean slowed the movement of your head, giving you room to breathe while still keeping his cock resting heavily against your tongue. He held your gaze as your eyes lifted toward him, his expression softening despite the raw hunger carved across his face. “Cum for him, sweetheart,” Dean encouraged, stroking your wet cheek while Sam drove into you again.

Sam pinched your clit lightly between two fingers before rubbing it with firm, rapid strokes, his mouth pressed close to your shoulder as he praised how tightly you were taking him. The combined pressure of Sam filling you, his fingers working your clit, and Dean’s cock pulsing inside your mouth finally dragged you over the edge.

Your orgasm tore through you with enough force to make your entire body lock between them, a muffled cry breaking around Dean’s cock as your thighs shook violently. Your pussy clamped down around Sam in repeated waves, squeezing him so tightly that his thrusts faltered and a harsh groan ripped from his chest.

Sam swore against your skin, holding himself deep inside you while his fingers continued rubbing your clit through every helpless contraction. Dean pulled his cock back enough to let you gasp for air, his hand still supporting your head while he watched your face crumple with pleasure. You shook beneath Sam’s hands, your hips twitching uncontrollably as slick wetness spread over his cock and down your inner thighs. “Good girl,” Sam murmured, pressing slow kisses along your shoulder while your pussy continued pulsing around him.

Sam kept his movements shallow until the overstimulation made you whimper, then finally stilled and let his hand rest warmly over your lower stomach. Dean withdrew from your mouth completely, his cock shining with your saliva and still hard enough to throb against his abdomen. Neither brother let himself cum, both of them visibly straining against the need because they had already decided they weren’t finished sharing you.

For a moment, all three of you stayed tangled together while you struggled to catch your breath, your body loose and trembling from the orgasm. Dean brushed your damp hair away from your forehead, looking far too smug for someone whose cock was still flushed and aching beside your face. “We’re not done with you yet,” he said, tracing your swollen lower lip with his thumb before glancing toward Sam. Sam eased out of your pussy slowly, watching the way your stretched entrance clenched around nothing once he was gone.

“Swap?” Sam asked, wrapping one slick hand around his cock and stroking himself once as he waited for your reaction. Dean’s grin sharpened while your exhausted body immediately stirred with fresh heat at the suggestion. They moved carefully around you, never touching one another as Sam stepped away from the couch and Dean shifted into a seated position.

Dean sat with his back against the cushions and his legs spread, his erection standing thick and rigid between his thighs. He reached for your hips and guided you around until you were hovering above him with your back facing his chest.

You lowered yourself onto Dean slowly, the broad head of his cock pressing through your soaked folds before stretching your sensitive entrance open again. Dean’s cock sank into you inch by inch, thicker than Sam’s in a way that made your pussy burn pleasantly as it adjusted around him. He groaned into the back of your neck when your ass finally settled against his lap and he was buried completely inside you. “Back against me, sweetheart,” he instructed, wrapping one arm firmly around your waist and drawing you against his chest.

You settled against him, your head resting briefly on his shoulder while his cock pulsed deep inside your still fluttering pussy. Dean planted his feet against the floor and lifted your hips before pulling you down again, making you gasp at the sudden force of the thrust. He thrust upward into you repeatedly, using his arm around your waist to bounce you against his lap as your wetness coated his cock.

Your breasts jiggled freely with every hard movement, the soft weight of them bouncing as Dean drove you up and down over his length. Dean cupped one from behind and squeezed it, rolling your stiff nipple between his fingers while he murmured, “Look at these pretty fucking tits bouncing for me.”

Sam stepped in front of you, towering over the couch with his cock still slick from your pussy and flushed dark from holding himself back. His cock twitched near your face, precum gathering thickly at the tip while he watched Dean make your body bounce in his lap. You wrapped one hand around Sam’s shaft and stroked him slowly, spreading the slickness along every hot inch as your lips parted beneath him. “Open up for me,” Sam said, catching your chin gently and tipping your face upward while Dean continued thrusting from below.

You did, extending your tongue so Sam could drag the swollen head across it before pushing his cock between your lips. Sam used your mouth at his chosen pace, one hand cradling the back of your head as he slid over your tongue and pressed carefully into your throat. Your free hand continued stroking the base of his cock whenever his hips pulled back, twisting your wrist and squeezing firmly enough to make his breath hitch. Dean thrust harder every time Sam pushed into your mouth, making your breasts bounce wildly while his fingers pinched and tugged your nipple.

Caught between Dean’s cock pounding into your pussy and Sam fucking your mouth above him, you could only moan around Sam’s length while both brothers praised how perfectly you took them.

Sam’s cock slid deeper into your mouth as Dean thrust upward beneath you, forcing a broken moan from your throat that vibrated around Sam’s length. Every drive of Dean’s hips lifted your body, making your lips move along Sam’s shaft while your hand tightened around the slick base of his cock. Dean’s arm stayed locked around your waist, holding your back firmly against his chest as he fucked into your dripping pussy from below.

Your breasts bounced with every impact, the soft flesh jiggling uncontrollably while Dean’s free hand squeezed and kneaded one of them. “That’s it, sweetheart, let him use that pretty mouth,” Dean groaned against your ear, pinching your hardened nipple until you whimpered around Sam. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks as Sam pushed forward and let the head of his cock press into your throat.

Sam’s fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your face tilted upward while he watched your watering eyes and saliva-coated lips. “You’re taking me so well,” he praised, dragging himself almost completely out before sliding back across your tongue. The sensation of being filled at both ends left you helpless between them, your wet pussy clenching around Dean every time Sam’s cock reached deep into your mouth.

Dean felt every contraction around him, and each tight pulse made his control fracture a little more. He planted his feet harder against the floor and drove his cock upward in forceful strokes, bouncing you on his lap until your ass slapped repeatedly against his thighs. Your slick coated the full length of him, gathering around the base of his cock and smearing across his skin whenever he buried himself completely. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Dean muttered, slipping his hand from your breast down over your stomach.

His fingers found your swollen clit and rubbed it in rough circles while his other arm continued holding you in place. Your whole body jolted, forcing Sam’s cock deeper as you cried out around him. Sam paused long enough to let you breathe through your nose, his thumb brushing tenderly beneath one of your tear-bright eyes.

“Too much?” he asked, despite the dark hunger in his expression and the way his cock throbbed against your tongue. You shook your head urgently and stroked him faster, making Sam’s restraint disappear beneath a low, ragged groan.

Sam began fucking your mouth more steadily, guiding your head onto his cock while meeting each movement with a controlled thrust of his hips. The swollen head pressed against the back of your throat again and again, leaving you gagging softly while saliva slipped down your chin. His free hand cupped your jaw, feeling the shape of himself through your cheek as your mouth stretched around his thickness.

“Look at me,” Sam instructed, slowing just enough for you to lift your watery gaze to his. You obeyed, sucking hard as he withdrew, your tongue following the sensitive underside until only the tip remained between your lips. Sam’s breath hitched when you swirled your tongue around the head and dragged your fist firmly along the rest of his shaft.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Dean said, his voice rough with pride while he continued pounding upward into you. Dean’s fingers pressed harder against your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts until your thighs began trembling around his legs. You moaned Sam’s name with your mouth still full, the muffled sound making his cock jerk against your tongue.

Dean kissed the side of your neck while his cock drove into the deepest part of you, each thrust forcing your body upward before he pulled you down again. Your breasts bounced wildly in front of Sam, your nipples stiff and flushed while Dean’s hand occasionally left your clit to slap lightly against the underside of one breast. The soft impact made your chest jiggle harder and sent another surge of wetness around Dean’s cock.

“These gorgeous fucking tits,” Dean breathed, cupping both breasts briefly and squeezing them together. Sam looked down at your body, watching Dean’s cock disappear into your pussy without directing any touch or attention toward his brother. His gaze stayed fixed on you, on your open mouth, bouncing chest, and the desperate movements of your hand around his shaft.

“You like being watched?” Sam asked, pulling his cock free so you could answer. “I like knowing what I’m doing to both of you,” you gasped, still bouncing helplessly on Dean’s cock. Dean laughed against your shoulder and thrust hard enough to cut your next breath into a sharp cry.

Sam tapped the heavy head of his cock against your tongue, smearing precum over your lips while your hand pumped him from base to tip. “Then look at what you’re doing to me,” he said, guiding your gaze downward to the flushed length twitching in your fist. You licked the precum from his slit before taking him back into your mouth, drawing a curse from him as your lips closed tightly around the head.

