It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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

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

"Stop moving- let me take care of you."

He says it firm, a short breath pushed out his nose. He's trying to sound patient, but with your blood still seeping out of the cut in your leg, he knows he needs to get you bandaged up quick.

You'd do the same to him, frustrated as you both try to sort through each others injuries. But that frustration never lasts. It always ends with him kissing your forehead, an affirmation that he's not actually angry- and that you're okay.

"Stop moving, baby, I'm takin' care of you."

It's not like you have a choice- wrists bound to the headboard, stretching your arms above your head as you lay against the mattress. Your hips are still lifting off the bed, thighs twitching as Dean dives his head back between them.

His tongue presses against your clit again- you tug at your restraints, another loud moan pushed out of you. You feel him grin, looking back up, "Thought I told y' to stay still."

"You want me to teach you?"

He raises an eyebrow, a genuine question. He likes being able to show you things, likes being useful. It's difficult with you- when you already know so much, when you have hunters instincts and skills he sometimes feels envious of. He secretly relishes those small moments where he can actually teach you something new.

You nod, looking down at the gun in his hand, the object of question in the first place- "Yeah- yeah show me how you did that-"

"You need me to teach you a lesson?"

You've been teasing him all day- the makeout in the police station that left his cock swollen in his pants, the way you flirted with the witness while keeping your glances on Dean the whole time, your outrageously short skirt. You knew he was gonna get you back for it- but maybe that's part of the fun.

He's got you pulled over his lap, that same skirt bunched up to your hips, his handprint already etched red against your skin.

"This what you've been asking for all fuckin' day?"

"Dean-" you whine, cheek pressed against the sheets.

"Asked you a question, sweetheart- you better start answering-"

"You just need to relax."

He's got the bath running, your candles are lit in the corner. Your body's still aching from the hunt, your mind more exhausted than you realized. He helps you pull your T-shirt off over your head, you manage to get your own pants down.

"You want some ice-cream? I've got some in the freezer- get in the bath and I'll grab you a bowl."

"Relax, darling."

His body envelops you, touching every part- lips on your neck, one hand on your chest, the other wrapped around your hip. He's going slow- torturously slow. He knows it's making you frustrated, whiny and bratty as you try to lift your hips for friction.

But he likes you like this- that's why he's gonna keep you on the edge, smiling against your body like he's just trying to be sweet. "You gotta take it easy, sweetheart, let me take my time."

"Jesus- that tastes good."

Dean doesn't trust Internet reviews- why should he believe strangers online, who gives a shit about their opinions?

Which is why you've started working strategically. You've got a list of the top burger spots in each state- you leave little hints during cases, "maybe we should head north after this, see if there's any more leads?", "let's come off the highway, I wanna go the scenic route.", "hey I'm getting hungry, why don't we stop here?".

This time it's paid off, Dean thinks he's found a hidden gem- the grease from the bacon coats his lips, fries scattered across the plate. He grins at you, still chewing the bite- "How'd you always find such good places?"

"Jesus- you taste good."

He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes glosses with admiration, trying to hold himself back from rutting against the mattress like a fuckin' dog in heat.

He always gets like this when he goes down on you- you've actually had to stop him during cases coz you know it makes him so dumb he'll be useless for the next 3 hours. His tongue circles your clit again, fingers pushed into you to the hilt. He's gonna make you cum at least 4 more times before he even thinks about getting his cock inside you.

"So good- fuck sweetheart- fuck-"

///

Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.

You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.

He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.

You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.

“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.

“I know-“

“Do you?”

He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.

“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you-“

“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”

You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.

He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.

The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.

Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.

“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”

Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”

“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t mhm me-“

“Sorry, princess.”

“You- You fucking-“

Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.

“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.

Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.

Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.

“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.

“Uh huh.”

“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.

Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”

“I think you’re Superman.”

“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”

You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”

“Of course it is-“

“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”

Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“

“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“

“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”

Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”

Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.

One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.

“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.

“Because they make you look good?”

“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“

“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”

“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“

“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.” 

Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”

“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”

Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.

“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”

“Your toddler.”

“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.

“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”

“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“

“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”

And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-

“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”

Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”

You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.

Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.

“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.

And he thinks it. Right there.

Maybe this is going to last forever.

The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.

Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.

The bunker can’t be home anymore.

You’ve gotta move.

Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families  you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.

“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.

“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“

“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”

Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.

“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.

“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.

“I think we suck.”

“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“

You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.

Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.

“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“

“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”

“What if she is-“

“She’s not.”

“But what if-“

Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.

“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.

“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it. 

“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”

You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”

You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”

“Mhm.”

“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”

You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”

And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.

But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.

“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.

“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.

“We got money.”

“Stolen money-“

“Still money.”

He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.

“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“

“We wouldn’t have spiders-“

“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”

“We don’t have friends-“

“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“

“Even the bedroom problems?”

That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”

Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.

“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.

“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”

You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.

He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.

“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“

“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”

Dean blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll do that one.”

He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“

“Is it in a good school district?”

“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“

“Then okay.” You shrug.

Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”

“No. I trust you.”

I trust you.

Just like that.

Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.

“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”

Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.

It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.

Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.

“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.

“It’s a girl.”

“Did you guys check the sex-“

“No.”

“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“

“But I do.”

“No, you literally can’t-“

“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.

“No…”

Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.

“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”

You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”

“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”

That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.

Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.

“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s not a boy.”

Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“

“It’s not.”

“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”

You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.

“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”

That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.

“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”

Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.

“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.

He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters. 

“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.

“You think I feel like a chick?”

You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.

“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“You’d be a very pretty girl.”

“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“

“Dean-“

“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”

You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”

Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”

 Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.

“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.

She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.

“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“

“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”

Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“

“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.

The literal baby. Right.

“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.

“Oh, yeah. All of them.”

Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”

“Yep. Still has them today.”

An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.

He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.

“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”

You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.

And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.

Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.

Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.

Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.

“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.

“Charlie.”

“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”

Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”

Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”

“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“

“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”

You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.

“Well, do you need to go potty too?”

Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.

“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“

“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.

“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.

Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.

“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.

“Horses.”

“Do we have horses now?”

Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”

Charlie huffs. “Why not.”

“’Cause. They’re too big.”

“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”

Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”

“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”

Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.

“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”

Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”

Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”

“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”

“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”

“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”

Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.

“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.

“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”

“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”

Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.

Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.

“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”

“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.

“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”

Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.

He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.

But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.

And this. This is going to last.

Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.

He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.

He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything-“

“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.

“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”

Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.

“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”

You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.

“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”

You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.

“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”

You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan-“

“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.

Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-

“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.

Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”

You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.

“It’s… Our…”

“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.

“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“

“It is the ninth.”

“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”

You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.

“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.

“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”

You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.

“Yeah?”

You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.

So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.

“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”

“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“What? I’m agreeing with you-“

“You’re sassing me.”

Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”

He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”

“They’re not-“

“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”

You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.

“Breathe, baby.”

“I am breathing-“

“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“

“I’m gonna hurt you.”

You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”

He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.

Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.

But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.

You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.

“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.

“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”

“Six-two, baby.”

“Your poor mother.”

“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”

You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.

“C’mon-“

“No.”

He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.

“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“

“Well, I want you to sit there.”

Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.

“Sure you do.”

“You look very handsome-“

“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”

You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.

The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.

Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.

But that’s not what gets him.

It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.

Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.

A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.

He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.

But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.

Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.

He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.

But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.

“Ella, what’s wrong-“

“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“

She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“

“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.

“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”

Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.

He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.

Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.

“This the monster?”

“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“

“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”

It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.

“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.

And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.

But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.

“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”

Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“

“You thought he was-“

“Because he was looking scary.”

“But was he scary?”

Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.

“Told you.”

“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”

Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“

“Mommy can come too.”

Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.

“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”

Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.

It’s not going away.

He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.

He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.

He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.

You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.

And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.

But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.

The next one.

He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.

This is going to last forever.

✦End note: i would have his babies. ✦

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