Dean’s fingers returned to your clit and rubbed faster, making your pussy squeeze around him so hard that his hips stuttered. “Easy,” Dean warned breathlessly, though he sounded like he was speaking to himself more than you. You deliberately clenched again, earning a strained groan and a sharp bite against your shoulder. “Trying to make me cum before your boyfriend up there?” Dean asked, his tone teasing despite how close he clearly was.

Sam’s eyes darkened at the word, but his expression softened when you reached up and squeezed his cock possessively. “They’re both yours,” Sam murmured, thrusting back into your mouth while Dean answered, “Damn right we are.”

The renewed claim sent a fierce wave of arousal through you, and Dean felt fresh wetness spill around his thrusting cock. His fingers circled your clit relentlessly, occasionally pressing directly against it until your body jerked and your nails dug into Sam’s thigh. Sam kept fucking your mouth while you stroked the portion you couldn’t take, twisting your wrist around the slick shaft each time he pulled back.

Your breathing became ragged through your nose, broken by wet choking sounds whenever he pressed farther down your throat. “You’re close again,” Sam observed, recognizing the frantic trembling running through your body. Dean slowed his thrusts into deep, grinding movements, keeping his cock buried while he rubbed your clit with firm strokes.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers tightened around your waist. “Cum on my cock while you suck Sammy off.” Your pussy spasmed immediately at the command, the first hard contraction dragging a hoarse groan from Dean’s chest.

Your second orgasm built more slowly than the first, gathering beneath Dean’s fingers until every part of you felt stretched tight and unbearably sensitive. Dean kept grinding his cock into you, rubbing deep against your inner walls while his fingertips worked your clit without mercy. Sam pulled out of your mouth so he could hear you, wrapping one hand around his cock as he watched your face crumple with pleasure.

You cried out when the orgasm broke, your head falling back against Dean’s shoulder while your pussy clenched rhythmically around him. Your thighs shook violently, and your breasts bounced from the involuntary movements as Dean continued thrusting through every pulse. “Fuck, that’s it,” Dean groaned, holding you down on his cock while your wetness soaked his lap.

Sam stroked himself faster in front of you, his fist gliding over the slick length while he watched you tremble. Dean’s fingers slowed over your clit only when your whimpers turned breathless and overstimulated. He kissed your flushed cheek and murmured, “You’re gonna make it real hard for us to keep holding back.”

You reached for Sam before the last tremors had faded, wrapping your hand around his cock and guiding him back toward your mouth. Sam groaned at your eagerness, sliding the head between your lips while Dean resumed slow, powerful thrusts beneath you.

“Want my cum?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse as he gathered your hair into his fist again. You nodded around him and sucked greedily, stroking the base while your tongue worked beneath the sensitive head. Sam’s hips jerked forward, his restraint slipping as your mouth tightened around him and Dean’s thrusts rocked you against his body. Dean watched your cheeks hollow around Sam’s cock, his own breathing becoming harsh as your oversensitive pussy continued gripping him.

“Give it to her,” Dean urged, squeezing your bouncing breast as he fucked upward. Sam’s cock pulsed heavily on your tongue, his hand holding your head still while his body tensed in front of you. Your eyes stayed fixed on his as you took him deeper, silently begging him to finally stop holding back.

You knew from the way Sam’s cock pulsed against your tongue and the way Dean’s thrusts had started losing their rhythm that neither of them had much control left. Sam’s fist tightened in your hair, his hips jerking forward as another bead of precum spread across your tongue, while Dean groaned against your neck and buried himself deep inside your trembling pussy.

The thought of either of them finishing where they were made your stomach twist with need, but another image had already taken hold of you. You pulled your mouth off Sam’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging briefly between your swollen lips and his flushed head. “Wait,” you pleaded, making both men freeze despite how close they were.

Dean’s arm tightened around your waist as he fought to keep himself still, his cock throbbing hard inside you while Sam wrapped a desperate hand around his shaft. “What is it, sweetheart?” Dean asked, his voice wrecked and strained as though every second of restraint physically hurt. You looked between them, breathing hard, your cheeks hot and your lips glistening. “I want both of you to cum on my face.”

Sam’s eyes darkened immediately, and Dean made a sound behind you that was half laugh and half groan. “Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, pressing his forehead against your shoulder while your pussy clenched instinctively around him. Sam’s hand began moving slowly over his cock, but he watched you carefully as though he needed to hear you say it again before he let himself believe it. “You’re sure?” he asked, his thumb dragging across the slick head as he stroked himself.

“I’m sure,” you said, turning your face toward him and licking your swollen lips. Dean eased you off his cock with visible reluctance, holding your hips securely while you climbed from his lap and lowered yourself onto the floor. You settled between them on your knees, naked and flushed, with your thighs still wet and your breasts rising quickly with every breath.

Dean stood beside Sam without touching him, both brothers facing you as they wrapped their hands around their aching cocks. “Look at you,” Dean said, staring down at you with hungry disbelief. “On your knees, asking us to cover that pretty face.”

You tilted your chin upward and opened your mouth, letting your tongue slide out as both men began stroking themselves faster. Dean’s fist moved firmly from base to tip, smearing your wetness and saliva over his cock while his free hand cupped your cheek. Sam’s strokes were slower at first, his grip twisting around the swollen head before dragging tightly down the full length of his shaft.

Their breathing filled the room, rough groans and broken curses overlapping as they watched you wait beneath them. “Stick your tongue out farther,” Sam instructed, his voice low and unsteady, and you obeyed immediately. Dean’s thumb stroked beneath your eye while his hips pushed helplessly into his fist, his cock twitching harder every time your gaze moved between them.

“You want all of it?” Dean asked, his voice breaking when you nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you breathed, leaving your mouth open as your tongue rested against your lower lip. Sam groaned at the sight and stroked faster, his stomach tightening visibly as he reached the edge.

Dean came first with a harsh curse, his cock jerking in his hand as the first thick spurt of cum struck your cheek. Another landed across your nose and upper lip, warm ropes streaking over your skin while he continued pumping himself through every pulse. You kept your mouth open, catching part of the next spurt on your tongue before swallowing it with a soft, satisfied moan. The sight pushed Sam over immediately, his jaw clenching as his cock throbbed violently in his fist.

His cum splashed across your other cheek and chin, some of it landing directly on your outstretched tongue as he groaned your name. You closed your lips around the warm taste and swallowed, then opened your mouth again while Sam milked the final drops from his cock. Their cum covered your face in thick streaks, glistening beneath the bunker lights as you looked up at them with swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

Dean stared down at you like the sight had stolen the last coherent thought from his head, while Sam’s hand drifted gently into your hair despite the hunger still burning in his eyes. You dragged your tongue across your upper lip, collecting what you could reach before swallowing again, and Dean groaned, “Sweetheart, you’re gonna fucking kill us.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Dean’s breathing was still uneven as he reached down and brushed his thumb carefully beneath your eye, his ruined grin softening into something warmer when you leaned into his touch. Sam crouched beside you with a towel he had grabbed from the back of the couch, his movements gentle as he began cleaning your flushed face.

“You okay?” he asked, studying you with the same serious attention he gave every injury, despite the obvious satisfaction lingering in his expression. You nodded, still trying to steady your breathing while Dean muttered, “Pretty sure she’s more than okay, Sammy.” Sam gave him a look that should have been annoyed, but the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed softly between them, exhausted and overwhelmed in the best way, and the sound seemed to ease the last of the tension from both brothers. Dean offered you his hand, helping you stand before drawing you carefully against his chest. Sam moved in beside you, one broad palm settling reassuringly at your back.

“You two really held all of that in for months?” you asked, glancing between them as Dean found a blanket and wrapped it loosely around your shoulders. “In our defence, communication isn’t exactly the Winchester family business,” Dean replied. Sam snorted as he sat beside you on the couch, leaving enough room for you to choose where you wanted to settle.

You chose the space between them, curling against Dean’s side while resting your legs across Sam’s lap. The decision made both men look quietly pleased, though Dean was far worse at hiding it. Sam’s hand moved slowly along your calf beneath the blanket, soothing rather than demanding anything more.

“We still need to talk,” he reminded you gently. Dean groaned and tipped his head back against the cushions. “Of course you’d schedule the relationship meeting immediately after.” You nudged Dean with your elbow and told him, “He’s right,” which earned you an offended stare.

The conversation came in pieces, softened by lingering touches and tired laughter. You agreed that jealousy wasn’t forbidden, only cruelty and silence, and that nobody would be expected to hide what they needed. Sam insisted that each relationship had to be allowed to develop naturally instead of becoming part of some competition Dean could keep score of.

Dean complained about the accusation before immediately asking whether kissing counted as a point, proving Sam’s argument for him. You promised neither of them would be treated like a consolation prize, because what you felt for each brother was different but equally real. That answer silenced Dean completely, his expression turning vulnerable before he hid it against your hair.

Sam squeezed your leg and looked down for a moment, swallowing around whatever emotion had caught in his throat. “We’re going to screw this up sometimes,” he admitted. “Probably spectacularly,” Dean added. You smiled and rested one hand over each of theirs. “Then we fix it together.”

Later, Dean carried you toward the hallway despite your insistence that you could walk perfectly well. Sam followed with your abandoned clothes and the sort of amused expression that suggested he knew arguing with Dean would only make him more stubborn. “You’re both ridiculous,” you murmured, looping your arms around Dean’s neck.

“Yeah, but apparently you’re into that,” Dean said, kissing your temple. Sam opened your bedroom door and pulled back the covers while Dean lowered you carefully onto the mattress. Neither brother assumed he should stay, and the sudden uncertainty on their faces made your chest tighten with affection. You reached for both of them before either could retreat.

“Stay,” you said simply. Dean climbed in on one side while Sam settled on the other, their bodies curved protectively around yours without touching each other. As the bunker grew quiet again, you realised you had spent months fearing that wanting both brothers would leave you with neither, only to fall asleep safely held between them.

The motel room smelled of stale coffee, cheap air freshener, and the particular mustiness that seemed to follow them no matter which state they were in. It was a scent you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you barely registered it anymore—like the constant hum of the vending machine outside or the way Dean always left his boots by the door.

Tonight, however, that familiar atmosphere felt suffocating.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the one closest to the window because you'd always positioned yourself as the first line of defense against anything that might come through it, and watched your brothers bicker about something insignificant. Sam was pacing near the small table, his hair falling into his eyes as he gestured emphatically about lore that didn't match up with their current case. Dean was sprawled in the single armchair, beer in hand, rolling his eyes with the practiced ease of a man who'd been hearing Sam's research rants for decades.

And Castiel stood in the corner.

He always stood. Even after weeks of being around them, of existing in this strange in-between space between Heaven and Earth, he still hadn't quite figured out how to relax into furniture. How to be in a room without being of it. He observed everything with those too-blue eyes, head tilted slightly, like a bird trying to understand why humans insisted on building boxes to sit inside.

Normally, you found his confusion endearing.

Tonight, it was making your eye twitch.

"You're not listening to me," Sam said, and you realized you'd missed the last three minutes of his argument entirely. "If we're dealing with a banshee-"

"We're not dealing with a banshee, for fuck's sake." Dean cut in, taking a long pull of his beer before continuing. "We're dealing with a ghost. A garden-variety, salt-and-burn, nothing-fancy ghost. Stop trying to make everything into a-"

"And what makes you so sure?" Sam's voice was climbing, the way it always did when he felt like he was being dismissed. "Because the witness descriptions match-"

"Sam." You said his name quietly, and immediately saw the tension in his shoulders ease. He turned to look at you, and for just a moment, he wasn't a grown man in his mid-twenties with too much trauma and too many burdens. He was the little boy who'd come to your bed after nightmares, who'd clung to your hand during his first hunt, who'd needed you to tell him everything would be okay a thousand and one times. "We'll look at the lore again in the morning. Both versions. Okay?"

He nodded, and you watched him visibly relax. "Okay- Yeah. You're right."

Dean snorted. "She says 'let's look at it in the morning' and you fold like a cheap suit. I say the same thing and you act like I just-"

"Because you don't listen to me." Sam shot back, but there was no heat in it now.

You'd spent years cultivating that perspective of his on you. Years of being the one who stayed up with him when he was sick, who made sure his homework was done, who held him when he cried over things he couldn't even articulate. You'd been twelve when he was born, and while other girls your age were worrying about boys and school dances, you were learning how to warm a bottle just right, how to rock a fussy infant to sleep, how to be everything a mother should be when the real one wasn’t around to do it.

Dean had been different. Even at four, he'd wanted his independence. He had pushed away your attempts at coddling, had insisted he was old enough to handle things himself. But you remembered, too, the way he'd let you bandage his scraped knees without complaint. The way he'd crawl into your bed on the nights Dad had come home angry and frustrated about not being able to handle a case as he should have, not saying a word, just needing to be close to someone who felt safe. The way he still, even now, let you brush off his shoulders and straighten his collar when he was too stubborn to admit he needed taking care of.

They were your boys. Your whole world, really. Everything you'd done, every sacrifice you'd made, had been for them.

Which was why what you were doing with the angel in the corner felt like such a betrayal.

Ever since he'd pulled Dean from Hell, ever since he'd started appearing in your lives with his cryptic messages and his confusing lack of understanding about humanity, he'd watched. But recently—the last few days, really—his watching had become something else. Something more focused. More intense.

More personal.

You felt his gaze on you now, that familiar weight of attention that made your skin prickle with awareness. When you glanced up, you found his blue eyes fixed on you with an expression you'd come to recognize intimately: that particular blend of curiosity and hunger that he didn't seem to understand himself.

Your stomach flipped.

It had started innocently enough. A conversation about human emotions that had gone on too long. A moment of frustration on your part that had led to a physical reaction from him that neither of you had expected. And then, somehow, you'd found yourself pressed against a wall in some abandoned warehouse, his mouth on yours, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, his own tugging at your blouse.

After that, it had become... frequent. Addictive. A secret that you kept from your brothers not out of shame but out of necessity.

They saw him as a weapon, a tool.

They didn't see him the way you did.

They didn't see the way his eyes would go glassy when you touched him. The way his breath would catch when you whispered his name in that particular tone. The way he'd arch into your touch like a cat seeking affection, utterly shameless in his need, completely lacking in the human inhibitions that might have made him self-conscious.

You'd created a monster, you realized. A beautiful, angelic, utterly addicted monster who didn't understand the meaning of the word "discretion."

Like now. As you watched, Castiel's gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat with an intensity that made heat pool low in your belly. His vessel's body was responding to you in ways you'd taught it to, ways that had nothing to do with divine purpose and everything to do with base, human desire.

"I think we should discuss the case in more detail," Castiel said, and you felt your jaw clench. "The witness accounts are contradictory, which suggests either misinterpretation of events or deliberate-"

"Cas." You didn't mean for your voice to come out so sharp, but you were tired. So tired. Three nights of interrupted sleep, two days of driving, and the constant, gnawing worry that someone was going to figure out what was going on between you and the angel. "We said tomorrow. Drop it, please."

His head tilted, and you could see the confusion written across his face. The genuine, innocent confusion that said he truly didn't understand why humans got so worked up over things that could simply be... fixed. "But if we examine the evidence now, we might—"

"Castiel. I said drop it."

The room went silent.

You hadn't meant to say his full name. You never did. Not when anyone else was around, not when you were supposed to be pretending that he was just the angel who'd pulled Dean out of Hell, nothing more. You'd been so careful, so deliberate about keeping that boundary intact.

But you were exhausted. And stressed. And your brothers had been bickering for hours, and the angel in the corner kept staring at you with those eyes that seemed to see straight through every wall you'd ever built, and—

And now he was looking at you the way he did when you were alone.

The way he did when you had him spread out beneath you, gasping and whining and so utterly, beautifully undone.

The name had come out like a slap, sharp and commanding, and you watched in mounting horror as Castiel's entire demeanor shifted. One moment he was standing there, stiff and composed, the perfect picture of celestial detachment. The next, his shoulders had gone rigid, his gaze dropping to the floor with the sudden, sharp intensity of someone who had no idea where else to look.

A flush was creeping up his neck.

And his pupils were dilating.

Oh no.

"Cas?" Dean's voice cut through the haze. "You okay, man? You look—"

"I'm fine." But Castiel's voice had gone strange. Rougher. Thicker. The way it got when you had your hand wrapped around him, when you were whispering dirty things in his ear and watching his composure shatter into a thousand pieces.

You had done that to him. You had Pavlov'd an angel of the Lord.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. Every time you called him Castiel—only when you called him Castiel—it meant you were about to take him apart. About to have him beneath you, on top of you, against you, inside you. His name was your code word, your trigger, the line between polite conversation and the sheer, primal carnality that existed between you when the door was closed and the world didn't exist.

And you'd just said it in front of your brothers.

"Here?" Castiel's voice broke, and he swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, and you could hear the need in it. The desperate, confused need of an angel who had become addicted to the feeling of skin on skin. "But here... with Dean and Sam?"

Sam dropped the lore book he'd been holding. It hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo through the suddenly silent room.

"What the hell?" Dean was sitting up straighter now, beer forgotten. "What does that mean? What do you mean, 'here with Dean and Sam'?"

"Nothing-" you said quickly, and you were already moving, reaching for Castiel's arm, trying to steer him toward the door. "He's just confused. The Angel thing. He doesn't-"

"Don't." Sam's voice was like ice, and when you looked at him, his face had gone pale. "Don't you dare lie to me. What was that?"

"He needs to-"

"Why did he say it like that." Dean was on his feet now, and his eyes were darting between you and Castiel with dawning horror. "Why did he say that in the first place? Why did he react like that?"

The angel in question was still staring at the floor, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers were twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. He looked like a man on the edge of something, and you knew with certainty that if you didn't get him out of this room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to break.

Because Castiel didn't understand shame.

He didn't understand secrecy, or the careful social dance that humans did around their private lives. He didn't know what it meant to keep something hidden, to protect the people you loved from the truth of who you were and what you'd done.

He only understood what you'd taught him.

And you'd taught him to want.

Behind you, Sam made a sound like he'd been punched.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "It's just his name. It's not like she's—" He stopped, his eyes going wide. "Wait. She's not saying it like that. Is she?"

The silence that followed his inquiry was enough of an answer.

"No. No way." His voice cracked like a high schooler's. "You're not—you can't be- with him?"

"I'm going to be sick." Dean's voice was hollow. "I'm actually going to be sick."

You turned to face them, and even though your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking, you made yourself meet their eyes. You'd faced down demons and ghosts and things that shouldn't exist. You could face your brothers.

"I was going to tell you... eventually." you said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. You'd thought about it, maybe. Sometimes. "I just didn't know.. how."

"How?" Sam's voice cracked. "How about 'hey Sam, guess what, I've been sleeping with the angel who's been hanging around us for weeks'? That would've been a good start!"

"Sammy—"

"Me." Dean was pacing now, hands running through his hair. "He pulled me out of Hell. I was the one who started all this. And now my sister is—" He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass everything. "My sister's been-" He looked from you to Castiel. "With the angel. My sister and the angel have been... doing things."

Sam looked between you and Castiel, his expression a mixture of disbelief and growing horror. "Cas is an angel. He's not- he doesn't even understand human—"

"Oh, he understands plenty." Dean said, his voice flat. "Look at him. Look at the way he's looking at her."

Castiel was still pressed against your back, and you could feel the way his body was straining toward you, the way he was fighting every instinct to just take what he wanted. His breath was hot against your neck, and you knew without looking that his eyes were half-lidded, his lips slightly parted.

He was losing his grip on whatever control he'd managed to maintain.

"We should go." Sam's squeaked out. "Dean, come on. We're leaving."

"Sam! you can't just- our sister is- with Cas!"

"Watch me." He was already grabbing his jacket. "I can't be in this room right now. I can't be near—" He gestured at you and Castiel. "That. Whatever that is."

Dean hesitated, and you saw the war in his eyes: the desire to stay, to yell, to do something, and the need to get away from something that was clearly breaking his brain.

Finally, he turned.

"You owe us an explanation." he said, and his voice was cold in a way you'd never heard from him before. "We'll be at the bar. When you're done... whatever you're going to do... you come get us. And you tell us everything."

The door slammed behind them.

For a moment, you just stood there, breathing. Listening to the sound of their footsteps retreating, the muffled thump of another door opening and closing.

And then Castiel's hands were on you.

"Please," he breathed against your neck, and the sound of it went straight to your core. "Please, please, I need-"

You turned and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the soft, exploratory thing you'd given him the first few times, when you were still figuring out how to touch him. This was hungry, desperate, your mouth claiming his with a ferocity that had him gasping against your lips.

"Castiel." You said his name like a curse, like a prayer, and you felt the way his whole body shuddered in response. "What did you do? What did you just do?"

"I'm sorry." His voice was broken, fragmented. "I apologise, didn't mean to- it just happened- you said my name and—"

"I know." You kissed him again, harder, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper.

You pushed him backwards, and his legs hit the edge of the bed. He went down without a fight, the way he always did, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. His pupils were completely blown, dark enough to swallow the blue, and you could see the way his chest was heaving with breaths he didn't need.

"You like that, don't you?" You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and watched the way his hands immediately came up to grip your waist. "You like it when I'm rough with you."

"Yes." The word came out on a gasp. "Yes, I- it feels—"

"Good." You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "It's supposed to feel good. But you messed up big time, errand boy"

"I'm sorry." His voice was trembling. "I couldn't- when you said my name, I couldn't-"

"I know." You kissed his neck, soft at first, then harder, feeling the way his pulse jumped beneath your lips. "I know you couldn't help it. That's why I'm going to be so good to you tonight."

"Please." He was already arching into you, his hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow. "Please, I need—"

"You need what?" You bit down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he cried out, a high, broken sound that went straight to your core. "Tell me what you need, Castiel."

"You." The word was barely audible. "Just you. Always you."

His hips were bucking up into you, and you could feel how hard he was, could feel the way he was already leaking through his pants. He was so sensitive, so utterly responsive to everything you did. It had taken you weeks to get him to this point, weeks of careful conditioning and deliberate touch.

And now he was yours. Completely, utterly yours.

"That's right." You rocked against him, just enough to make him gasp. "You're so good for me. So perfect. You just need me to take care of you, don't you?"

"Yes." His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the mattress. "Yes, please. Please take care of me."

"Poor baby." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way he trembled beneath you. "Getting so worked up over a name. You couldn't even control yourself in front of Dean and Sam."

"M'sorry." He was babbling now, the words tumbling out between desperate little gasps.

You sat up, looking down at him. "I know exactly what you were thinking when it slipped. You were thinking about all the times I've said it before, weren't you? All the times I've had you just like this."

His blush deepened, spreading down his neck and disappearing into his collar. He didn't deny it.

"Tell me," you said, and your voice was almost gentle now. "Tell me what you were thinking about."

"That first time." His eyes were still closed, but you could see the way his pupils moved beneath his lids, the way he was losing himself in memory. "When you put your mouth on me. I thought I was going to- I didn't know what was happening."

"You came." You smiled at the memory. "Just from my mouth. You came so hard you almost passed out."

"I didn't know what it was-" His voice was shaking. "The feeling. I didn't know it was supposed to feel like that. I thought I was dying."

"That was just the beginning, baby." You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his. "We've come a long way since then, haven't we?"

He nodded frantically, and you could feel the way his whole body was quivering with need.

"Open your eyes," you commanded, and he obeyed immediately, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. "Tell me what you want."

"You." The word came out on a sob. "Just you. I want to feel you. Please, I need to."

"Shh." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'll give you what you need. But first, I need you to be good for me. Can you be good?"

"Yes." He was nodding frantically. "Yes, I'll be good, I'll be so good, please just-"

You silenced him with another kiss, and felt the way he melted into it. The way his hands came up to cup your face, the way he kissed you back with desperate, hungry need.

"Take off your clothes," you murmured against his lips. "All of them. And don't move until I tell you."

He scrambled to obey, his fingers clumsy with need, and you watched as he fumbled with buttons and zippers. His shirt came off first, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the hard lines of his muscles. Then his pants, kicked off with desperate haste. His boxers followed, and you felt your mouth go dry at the sight of him.

He was gorgeous. Utterly, stunningly gorgeous. His body was lean and hard, all sharp angles and smooth planes, and his cock was already hard and leaking against his stomach.

"Look at you." You climbed off the bed, and he made a desperate little sound of protest. "Don't move. I'm just going to watch you for a moment."

He was trembling, his hands clenched in the sheets, his eyes fixed on you with single-minded intensity. "Please," he breathed. "Please, I need you to touch me."

"I will." You circled the bed slowly, taking in every inch of him. "But first, I want you to tell me something. Do you remember what I said I'd do to you if you ever told anyone about us?"

His eyes went wide. "I—no- I didn't mean to-"

"I know you didn't." Your voice was soft. "But you still did. And now Dean and Sam know. They know what we've been doing. And I know you didn't mean to. But you still broke the rules, Castiel. And when you break the rules..."

You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "..You get punished."

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt the way his cock twitched against your thigh.

"punished?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Mmhmm." You kissed down his jaw, feeling the racing pulse beneath your lips. "I'm going to be so rough with you, baby. So rough. And you're going to take it, aren't you? Because that's what good angels do."

"Yes." He was already arching into you, already surrendering. "Please. Please be rough."

You cut him off with a kiss, and this time there was no softness to it. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he whined in response, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

"This is what happens," you said against his lips, "when you can't keep your mouth shut. I have to remind you who you belong to."

"I belong to you." The words came out on a gasp. "Only you. Always."

"That's right." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way his pulse raced under your lips. "And you're never going to forget it again, are you?"

"No." He was shaking his head frantically. "No, never. I'll—I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just please—"

You smiled against his skin. "Good boy."

And then you took him in your mouth.

He choked on a moan, his hands flying to your hair, and you felt the way his hips bucked up into you. You let him, taking him deep, feeling the way he filled your mouth. He tasted like salt and heat and something that was purely him.

"Please," he was gasping, his hands fisting in your hair. "Please,pleaseplease—"

You pulled off with a wet pop, and he made a sound of desperate protest. "You can take it." you said.

His eyes were wild, his pupils completely blown. I'll take anything."

"Don't worry, baby." You climbed back up his body, your lips hovering over his. "I'm not going to stop. I'm going to take you apart piece by piece, and then I'm going to put you back together."

"You're so beautiful," you murmured. "So perfect. Do you know that?"

He shook his head, unable to speak.

"Then let me show you." You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, and felt the way he shuddered beneath you. "Do you feel that? That's how much I want you."

You sank down onto him, and he whimpered. High and broken, almost keening. His back arched off the bed, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you'd have bruises.

"Shh." You pressed a hand over his mouth. "You have to be quiet. We can't have anyone hearing us."

He nodded frantically, his eyes wild and struggling not to cross, and you felt the way his whole body was trembling.

"You're so big," you breathed, beginning to move. "So perfect. Filling me up so good."

He whimpered against your palm, his hips thrusting up to meet yours.

"That's it." You rode him faster, harder, feeling the way he was losing control. "You're so good for me, Castiel. So perfect."

He was close, you could feel it, and you leaned down to kiss him again.

"Come for me," you breathed against his lips. "Come for me, baby."

The light exploded.

It came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the room with a warmth that felt like standing in sunlight. His grace touched you, and you felt your own orgasm crash over you, amplified and intensified by whatever was happening between you.

---

Three hours later Dean was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Finally, he said, "He makes you happy?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "More than I've ever been."

"Then I guess that's all that matters." He stood up, pulling you into a rough hug. "God, I can't believe my sister's banging an angel."

"Dean!" But you were laughing, the tension finally breaking. "It's not like that."

"It is exactly like that." He pulled back, shaking his head. "My sister. And Cas. I need a drink."

"A bottle," Sam muttered, finally turning back to face you. "We need a bottle. Maybe several."

But he was smiling, a little, and you knew it would be okay.

"It's going to be weird," Dean said. "You know that, right? We're never going to be able to look at him the same way."

"I know." You smiled. "But you'll get used to it."

"I really don't think I will." But there was no heat in his voice. "Just... keep it down, okay? I don't need to hear—"

"Dean." You cut him off. "I'm not going to talk about this with you."

"Thank God." He shuddered. "I think I'd rather face another demon."

“I’m grabbin’ a soda from the vending machine. Y’all want anything?” Dean asks, sighing and standing from the bed. 

“Water’s fine,” Sam mumbles, pushing his sweat-slick hair back. You offered him a hair tie a while ago, which is relieving him of the hair at the back of his neck, but the rest is still damp anyway. 

“I’ll take two,” you mutter, spread out on the motel floor in nothing but a loose T-shirt and your underwear. “Grab a bucket of ice, too.”

“Can do,” Dean replies, holding a crumpled wad of bills in his sweaty palm. He exits, leaving you and Sam alone in the motel room.

It’s 102 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and the sun is beaming down like a motherfucker. No hunting will happen today — if there are any spirits afoot in the general area, they’ll have to wait another day. The room’s air conditioner is barely surviving the current heatwave, sputtering and coughing up lukewarm air from its vents. It’s better than nothing, hence why your little trio is holed up here rather than anywhere else. At least you’re all comfortable enough to strip down around each other.

Too comfortable, perhaps. Sam keeps staring at you from his spot on the bed, tracing your body with his eyes. You can’t get a good look at what he’s doing from his current vantage point, but he can see everything that counts: your legs are propped up, bent at the knees and idly swaying from side to side. The underside of your thighs glisten in the light, slick from sweat. They’re slightly spread — just enough that Sam can see between your parted legs, stealing a look at the blue underwear clinging to your body. Your shirt is riding up, too, offering a view of your navel. You lift the hem of said shirt to wipe sweat from your face, and Sam swallows thickly when he catches a brief glimpse of your bare chest beneath the cotton. 

Sam was too nervous to shed all of his clothes — he’s wearing his boxers and a wife pleaser. It makes him feel awfully greedy, now, since he gets to see so much of you. He leans back on the bed, licking his lips, breathing heavy. The longer he looks at you, the more vivid his imagination becomes: he can see himself putting his big hands on the meat of your thighs, spreading them apart. He wants to bite them, leave marks all the way up the inside of that tender, soft flesh. He wants to tug your underwear down with his teeth, kiss your navel and your hips and down your middle. He wants to bury his head between your legs until he can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t realize his cock is hard until it’s too late. There’s a sizable tent in his boxers, stretching the cotton thin. Fuck, he almost says aloud. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did this have to happen now? When you’re both alone? 

To make matters worse, the doorknob starts to jiggle. Dean is back, knocking his fist against the wood. 

“Forgot my key,” he calls, voice muffled.

“I got it,” you say before Sam can move. You roll over, and Sam chokes on his own breath when you get on your hands and knees, your ass perked up in the air. You stretch, shirt slipping higher up to show your back, and — are you doing this on purpose, he wonders? Teasing the ever-loving fuck out of him? Trying to get him to cum in his boxers? Or are you only this cruel by accident?

Whatever the case may be, Sam has to act before you notice his predicament and call him a dirty freak. He scrambles off of the bed, turning his back to the door when you stand to open it up. Before Dean can make it inside and catch sight of his brother very clearly aroused (by you), Sam runs into the restroom, slamming the door behind him. 

You jump, the door swinging open just as Dean slides in with a bucket of ice, some waters, and a couple cans of Coke for himself. 

“What’s his deal?” Dean mutters, having witnessed the restroom door swinging open and Sam’s hurried behavior. The shower blasts on a second later, and you shrug, looking at where the other brother ran off to with a perplexed squint.

“I dunno,” you say, grabbing a cold bottle of water. “Got too hot for him, I guess.” 

You shuffled towards him, just dropping your things and shucking your shoes on the way. You figured this was not the time to uphold your roommate agreement of minimal clutter.

Taking note of the trail you left behind you, Dean smirked. "Too excited for a stop at the coat closet, pretty?"

You flushed, feeling like you fucked this up before it even started. So you were supposed to uphold the roommate agreement right now.

"Shhh, just teasin'." He grabbed your hips, guiding you to sit on the couch next to him. You kept your eyes locked on his angry red tip the whole time, not sure where else you were supposed to could look.

"You can touch," he said easily, obviously anything but shy. "Wouldn't be jacking off in the living room if I didn't want you to."

You reached out tentatively, only now flicking your eyes up to his. He gave you an encouraging nod, and when your fingers wrapped around him he hissed. His cock made your hand look tiny, comedically so, and there was so much that it made you wonder how you were going to cover so much ground. The skin was warm and surprisingly soft, and the velvety texture only made you want to touch him more.

"Just like that, princess. Just want you to play. It's way more fun to watch you play with cock for the first time than get another fucking handjob."

You nodded, feeling totally entranced by the thing you were holding in your hand. Never was that a word you would think you'd use, but just like the rest of him it was fucking perfect. Or maybe it was perfect because it was attached to perfect thighs and a perfect tan stomach that was attached to a perfect tan neck which attached to his perfect fucking face. Your eyes followed your train of thoughts, and when you looked up at him with that wide, innocent gaze dean felt like all the air had been punched out of him.

You felt like you were groping him more than stroking him, but you had yet to hear a peep of a complaint. Your thumb traced the divot under his head, and you watched him flinch when you brushed the flat part. Then you gripped him, slipping all the way down to feel the textured skin of his sac.

Dean watched you with wonder, seeming to have been telling the truth when he said that he'd rather watch you explore than make him cum.

"Having fun?"

His words shocked you out of your trance, but you quickly nodded in affirmation.

"Yeah. You're so... pretty. Can I... um. Can I put you in my mouth?" Your words were quiet and unsure, the verbal equivalent to a fawn, but you felt like you were about to start drooling so you didn't really care.

"Course you can, baby. Wanna get on your knees or lay on your tummy?"

"My knees," you whispered back, your eyes still locked on where your hand was wrapped around his cock.

He whipped the cushion against the back of the couch onto the floor, positioning it so you could kneel on it.

"Are you excited? Little thing like you is gonna have cock in her mouth for the first time. Fuckin' adorable."

You scrambled to the floor in response, the tip of your tongue immediately finding the head. The look on dean's face was so blissed out that you could shove your insecurities aside, and just play. Your tongue darted out to lick him everywhere you were interested in, and once his whole shaft had been worked up to a shine you closed your lips around the head. You worked slow, taking him bit by bit and laving your tongue the whole time, and when you got to taste a bead of him you moaned excitedly.

"Jesus, you're fuckin' cute," dean panted, his hand gently petting your head. "Actin' like a little puppy. I fuckin' love it."

Your whole body buzzed with the praise, and his words spurred you on to take him a little deeper. You finally understood the term 'mouthfull of cock.' He rested heavy on your tongue, and your whole universe seemed to shrink to what you could fit in your mouth.

"Look at you. Didn't even have to ask and you're trying to take me down your throat. Would've fucked my hand in the living room sooner if I knew you were gonna react like an eager little whore."

He found that out the hard way.

You were drawn to your grotto each time the full moon was out, developing a particular habit of trying to escape the apartment, each time causing Clark the most distress to try and find a way to soothe you while also keeping you contained.

You also became a bit more loopy than average.

Clark likes to call it your moon drunk. You slurred your words saying the strangest, most endearing things to him. It was his favorite when you got like this. So chatty and clingy, just spilling everything that came to your mind.

But the most notable way the full moons affected you was the sudden insatiableness for him that you developed.

It was a fact that he learned after the third full moon with you, something he assumes was when you fully found yourself trusting your nature with him to reveal the full depths of how the full moon's energy affected you.

Usually just before the full moon reaches its apex, you become insistently needy, a fact that you always denied the next day.

At first, Clark was hesitant to indulge you, not wanting to seem like he was taking advantage of your nature, but you were so, so persistent.

And the one time he denied you, you became so pained and humiliated that you locked yourself in the bathroom, wailing and weeping pearls until Clark had to pry open the door and coax you into the bedroom just to stop the cries that were so loud and heartwrenching, he was sure the neighbors heard.

He knew not to deny you again after that incident.

In fact, he made sure to take careful consideration of the full moon nights, either getting off work early or taking the whole day off to help you through your needs.

So when Clark found out through work that there was a rare supermoon approaching, he made sure to call the day off at least a few weeks in advance to help ease you through the effects of however this full moon might affect you.

This would be the first supermoon the two of you experienced together after all.

The only other special full moons that the two of you experienced are the occasional blue moons, which Clark tends to find make you sadder than a typical full moon.

Clark turns over in bed, admiring your sleeping figure. He awoke before you today, not unusual for these types of days, where you tended to stay up all through the night. He took in your beautiful resting features, hoping that tonight would be a supermoon that brought you peace.

You started to stir, rustling around, until slowly peeling your eyes open. The sunlight seeping through the windows caught your attention first, realizing that you slept in later than usual. You rolled over to face Clark's side, smiling when you noticed he was already awake and watching you.

"Good morning love," he says, brushing your sleep-tussed hair out of your face.

"Good morning," you reply softly, nuzzling your nose into his neck, suddenly eager to take in his scent.

"How are you feeling?" Clark assessed while tucking you in closer, his eyes scanning over you. The full moon effects rarely started so early, but he could never be too sure, especially not with a rare one like tonight's. He would have to be extra attentive today.

"Good, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" Clark smiles.

"Yeah." you nod assuredly.

"What else can you feel, hm?" Clark asks back, nuzzling back into you, placing soft kisses to your exposed neck and shoulder.

"I feel," you exhale softly as Clark sucks into the sensitive spot behind your ear and you pull his muscled body even closer atop you, you giggle softly before saying, "Your lips."

"Mhm," Clark mumbles against your skin, moving to kiss lower near your collarbone, "What else?"

You chuckle, squeezing his muscled arms, "And your perfect body on mine."

"And?" Clark sucks on your chest now, not quite reaching your soft breasts. Your fingers entangle into his messy soft curls, pulling his face flush against you.

"And your soft hair and skin."

Clark sighs against you, his warm breath sending a ripple down your spine.

"I think I can also feel you making me salmon for breakfast? Maybe on that strange bread with a hole you like?" You ask with that higher tone of voice that makes Clark fold every time.

It's his turn to let out a small laugh, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes. "A bagel? Is that what my love is craving this morning?"

You nod against him, finally placing a kiss to his awaiting lips. Clark deepens it, chasing the kiss whilst rolling you flat on your back so he hovers over you. "Okay, I'll go make it for you."

"Extra salmon?"

"Of course."

Clark places a few more chaste pecks to your lips before getting up completely from bed. He smiles at the soft whine you let out at his absence.

Clark finds himself in the kitchen taking out all the necessary items for your salmon bagel. On days like these, he usually cooks for the both of you, bringing it back into your bedroom for breakfast in bed, followed by a lazy day and eventful night.

So he's a bit shocked when he feels your arms wrapped around him from behind just twenty minutes later. You snuggle into the hard planes of his back as he works to cut thin slices of fish for you.

He turns around in your arms, holding a small piece of fish in between the pads of his fingers, he brings it down to your lips, feeding it to you. You sigh contentedly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You feeling okay? You're usually never out of bed this fast."

"I know, but it's like I said. I can feel that today's going to be a great day. And I missed you. You were gone too long." You pout.

Clark kisses your pout, before turning around and finishing up your bagel. You follow him around as he makes coffee and your tea, washes the dishes, turns on the tv and finally settles into the couch together.

If his observations are correct, you're definitely more clingy than normal already. But it's not like he minds.

Clark was expecting this to happen.

And its like that for the rest of the day too. You are glued to his side, not even realizing that you haven't broken apart from him since those twenty minutes in the morning. He moves, you move. You shower him with kisses and cuddles, remaining tucked into his side all day and only get up to leave to pee.

Which happens a lot because you've also been strangely thirsty today.

Clark (and you) get up multiple times to refill a large cup of water for you to gulp down in seconds. He's never seen that from you before, but you see nothing wrong with it.

You just smile shyly and hand him the cup again twenty minutes after downing the other. "One more, please?"

It isn't until after your shower, right before sundown, does it seem like you start to feel any outward effects.

"Clark?" you start, approaching him with damp hair and fiddling fingers, quickly glancing out the window and back towards him.

"Yes?"

"I want to go. To my grotto."

Clark's lips curved. 

It's begun. And right on time, too.

"Not today, love. Another time." He meets your stance in the middle of the living room and places his large hands on your shoulders. He hopes you won’t give him too hard of a time on this. He hates telling you no.

"But I feel it, Clark. It's so strong, and it's calling me. I have to go. Right now."

You try to walk around him towards the front door, but Clark is quicker.

He stops you in your tracks with a gentle but firm hand to the waist. "I know, I know. But we've talked about this before. It's too dangerous tonight. It's a full moon, baby, and I don't want you to get hurt out there."

You glance out the window one more time, before facing him with large glassy eyes, and nodding your head in defeat.

"Okay."

Clark's brow shoots up.

That was it? No arguing back? No trying to make a run for it? This was so unlike you to give in so easy. He expected more fight this time around.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't want to get hurt out there." You nod again, walking back towards your room to plop on the bed.

Clark follows behind, studying you carefully. The moon was still rising, at least another hour before its apex. He wasn't sure whether to accept this reaction from you as a win just yet.

He makes sure to watch you cautiously. The next hour passes in a haze of soft touches and murmured words.

You've migrated to the center of the bed, limbs sprawled out like a starfish, your head resting in Clark's lap as he sits against the headboard. His fingers card through your drying hair, the motion rhythmic and soothing. The tv plays some nature ocean documentary neither of you are paying attention to, the soft narration a distant hum in the background.

"Clark," you say, your voice carrying that telltale slur he's come to recognize, "Do you know how many stars there are?"

"I don't, love. Tell me."

"More than I can count on my fingers. And toes. And yours too."

Clark chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mhm. But you know what's prettier than all of them?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. There's a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

"What's that?"

You reach up, fingers fumbling, trying to trace the line of his jaw but missing by a few inches. Clark catches your hand gently and presses it to his face, guiding it to where you were aiming. You giggle, the sound light and airy, and your thumb traces the strong line of his jaw.

"You. You're the prettiest. Prettier than stars. Prettier than pearls. Prettier than anything in the ocean."

Clark feels his heart squeeze at your words. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "Thank you, that's a high compliment, coming from a mermaid."

"I'm not a mermaid right now," you say, your voice taking on a petulant edge. "See, no tail. I'm just yours."

"Always," he agrees softly.

You shift in his lap, suddenly restless. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it. "Do you remember the first time we met, Clark?"

"How could I forget?" He watches your face carefully, noticing how your pupils are beginning to expand even further, how your breathing is becoming just a little more shallow. 

"I was so lost," you start. "When I washed up on that shore, I thought they were going to sell me. Or worse. I thought I was going to die. I could feel the air leaving my body, and I was so scared, Clark. I was so scared."

Your eyes are bright now, a sheen of wetness gathering at the corners. "And then you came.. You held me so gently. You said it was going to be okay."

Clark's throat tightens. He remembers it vividly, finding you on that rocky shore, your beautiful tail glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

The way you'd flinched away from him, terrified, your sharp teeth bared. And how he'd spoken to you in the softest voice he could muster, the same voice he used with scared animals, with children, with anyone who needed to know they were safe.

"I thought you were a monster at first," you continue, your words tumbling out faster now, the moon's pull clearly taking hold. "So big. So tall. You were glowing in the light, and I thought, oh no, I've died and now a sea demon is coming to drag my soul to the depths."

"I was not glowing," Clark protests, but he's smiling.

"You were! You were—" You struggle to sit up, and Clark helps you, his hands firm on your waist as you turn to face him. You straddle his lap, your legs on either side of his hips, your face inches from his. "You were so beautiful. Like a prince from the stories the elders used to tell. The ones who come to rescue princesses from sea witches."

Clark's hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you sway slightly. "You thought I was a prince?"

"I thought you were an angel," you correct, your voice dropping to a whisper. "My angel."

Clark swallows hard. "I'm just a man, sweetheart."

"No," you insist stubbornly, shaking your head. "No, you're not. You're so much more. You're stronger than anyone. You're braver than anyone. You saved me. You saved my life. You gave me a home. You gave me everything." Your voice cracks, and a pearl slips free from your eye, rolling down your cheek.

"I love you so much, Clark. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love you?"

Clark catches the pearl with his thumb, brushing it away. "I know, baby. I know."

You press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. "I can't wait to surprise you tonight."

Clark's brow furrows. "Surprise me?"

But you're already moving on, your attention fluttering away like a butterfly. You lean back, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, and start babbling about something else entirely. "The moon is so bright today. I can feel it in my bones. It's singing. Can you hear it? It's singing to me. It sounds like whales. Do you like whales? I love whales. They're so big and gentle, like you—"

"Love," Clark interrupts gently, his hands tightening on your hips. "What did you mean by that? 'Surprise me.'"

You tilt your head, blinking slowly, your eyes unfocused. "Hmm? What did I say?"

"You said you can't wait to surprise me."

Your face splits into a wide, loopy grin. "Oh! Did I say that? I don't know. Sometimes I say things. It's the moon's fault." You nod sagely, as if this explains everything.

Clark's eyes search yours, a flicker of concern mixing with deep affection. He hopes you’re not planning on running away.

Before he can press further, your body does something strange. He feels it. A ripple of energy passes through you, a shiver that travels from your core outwards, and suddenly your eyes are clearing, the dreamy haze sharpening into something else entirely.

"Apex," you breathe, the word barely audible.

Clark glances at the window. The moon has risen high in the sky, a luminous silver disk so large and bright it seems to fill the entire frame. Moonlight streams through the glass, pooling across the floor in a shimmering puddle that edges towards the bed. A beam of pure silver light lands directly across you both, illuminating your face.

And Clark watches as you transform.

You gasp sharply, your hands flying to his chest, and he sees it. Your eyes. The soft color that he fell in love with, that he dreams about, that he's memorized in every detail—they've changed. Your irises have become something otherworldly, a luminescent silver that glows faintly in the moonlight. A shiver runs through you, and when you arch your back, your skin takes on an iridescent sheen, tiny scales catching the light like scattered diamonds along the curve of your spine, your shoulders, your cheeks.

"Clark," you whimper, and your voice is different. More desperate. "Clark. I need you. Oh, I need you."

"Baby—"

"Please. Please, I can't—" You're already moving, grinding down against his lap, and Clark feels the heat of you through both your clothes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad. I need you to help me. I need you inside me."

Clark cups your face, his thumb stroking your glowing cheek. "Slow down, sweetheart. Let's take our time—"

"No!" The word is a sharp sob, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, claws extending just slightly, not to hurt but to hold on. "No slow. No time. Clark, I need you now. Right now. I can't wait. I can't. It's too much."

"Okay, okay baby, let's just ease into it yeah—"

You ignore him, trying to lean down and capture his lips, but he leans back before you can make contact.

You feel your frustrations rise, and try not to let it get to you. Instead, you use your words, your slurred, loopy, words. 

“Did you know that when there's a supermoon, most mermaids enter their mating heat,” you whisper sensually into Clark's ear. 

Clark stiffens. No he did not know that. 

You nod, continuing on, “The supermoon makes it stronger. It makes us just want to fuck, and fuck and fuck. I need you. I need my mate. Please, please, please—"

Clark gasps at your vulgarity. He knows for a fact that you did not learn that word from him and he plans to address your language later.

But right now your hips are moving frantically, your body acting on instinct, and Clark can see the tears starting to stream down your face, each one a perfect pearl that falls onto his chest.

"Please don't deny me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please. I can't take it. I can't. I'll die, Clark. I want my mate."

Clark's jaw tightens. He's seen you desperate before, seen you in the throes of the full moon, but never like this. Never this frantic, this pained, this utterly undone.

He can hear your heart, can feel the fevered heat radiating from your skin, can smell the salt of your tears and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal.

He could try to soothe you. He could hold you, speak to you, try to calm you down. But he remembers what happened the last time he denied you. The wailing. The pearls. The broken sobs that nearly destroyed him.

And the words you just said: I'll die.

There's a chance it's the moon talking, the hysteria of the moment. But there's also a chance it's not. And Clark would never, ever risk that chance.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice like warm honey. "Okay, love. I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

You sob in relief, your hands immediately going to his shirt, trying to pull it off. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—"

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." Clark helps you, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, then working on yours. Your skin is glowing now, beautiful and ethereal, and when you're finally bare before him, his breath catches. The faint scales have spread further, delicate shimmering patterns along your collarbone, down your ribs, curving around your breasts. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Touch me," you beg, grabbing his hands and pressing them to your chest. "Touch me, Clark. I need you to touch me."

He does. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you cry out, your back arching, your hips grinding down harder. He kneads the soft flesh gently, watching your face, gauging your reactions. You're oversensitive, he realizes. Every touch makes you jolt and moan.

"Please," you whimper. "More. I need more."

Clark flips you over gently, laying you flat on the bed. The moonlight streams down over your naked body, making you look like a goddess, like something born of starlight and saltwater. You whine at his absence, reaching for him, but he shushes you softly.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

He trails his mouth down your body, pressing gentle kisses to your neck, your chest, the soft curve of your belly. You writhe beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Let me taste you first," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Clark doesn't wait. He lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up your center, and you scream.

The taste of you is different tonight. Saltier. Sweeter. More potent. It’s delicious. 

He moans against you, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at your folds. You're so wet, so incredibly wet, and you're trembling, your whole body shaking beneath his mouth. He can feel your muscles fluttering, your arousal coating his tongue, and he drinks you in like he's been lost in a desert.

"Oh" you pant, tugging at his hair. "Yes, Clark, please—"

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. Your legs tighten around his head, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He works you relentlessly, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers thrusting and stroking.

And then you shatter.

You cry out his name, your body seizing, your climax crashing through you. He feels you pulse around his fingers, feels the gush of liquid that floods his mouth—sweet and salty and so much of it. He drinks it down, moaning, his eyes closing as he savors every drop.

God you’ve never tasted this good before.

"Clark," you sob, still trembling.

He rises up over you, shedding his remaining clothes in a hurry. His cock is achingly hard, leaking precum, and when he sees the desperate, pleading look in your glowing eyes, he knows he can't wait any longer either.

"I'm going to give you what you need, baby," he says, his voice low and thick with desire. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Please," you whimper, spreading your legs wider. "Please, Clark. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I need to feel you inside me. I need my mate to breed me."

The words hit him like a freight train. He stares down at you stopping his movements, his heart hammering. "B-breed you?"

"Yes," you nod eagerly, glad that he’s understanding. "It’s a supermoon, Clark. The best time to make babies. Don’t you want me to have your babies?”

Clark inhales shakily. He knows that he has to be especially careful with his words to you right now. The wrong words could set you off completely. 

But this is so new. You’ve never discussed children before, gosh, he didn’t even know if it was possible for a mermaid and kryptonian to have kids.

There's a deep, primal part of him that roars to life at your words, a part he's always kept carefully controlled. But he pushes it down, forcing himself to stay gentle, to stay present, for you.

Besides, the longer he contemplated, the more squirmy you got underneath him. He decides not to overthink it, for both of your sakes. You’ll cross that bridge if when you get there.

“Oh, of course I do, love. I’d want nothing more. You’d be the most beautiful mama,” Clark agrees, finding that the words are more truthful than he’d like to admit right now.

You light up at his words, clearly turned on even more by his agreement, evident by the wetness seeping from your core. You reach up to cup his face, nodding quickly. "Please fill me up."

Clark doesn't need to hear more. He lines himself up, presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and slides inside you.

You both gasp. You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face as he takes you. Your mouth falls open, your eyes rolling back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

"Gosh" you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back. "More, Clark. Give me all of you."

He does. He sinks to the hilt, buried deep inside you, and you both stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. You're clutching at him, your claws digging into his back, but he doesn't feel the pain. He feels your pulse, feels the rhythmic flutter of your walls around him, feels the moonlight on his skin.

"Oh," you breathe, your voice trembling. "Oh, it's so good. It's so good, Clark. You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

"Yes baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel amazing. So wet for me. You’re dripping."

"I'm always wet for you," you pant, your hips starting to move. "Always. I'm always ready for you. I need you inside me. Always—"

Clark begins to move, slow and deep, thrusting into you with measured strokes. He wants to go faster, wants to pound into you, wants to satisfy that desperate, primal need he sees in your eyes.

But he also wants to savor this. To be gentle. To remind you that you're safe, that you're loved especially during this vulnerable time.

But you have other ideas.

"Harder," you beg, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need it harder, Clark. Faster. Please. I'm not going to break."

Clark obeys. He starts to thrust in earnest, his pace quickening, the bed creaking beneath you. You cry out, your head thrown back, your body arching into his. He drives into you deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you shatter again.

This time, you don't just tremble. You convulse, your walls clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. 

And you gush. A torrent of liquid floods around his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking him. He moans loudly, thrusting through it, and he feels your liquid hit his chin, his chest, dripping down his stomach.

"Water," he breathes, suddenly understanding. "All that water you've been drinking—"

You smile sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“Oh love,” Clark groans, his cock hardening and twitching inside of you.

"Taste it,” you insist. “I made it just for you.”

Clark stares down at you, his heart pounding. Your eyes are glowing, your body shimmering, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't help himself. He lowers his head and starts licking the liquid off your skin, moaning at the taste. Sweet. Salty. Perfect.

"Oh my" you gasp, watching him. "Clark—"

"It tastes so good," he murmurs against your skin, his tongue lapping at the curve of your breast. "So good, baby. Thank you. I want more. I need more."

"Yes," you sob. "Make me come again. Make me come again and I’ll give you more. Every drop."

Clark obliges. Anything to get another taste of the sweet liquid you make.

He positions you on your hands and knees, the moonlight streaming down onto your back, illuminating the faint scales that shimmer along your spine. He slides back inside you, deeper now, reaching parts of you he couldn't before. You cry out, your body shaking, and he begins to thrust again, faster this time, his rhythm a little more desperate, snapping against you.

"You're so beautiful," he groans, his hands gripping your hips. "So perfect, baby. So perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you too," you sob, pushing back against him. "I love you so much. I'm so close—"

Clark drives into you, hard and deep, and you climax with a scream. You gush around him, flooding his cock, soaking him, but he doesn't stop yet. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He can feel it building, a pressure in his core, a white-hot heat that's almost too much.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Fill me up, please. I want it."

"Gosh baby—"

"Come inside me," you urge, your walls clenching around him. "Come in me, Clark. Fill me up. Make me yours. I want to feel you. I want to taste you. Please—"

That's all it takes. Clark groans, his hips stuttering, and he comes. He pours into you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim. You gasp, feeling it, and the euphoria is so strong you start crying in pleasure, more pearls falling from your eyes as you shake and tremble beneath him.

Clark holds you steady, riding out his orgasm, and when it's over, he collapses behind you pushing apart your legs and drinking up every last drop of your shared juices. 

He can’t get enough, the taste so addicting, he’s almost upset you’ve never squirted for him before.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice small and exhausted. "I love you so much, Clark."

"I love you too," he murmurs in between laps of your sopping cunt, "More than anything."

The night goes on just like that.

Clark loses track of time. He loses track of everything except you and your divine taste.

You're insatiable. Every time he thinks you're satisfied, your hands find him again, your mouth finds his, your body presses against his. He fucks you in every position—on your back, on your knees, on your side, in his lap, against the wall. He makes you come until you're hoarse, until your voice is gone, until you're shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up. He drinks every single gush of liquid that you produce, licking it from your skin, from his skin, from the soaked sheets.

And each time, you beg for him to do it again.

"More," you pant, straddling him, bouncing on his cock. "I know you want more Clark. Come, I’ll give you more—"

He comes inside you again and again, his seed mixing with your arousal, your liquid, your tears. You release again and again and again as well, leaving everything soaked. The bed, the floor, the walls. Everything is wet, glistening, and beautiful.

Clark's tongue finds you again. He's on his stomach between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth buried in your folds. You're crying, trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair as he works you with his tongue and fingers.

"Clark," you sob, your hips bucking. You felt that this was it, all that you had left to give to him "Clark, I'm—"

You gush against his mouth one final time, letting go of the most release, and Clark drinks it all, moaning like he's tasting the finest nectar, not wasting a single drop. He doesn't stop until you're limp beneath him, your body finally still.

"Just one more" you whisper, barely audible. "Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He slides back into you, fills you, makes love to you one last time. He comes inside you, and you come with him, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

When it's finally over, you're both completely exhausted. Clark holds you in his arms, your back against his chest, your body tucked into his. The moonlight has started to fade, the apex passed, and your eyes are slowly returning to their soft brown.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your hair.

"I'm perfect," you whisper. "That was... that was incredible."

"Was it what you needed?"

You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his. There's something soft and vulnerable in your gaze. "Everything I needed. And more."

Clark smiles, pulling you closer, cuddling you to his chest. "Good."

You rest your eyes, feeling the moon’s effects finally easing down.

“Love?” Clark starts, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you…uh, you’ve nev—never done that before. You know…” He trails off not wanting to voice the actual words out loud.

You grin, hiding your face, “It only happens on supermoons. The energy just makes it easier for us.”

“Oh, I see.”

You turn around, crawling to lay on top of him, face to face, your voice dropping back into that seductive tone, “And we know that men like you get wayyy too obsessed with our taste.”

Clark simply hums in agreement. You were right, he was already obsessed and addicted, itching for more, as if he hadn't gotten enough already.

You continue, “So it’s better that it only happens rarely. Makes us less likely to get used for it.”

Clark's brow furrows, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I would never—"

"I know," you interrupt softly, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you wouldn't. But there are others who would." Your voice drops, a shadow of old pain flickering across your features. "That's why I was so scared when I first met you. I thought you were like them. I thought you wanted me for... what I could give you."

Clark's arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your hair. "I'm sorry anyone ever made you feel that way."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You don't have to be sorry. You're the one who showed me it could be different. You're the one who showed me what love really is." You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, a sleepy smile on your lips. 

"And now you're the only one who gets to taste me. Ever. Got it?"

Clark laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Got it."

"Good." You settle back against him, your ear pressed to his heart. "I'm exhausted."

Clark hums in agreement, his hand finding its way to your hair, stroking gently. "Sleep, love. I've got you."

The next morning, Clark wakes up to you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hand resting on your belly. The sheets are in tatters. The room smells like salt and sex and love.